Lain crouched on the ground, his blade held out to bar the encircling Whitecloaks. He floated calmly in the Void, studiously ignoring his many wounds. He bled from a dozen places, his dark blood staining the packed earth. They were far outnumbered, a least fifty of their enemies still standing. It had been carelessness on his part that had gotten them into this mess, thinking they were safe within Tar Valon territory. Now, the disturbed Whitecloak group swarmed around them, intent upon their prey. His Mileni also bled, her wounds fortunately lesser than his. He had the bond to help him, now the only thing keeping him on his feet.
The fighting was momentarily stalled, the men in front unwilling to be the first forward, and the first to die. Suddenly, at a furious roar from their Captain, they sprang forward. Lain managed to cut down four before the rest bore him to the ground. Faintly, he heard Mileni screaming. Of course. She could feel his wounds, and the Whitecloaks on top of his were stabbing downwards mercilessly. He curled, protecting his neck and vital organs, a dagger coming quickly out of his clothes. He slashed at the men holding him, catching one across the eyes without warning. The man screamed, falling backwards and clawing at his face. Freed, Lain rolled out from beneath another's legs. He jumped to his feet, looking towards his Aes Sedai.
She was throwing balls of fire rapidly at the nearest group of men, fury painted on her face. She looked towards him, and their eyes met. They both smiled instantly. Suddenly, she stumbled backwards, surprise evident in her face. A dart protruded from her breast, barely an inch of it above the skin. Turning white, she looked at him one last time, and fell backwards. Dead.
Lain screamed, his entire being in pain. Mileni! His vision went white, his eyes seeing only her. He stood in shock, too surprised to even begin crying. A faint tug at the back of one of his legs, and he fell, unable to stand. Pain shot through his legs as he looked up at the Captain, standing over him with a bloody sword. His blood. The man had cut the muscles at the back of his legs. Lain continued screaming, crying out his pain until the man clubbed him over the head, rendering him unconscious. The Whitecloaks happily tore off his colour-shifting cloak, shredding it in some small ceremony. They dumped the pieces of it on Mileni's body, spitting on it. Bearing their captive, they returned to the camp.
Lain woke up hanging from the ceiling. His wrists were bound together, hanging from a chain, his feet dangling in midair. He was stripped to the waist, his many wounds left open, some still bleeding faint trickles. He felt liquid running down the back of his leg, and knew the Whitecloaks had left it as well. He would have to be Healed soon, or his leg might be damaged forever. If I don't die of blood loss first, he thought grimly. He turned slowly in the air, his legs numb with pain. He quickly blocked out any thought of Mileni. He must stay strong for this. He was a Gaidin; that they knew. He would be tortured before he was killed. Lain raised his bloodied head, fires blazing in his eyes as the first Whitecloak entered the room. He would. Not. Break. For Mileni, he thought as he prepared himself.
xxxx
Not for the first time, Affi found herself longing for Mayene and the life she had led as a girl. But it wasn't there anymore. Her parents and her house - even some of her friends - were gone now, and she had no reason to return to the stony southern nation. Except now, she was prompted to think otherwise. Surely anything is better than this? she wondered dully, her strides larger than usual as she followed the Whitecloak down the hallway.
She was sorely tempted to hand in her resignation and find work in an inn or tavern again, perhaps in Tar Valon this time, or maybe one of the outlying villages. At least my wish for travel was fulfilled. And that was certainly true, for she had worked in several countries since leaving her homeland.
But she received such better wages here, and whilst the young woman was not overly materialistic, she did require enough coin to pay for her journey to wherever the road took her next, moving from place to place every few months, and thoroughly enjoying meeting new people and seeing new sites, testing local delicacies and wearing local dress. Just another month or so, she assured herself, and I will have enough to last me all the way to Caemlyn! For a long time, she had wanted to see the city of the lion and the rose. While it couldn't possibly compare with Tar Valon for sheer beauty, she had heard that there was an air of incredible majesty in Andor's capital, and wanted to see it with her own eyes.
Realizing that she was falling behind, Affi hastily gathered up the hem of her simple blue dress in one hand and the pail full of water in the other, a white cloth hanging over her arm. Somehow, she suspected that the nature of her next task wouldn't be particularly pleasant, for the Child of the Light leading her wore an especially disgusted look on his face. More so than normal, which was certainly saying something.
At length, they reached a plain wooden door and the Whitecloak pushed it open, ushering her through sharply.
"Clean up that mess." he instructed, "I do not wish to carry out interrogations with blood all over the floor."
