In the Land of the Madmen

by Bob G. Leeman

the sequel to He Sleeps Under the Hill, featuring the continuing adventures of N'aethan, Ellyth and their companions after they are stranded... in the Land of the Madmen! Chapter 12 : Prisoners of Larcheen, in which; the Lightborn, Gen and Roth Blucha, Gleeman, reach the Midnight City / The Breaker is revealed to the captive Aes Sedai / Flashback: 'The Death of Lord Ingtar.' R&R

3. Chapter 2 : The Island

Gleeman Bob writes: well, Chapter 2 seems to be half again as long as Chapter 1, despite my best efforts at brevity... Chapter 3 might be even longer, and will contain flashbacks too... as for the sex & violence, I am working on it! thank you to all those who have written nice reviews or taken the trouble to read the foolish Gleeman's inane scribblings...

those who read Chapter 1 will know that there are kangaroos in the Land of the Madmen. well, that is what N'aethan calls them in the Old Tongue, anyway, but only someone from the Age of Legends or thereabouts would do so. the modern term is 'walaru' which is a real word from the Aboriginal Dharug dialect, referring to something in between a wallaby and the aforementioned... kangaroo!

I came up with the idea that the elite soldiers of the Hawx should wear hawk masks but then I thought; 'wait a minute - in Thieves World, weren't there these guys who also wore such masks? there were! tsag!' but they are going to wear them anyway, so there! and if Robert Asprin and Lynn Abbey and the rest of the contributers to the various Thieves World anthologies think I have plagiarism toh to them, they are quite welcome to beat me viciously with many sticks! besides, I always found Thieves World to be a bit sadistic and depressing, quite frankly, so I really don't care...

(and I promise faithfully to not have my characters waving wands about and playing quidditch!)

Walk in the Light!

---

The hawks that fly west will fare the best;

The hawks that fly east shall prosper the least.

Ancient Proverb attributed to Guaire Amalasan, the Second Dragon, circa FY 943

translated from the Old Tongue by the Scholar, Jeorad Manyard, Governor of Andor

(presumed to refer to the armies of Artur Hawkwing, sent overseas on missions of conquest)

Chapter Two * The Island

When N'aethan came to, his head was aching fiercely and he was bound securely to a large tree. The bonds were only rawhide strips and he thought that he could probably break them, but since he was surrounded by a score of the largest, fiercest-looking Ogier he had ever seen, decided not to. Not that he was afeared to fight them, with or without his sword, but he didn't particularly want to hurt them; he had always liked Ogier. They never called him rude names and seemed to accept him for what he was. Whatever that was.

N'aethan examined the Ogier closely. Their hair was longer than was usual, falling down their broad backs, and they all had trimmed eyebrows and in the cases of the older ones, clipped beards. Their hairy ears lay flat against their skulls, which he knew was not a good sign. But it was the implacable gaze of those large eyes that told him they were not to be trifled with. Trifle… it had been a long time since he had tasted trifle… did they still make it? But he was getting side-tracked… confused… he was feeling woozy… perhaps he was concussed? They must have hit him quite hard to knock him out like that.

N'aethan returned his attention to the Ogier. The biggest one – he was enormous! – stood at the head of the group. It was the same who had addressed him earlier, when he first entered the stedding. The Ogier's gaze was lowered, he was holding N'aethan's sword, examining it closely. His massive axe was propped against his leg, which seemed the size of a tree-trunk. N'aethan noted the sung-wood helmet and armour that he wore – that they all wore. It was made up of overlapping plates of burnished teak, engraved with thorns and briars. He had seen Ogier wearing armour before of course, the Alantin te Avende Guard who fought alongside the Warmen, but that had mostly been made of ceramics, or shattercloth. Those Ogier who did not carry axes and war-hammers brandished heavy clubs that also appeared to be fashioned of sung-wood… but the idea of their using their tree-singing skill to make weapons and armour was anathema, surely? These were definitely the strangest Ogier he had ever seen! Those he had fought alongside in the War and the wars that followed had been fierce, certainly; but in a controlled, restrained way. There was something wild and untamed about these Ogier, who held him captive. And he had the distinct impression that they did not like him very much…

The biggest Ogier spoke, without looking up from the sword. "So you are awake. Good." He used the High, the Old Tongue, with some fluency, his voice rumbling deeply, like the course of an underground river. "Elder Hahal comes to question you – a great honour. He does not often leave the Stump." The Ogier raised his gaze. His large eyes were the coldest of all. "This blade you bore, it is power-wrought. How did you come by it?"