Slowly, Affi turned to face a man suspended from the ceiling, several open wounds interlaced across his body and a perfectly impassive look upon his face, as though he could not feel the pain they must cause him. When she moved closer, dipping the cloth in water, her dark eyes caught sight of a horrendous wound down the back of his leg. Affi quickly dropped her eyes and knelt down on the floor, gathering her skirts away from the pool of blood which she began to mop up without comment. She knew full well that any complaint or protestation on her part would only land her a beating later.
xxxx
Gale moved silently in the wooded area near the filthy Whitecloak's camp. He had seen the disgusting circumstances a few days before, The way they slaughtered the Aes Sedai, crippled her warder who was unable to fight back from the shock of her death. He spat upon the ground, a bad taste in his mouth. The fight had been far from fair. Filthy Whitecloaks. He was here, not able to leave this alone, wanting to save the Warder somehow, but not sure how the task was to be completed. He was absorbed in his thoughts when the patrol came to him. He was 20, and had not enough experience to realize they had snuck up on him before they whirled him around and struck him hard, plunging him into blackness.
He woke, his head pounding, a few hours later. Instantly, he studied his surroundings. He had found the warder and was strung and stripped the same way as he was, only considerably less injured. The blood the man should have spilled had been cleaned up. He knew he was to be questioned, surely, but he wanted first to see if escape was possible. He lifted his feet up and braced them against the bar to which he was tied. After studying the material to which he was bound, he dropped back down and sighed. He was hoping to avoid it, but he would have to channel his way out of his predicament, and would have to do this in good shape and out from under the eyes of the whitecloaks. If they found out, he would die as soon as they could manage it. He studied his fellow captive. He seemed kind of out of it. He was about to speak to him when the questioner came into the tent.
xxxx
"You are in deep trouble, young Lieutenant," Mikel spoke in a soft, dangerous voice. His eyes were black storm clouds at that moment, a mere foreshadowing of what was to come. He was fast beginning to lose his patience with this all-too typical brand of Children who were utterly unable to keep their zealous natures in check. "Did you even think to ask for the jurisdiction of the Lord Captain Commander before you proceeded in carrying out this crack-brained little plot of yours?" Mikel demanded in a voice that just barely held onto the ragged edge of calm. The Child shook his head shamefully and the dark-haired Inquisitor nodded coolly, adding a few more notes to the arrest warrant laid at his desk. To be immediately put to the question as a suspected Darkfriend; if and when a confession is drawn out of him, execution shall be the only suitable solution. "I regret to inform you that I must henceforth hold you securely in a cell beneath the jurisdiction of the Hand of the Light. What you have done does not merely border on treason but completely shreds apart all acceptable bounds. You are not and never were worthy of the cloak you wear." The man appeared... suitably broken by his words. Mikel raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, tilting his head to observe the rank fear in the man's eyes. It was fascinated that simple words were often enough to destroy the spirit of a person more fully even than the cruelest claws and hooks could ever achieve. I do not believe this one will require a great deal of convincing before he "confesses" to his allegiances with the Shadow. "You are dismissed, Lieutenant."
Astoundingly, the young Child managed a deep, formal bow before ruining it by all but stumbling out of the door. The man would be hung within the week and no doubt the poor wretch was well aware of this fact... truly a shame to waste even the lowest of soldiers but Mikel simply could not tolerate fools. Lieutenant Paedrig truly was nothing more than a common, blind fool... not a Darkfriend as one or two of the over-passionate members of his order would no doubt be suggesting in the coming days. The Hand of the Light would of course not even consider doubting the fact that Paedrig bathed in the shadow and they would see his subsequent torture as nothing more than an unfortunate need to exact a confession from him. I must use fools as and when it is necessary unfortunately... I must use my fellow Lord Inquisitor's. They would see that Paedrig was suitably disposed of and it would serve as a warning to other Lieutenants and indeed, to other Lord Captain's who might think to rise above themselves.
"My Lord Inquisitor, you are called to the prisoner's tents," announced a deep, self-assured voice with a respectful bob of his head. Hundredman Daved was a more than competent troop, obedient to the very letter of ever order issued to him, capable of dealing out torture where it was necessary and witnessing atrocities where they could not be avoided. Granted, not made for the higher ranks but in this world those who followed were every bit as valuable and needed as those who led. "The Lord Captain Commander sent very firm messages that you should be allowed complete authority over what will pass in those tent's. He seemed... uncomfortable with the thought that your counterpart in the Hand might oversee the Questioning." Mikel nodded thoughtfully and allowed a brief mark of respect towards the man who headed the Children of the Light. The current Lord Captain Commander was an able leader, as comfortable with manipulating rulers and playing the Great Game as he was with commanding vast legions. And not fervent enough in his belief of the supposed "noble calling" of the Children of the Light to be wholly blind to reality. The Captain Commander must have been truly concerned for messages to reach their camp so quickly.