"My Aes Sedai gave it to me." N'aethan answered in the same language.

There was a stir among the Ogier. The big one, presumably their leader, since he was doing all the talking, frowned darkly. "There are no Aes Sedai – not any more. Only deranged women channelers who falsely claim that title."

N'aethan shrugged, as much as his bonds allowed. "Maybe not here. But my Aes Sedai hails from the Wetlands – the Westlands, mean I, as I believe they name it."

A beardless Ogier youth, standing next to the leader, spoke up, sounding curious; "where are these Westlands, human?"

"North of here, across the ocean." N'aethan scowled, his pupils slitting. "And like I was trying to say before, I'm not human."

The Ogier stirred again, muttering to each other in their incomprehensible speech. The leader raised his abbreviated eyebrows, his voice a deep basso growl; "oh? If not a man, what are you then?"

"A chumira."

"What is that?" asked the youth.

"A kind of Construct. A War-Construct. Made to fight the Shadow, like my Brothers." The Ogier just stared at him. They looked sceptical, if slightly less hostile. "Like a Nym, only not," N'aethan added.

The big leader snorted, an alarming sound. "Such as you speak of have not existed for thousands of years, not since the Age of Legends."

N'aethan was beginning to feel exasperated. His head hurt and he was tied to a tree… and having his provenance doubted by weird-looking Ogier! He sighed. "Check the ears!" he suggested, loudly.

The Ogier looked at each other. Then, the youth came forward. He was almost as big as the leader, had a heavy sung-wood club propped over one meaty shoulder.

N'aethan looked up at him, somewhat belligerently.

"I am the one who hit you," the Ogier youth declared. "I hit you very hard, in fact – why are you not dead?"

"I have a hard head," N'aethan growled, liking the way their words rhymed.

"Ah." The youth hesitated. "Your teeth look rather sharp. Do not attempt to bite me, or I shall certainly hit you again."

N'aethan solemnly shook his head.

The youth extended a sausage-sized finger and brushed the hair back from the left side of N'aethan's head, revealing a pointed, tufted ear. The other Ogier crowded around to look. "His ears are a little like ours," one observed. "He is an unusual creature," added another.

N'aethan grinned. Perhaps he should show them his claws? How unusual would they find him then?

The atmosphere in the stedding seemed to become almost convivial, for all that he was still tied to the tree. Even the big leader had ceased frowning. He turned his shaggy skull, gazing over the heads of the others. "Elder Hahal comes," he intoned.

The armoured Ogier warriors respectfully stood aside, making a lane down which an ancient Ogier Elder hobbled, leaning heavily on a gnarled sung-wood stick, intricately carved with vines. He did not wear armour, but a dark robe, further embroidered with more vines. His brows and beard were very long and the large eyes that peered at N'aethan as he approached held great wisdom… and sadness also. An Ogier maiden attended him, wearing a pale dress worked with blossoms. Her features were more delicate than those of the males, the hair on her ears silky. She smiled at the Ogier youth and he blushed furiously, his ears twitching.

N'aethan watched the Elder's slow approach warily. Something about the ancient Ogier told him to not be flippant.

The Ogier Elder stopped before him. "What is your name, stranger?" he enquired, his voice reedy with age, though still deeper than that of any human.

As was usual when asked this question, N'aethan wondered which name to give. He gave his favourite. "I am Sin'aethan Shadar Cor," he stated, proudly.

The Elder looked at him for a long moment, with eyes that held centuries of knowledge, then turned to the Ogier maiden. "Does he speak truthfully, Maram?"

The maiden fixed N'aethan with her large eyes, unblinking. Then, she nodded. "I believe that he does, grandfather."