"Very good, Hundredman," Mikel responded in a voice that genuinely radiated pleasure. Daved truly had earned any praise he received. "You have a wife and a young child, yes...?" the Inquisitor questioned almost absently, studying several stray reports left carelessly on his desk. The Child looked up suspiciously for a second before nodding shortly; Mikel smiled. "It is high time you took a little leave, yes Hundredman Daved? A month. A long time, I know, but do not think this means I am softening. I expect you to train with the sword every day and to study the techniques of persuasion that I discussed with you, understand?" The beam on the man's face came a hair too close to touching Mikel's heart but he quickly hardened his exterior. "Tell your wife and son that you are a hero and they should be fiercely proud of you, Daved." The man had twice rescued Mikel from battles that would have otherwise claimed his life... the Inquisitor was undeniably grateful. "You are dismissed and I look forward to your healthy and happy return."
The Hundredman nodded and bowed far more smoothly than Lieutenant Paedrig had managed before leaving his tent to make preparations for his leave of absence. Mikel rose slowly from his hard, wooden chair and conscientiously began to ready himself for the ugly business that lay ahead. I should have wrung Paedrig's neck there and then for the pile of dung he has left me to clean up, the Light curse him! Picking out a fresh pristine white coat, Mikel wrapped it carefully around himself, briefly fingering the blood-red hook that marked his separateness from the core legions of Children. The Amadician allowed himself only a small smile at the knots that marked his rank as only a step below the High Inquisitor; he had surely earned the position but that just as surely did not make Mikel infallible.
Walking from his rooms, he marched stiffly towards the tent he knew would hold a dirty, desolate man who would probably want nothing more than to rip the heart out of every last Whitecloak. Mikel paused occasionally in his march to admire the stark order of the Children, camps arranged in a compelling equilibrium to each other, each spaced apart ever so precisely and guards patrolling in the proper order at the proper time. Light was beginning to fade now, the last rays of sun illuminating those white cloaks, instilling them with a mystical silvery quality. One by one, lamps sprung up around the camp, servants making sure that few shadows were allowed to linger. Anything could lurk in shadows. Mikel entered the tent with a twist of his lips that might have been a smile or might have been a sneer filled with the contempt that he felt deep down inside. He truly did not know.
"I truly regret what has happened... allow me to assure that that none of what came to pass was permitted by the Lord Captain Commander and I certainly..." Mikel trailed off at the sight that suddenly met his eyes. Two men were strung up by their feet, hanging from the roof of the tent and both looking in an ugly shape. A servant knelt to one side, scrubbing furiously at a puddle of quickly drying blood, but Mikel barely allowed himself to notice the existence of the young girl. This was simply unacceptable. "Child!" he barked to the nearest guard standing just three or four feet from his position as if nothing untoward was happening. "I want the Warder released from the restraints around his legs immediately! Bring him a shirt and a towel to clean himself... a good herb doctor too... on the double!" Mikel roared when the man was not forthcoming with obedience. The Inquisitor turned regretfully back towards the Warder, ignoring the other prisoner altogether. I was not given command over his questioning... until I hear orders to the contrary, I stick to what I am permitted to do. "I am truly, deeply sorry for this," he repeated, shaking his head disgustedly. "This is not at all how I conduct a Questioning and by all rights, you should not even be here. As I was explaining, what came to pass with you and your... Aes Sedai... was not sanctioned by any of the higher officers of the Children. We certainly respect your boundaries and would not consider breaking the laws of Tar Valon. I hope you can accept this heartfelt apology." He smiled slickly and affected a slight bow, his eyes holding firmly on the Warder's. "I will see that hot tea is brought for both of us and we can discuss business as two grown men, yes...?"
xxxx
Gale hung there, watching the high inquisitor, his slight frame hanging limply. His head ached from the blow he had received, a large bruise on the side of his boyish face that looked sixteen, especially with his big grey eyes. This fact got him out of trouble often, especially when there were women involved. He couldn't stand being treated like a puppy. One of the reasons for being in the Tower. No woman liked an Ashaman, no matter how "cute". He grimaced at this thought. He hated being called cute.
He squirmed in his bonds and felt blood slide down his arms. How stupid can you get, he thought, getting caught sneaking around a Whitecloak camp. I don't know what I was thinking, sticking around. No tea and apologies for me! This time I will really lose my head. He was afraid to channel though, around the Whitecloaks. It was to be his last resort, and he also wanted to bring the Warder with him, in case he could not escape on his own after his extensive wounds.
He looked down. The blood had spread down his arms to his chest now, and his wrists stung from the rope's constant pressure "Bloody Whitecloaks," he mumbled, though he thought that might have been a big mistake. Sound carries far in silence.
xxxx
Lain held his dignity quietly, his body an empty shell. He barely noticed when a woman came in to clean up the blood- my blood, a quiet voice in the back of his head reminded him- and merely blinked when another man was carried in. The man was hung by his ankles as well, a purple bruise forming by his eye. He appeared younger than Lain by quite a bit; yet seemed to hang on to a determined gleam in his eyes that few earned young. He wore a black coat as well- and Lain's mind clicked. An Asha'man. Lain just blinked again- he was almost beyond caring. A stray thought drifted through- why would a man who could channel be here?- but then was blown away. Mileni was gone... No. He mustn't think of that. He had to stay strong... The last he had barely thought when in strode every Warder's worst nightmare. The man wore a white cloak, a red shepard's crook obvious. An Inquisitor. Involuntarily, a small shiver ran through Lain's prone body, the only outward display of emotion he showed.
"I truly regret what has happened... allow me to assure that that none of what came to pass was permitted by the Lord Captain Commander and I certainly..." Lain's mind scoffed in disbelief, barely noticing when he roared for Lain to be put on the ground, calling for... a herb doctor? He had never heard of those. Probably the Whitecloaks excuse for a good Healer. But why was one being called? For him? Surely not. Yet the Whitecloaks he could see had no need for one... Besides, he doubted anything short of a Healer could restore him now. This is probably a tactic, he thought dully. Torture. He struggled to get his mind moving, make his thoughts move faster than molasses. He barely even registered what the Questioner was saying- something about tea? He stopped himself from sneering with an effort.
He was still limp with surprise when a man cut down his legs, setting him roughly on the ground. He bit his lip as the cut muscles in the back of his leg burned with white-hot pain, his vision blacking out for a moment. When he could see again, a bent-over white-haired man had entered the bloodstained tent, nervous-looking and carrying a small basket. He immediately scurried over to Lain as the Questioner looked on, kneeling by him and opening his case. He took out various dried plants, mixing them in a small bowl to a paste while a shirt and towel was brought, handed over by a Whitecloak with murder in his eyes. He took the towel first, mopping the blood from his scabbing wounds, then wiping his leg gently. Clumsily, he pulled the cloth over his head, carefully lifting it over the many cuts and slits covering his torso. Small bits of blood soaked it immediately through, and he almost laughed. Almost. As he sat there, he gasped as the little man touched his leg, then sighed with relief as the pain immediately receded. Of course- a pain-killing drug. He relaxed slightly, deciding against standing up as yet another Whitecloak bore in two steaming mugs.
Lain stared up at the Questioner with raw hatred and defiance filling his eyes. Let the lies and pain come. He was ready. For Mileni.
xxxx
Mikel made a careful point of ignoring the muttered words of the young man still strung up by his feet. He calmly sipped at his tea, bitter and unsweetened as his preference dictated before staring almost placidly into those icy eyes, far sharper and more biting than any tea the Inquisitor had ever tasted. If I gave him a sword and allowed him a few more minutes of rest no doubt he would not hesitation in separating my head from my shoulders. But Mikel would not allow himself to be caught up in any such duels, and certainly not the so-called "honorable" kind. No matter how much this Gaidin disrespected him or offended his beliefs, Mikel would be the man in control of the situation so long as this wretch remained disorientated and without a weapon.
"Now then..." the Lord Inquisitor spoke up in a jovial voice, smacking his lips in satisfaction at the aromas floating from his cup. "Allow me to introduce myself as Mikel Darys of Amadicia," he spoke pleasantly as if talking casually over a mug of ale in the warm atmosphere of a tavern. "As you are no doubt well aware, I am a high-ranking member of the Hand that seeks out Truth; but as a word of warning, do not allow this knowledge to give you any preconceptions about the type of man I am. If you are cooperative, I will not harm you to any degree and I make no immediate assumptions about your allegiances. I am not one of those Children who believe all... Aes Sedai... and their Warders must necessarily be Darkfriends... too much power can corrupt a person but this does not always equate to serving the Shadow." To some members of his order, this would have at least amounted to blasphemy, if not treason but Mikel was in a secure enough position to state his beliefs without fear of retribution.
"I take a more literal interpretation of what the meaning of my order is than most," Mikel went on to explain, taking another swallow of tea until nothing but the dregs remained. He placed it carefully aside and looked carefully into those eyes... it seemed that this man was not yet fully corrupted by his experiences in the White Tower... there was only pained loss and twisted rage in those hollow green pools. Perhaps I can convince him to join the Children's cause...? A soldier of this calibre could be passing useful. Mikel stacked the idea studiously in a corner of his mind, keeping it safe for later use. "My belief is that I should genuinely seek out the actual truth. I am not fool enough to assume that a person is a Darkfriend without proper evidence... I wish to find real Shadowsworn... it is my purpose for living... you might even name it... my calling." He smiled ever so slightly, his dark eyes glowing with a rare passion. "I am well aware that most of my associates in the Hand of the Light are willing to name anyone Darkfriend and will believe it just the same. I will not make that mistake."
"Now let us move straight onto relevant business," he spoke in a still pleasant tone but with just a hint of sharpness, indicating a very real desire to discover what this man did and did not know. "Since I have provided you with my true name, I would greatly appreciate knowing yours, as well as a brief description of why you happened upon our patrol. I am clearly aware of what came to pass here... as I told you, I regret what happened and have already seen the man in charge severely punished... but it will be useful for our investigations if I could hear things from another perspective. I can make assurances that with cooperation, I will make every effort to see that you are held in an environment of minimal security, perhaps conducting labor in a farm or some other form of manual work. A man of your abilities should not find it difficult to, let us say... release himself from such a situation were he to find it less than suitable in advancing his purposes, yes?" If nothing else Mikel had said amounted to treason, this surely did... but if the Warder was a man of practicalities, perhaps it would be enough to loosen his tongue just a little.
xxxx
Gale could not believe the words coming out of the Whitecloak's mouth. Did he think the Warder stupid enough to fall for something like that? It was most likely a way to loosen the man's tongue and have him killed and disposed of silently. He knew that he was caught sneaking around a camp, and so he would most likely be condemned as shadowspawn by the Whitecloaks, he wasn't of course, but by sunrise, would probably find his head uncomfortably far from his head. He would just have to make due of the time he had left by thoroughly making the Whitecloaks suffer, maybe escaping before they realized he was an Asha'man.
He started to laugh now, not caring if they thought him insane. "Fool," he hissed, "The man is smarter than to fall for your pathetic schemes, Whitecloak. You will have him work, will you? So he can be silently killed and disposed of? You are a worm, crawling your way through life, only working toward your own ends." He spat upon the ground. And laughed again, seeing blood in the spit. Caked upon his skin was blood from his wrists, and his head was certainly bruised, but if he was bleeding internally, if he was not treated for that, he would die soon. Being Morderoi Vadin, he knew this, he had healed this before.
xxxx
Lain stared at the Questioner blankly, barely managing to conceal the enhanced hatred he now felt. A labourer on a farm? Was the Whitecloak mad? If one of his own kind had heard that, he would be tried and convicted of a Darkfriend within seconds. Yet it made no reason to strike out now- angry words would only condemn him further, and stating his name had nothing to do with anything. It didn't matter, anyway. One Warder was the same as another to them; he even suspected they would treat a Gaidar the same.
Before he had a chance to speak, the man who had hung beside him spoke angrily, spitting out words. "Fool," he hissed, "The man is smarter than to fall for your pathetic schemes, Whitecloak. You will have him work, will you? So he can be silently killed and disposed of? You are a worm, crawling your way through life, only working toward your own ends." With the last word, he spat at the Questioner, and began laughing.
He truly is insane, Lain thought bitterly. Did he want to die? Lain could defend himself! He was not an infant in need of assistance! Lain straightened as best he could, ignoring the pains from his wounds through the pain-killers and the herb-doctor tutting over them. He licked his cracked lips, clearing his throat carefully. He turned to the Whitecloak, studiously ignoring the other captive.
"I," he began clearly, "am Lain Farshaw, Gaidin..." he paused, defiantly clearing his throat once more. "Gaidin to the late Mileni Aes Sedai," he stated proudly, looking the man in the eye. Let him think what he would.
"The patrol was an unfortunate incident, indeed," he spoke, determinedly pushing forwards as though he was talking to an old enemy before a fight. "I believe you may know more of it than I," he said carefully, watching the man's hard eyes, "but I think it may have been a unfortunate mishap on both sides." Lain let the last part of what the Whitecloak had said go for now- any response to that could be taken the wrong way.
He fell silent, watching the Questioner and the other captive, out of the corner of his eyes. But the Light help me, he thought viciously, if he disrespects my Mileni!