The Elder turned back to N'aethan, his ancient eyes seeming to pierce right through him. He spoke softly; "it is ill, I think, to imprison He who Shields us from the Shadows of the Night. Release him."

Unquestioning, the leader and the youth started forward to do as they were bid, but N'aethan grinned and muttered, "no need." He took a deep breath and flexed his powerful arms. The rawhide bonds snapped with a loud cracking sound and N'aethan stepped away from the tree. He rubbed at the large contusion on his scalp. "You believe me?" he enquired, of the ancient Ogier. "Some might be sceptical."

The Elder shook his head, a small smile twisting his wide mouth. He indicated the Ogier maiden. "My grand-daughter, Maram, is an excellent judge of character. She would know if you lied." He touched his chest. "I am Elder Hahal." He patted the massive shoulder of the big leader. "This is Balal, who commands the Guardians of Stedding Dashai." Balal nodded curtly, seemed to consider a moment, then passed N'aethan his sword, which he promptly sheathed. The Elder pointed his stick at the Ogier youth. "And I believe you have met his nephew, young Feren."

N'aethan eyed Feren. "You move very quietly for an Ogier… I did not know you were there until it was too late."

Feren shrugged his broad shoulders. "I took my boots off," he explained.

For some reason, the Ogier soldiers found this amusing and deep sounds of mirth resounded through their ranks. Feren's face coloured, his ears twitching again.

Elder Hahal's voice cut through the laughter. "Tell me, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, in the lands across the sea from which you presumably hail… are there other Ogier?" Silence fell as they awaited his response.

N'aethan nodded. "Renn Sedai told me that there are many stedding in the Westlands, a great many Ogier indeed."

Elder Hahal smiled beatifically. "This is good to know." The smile became melancholy. "We thought we were the last, you see."

---

"Well, here we are," announced Roth Blucha, Gleeman, "home sweet home!"

'Home' was a collection of rough huts built of driftwood and sections of wrecked ship, clustered behind a tall palisade of felled logs, nestling in a fold of forest at the edge of a sandy beach that descended to the ocean. Further out, beyond the breakers, with his red-tinged gaze Cohradin could see jagged rocks rising from the bay and in one place, what looked like 'masts' and a bit of 'hull' projecting from the water. Cohradin was proud that he now knew these exotic Wetland words. He had learnt them by eavesdropping on the Sea Folk Warder, Jabal. He wondered if the pugnacious fellow was still alive – if any of them were. Well, if they were not, he would see to it that they were avenged. He would personally wake every last one of those painted 'Hawx' people, or his name was not red-eyed Cohradin of the-

"What are those?" asked Manda, pointing with her spear.

Some strange creatures were chewing at the rough, salty grass that grew at the edge of the dunes; they had big ears, large hind legs and long, thick tails. At the approach of Roth and the Shaido, they looked up, made faint bleating noises of alarm, and hopped rapidly into the safety of the forest.

"Oh, them," said Roth, disinterestedly, "our guide calls them 'walaru.'"

"Can you eat them?" Cohradin wanted to know.

"Well, yes," Roth allowed, "if you can catch them. But I wouldn't recommend it – they taste a bit like rancid goat."

"Goat?" said Chassin, licking his lips.

"Rancid," repeated Roth, pointedly.

Gerom's deep voice rumbled, sounding speculative; "Jain-called-Farstrider, the Wetlander explorer, always posited the existence of a great southern continent, inhabited by giants and talking snakes." Chassin eyed him sceptically.

Roth shook his head. "Well, I haven't seen any giants, and if a snake ever talked to me, I should ignore it."

Cohradin thought about the talking snakes that he had encountered on one of his illicit visits to Forbidden Shara. Had they been real? Had any of it? He certainly hoped not. He decided to avoid saying anything…

They approached the palisade and twenty paces away, Roth paused, reaching into a pocket of his patched cloak and pulling out a conch shell. "Three long blasts and two short?" he muttered to himself, as though trying to remember something. The Shaido shifted impatiently. Roth raised the shell to his lips and blew into it. A choked, spluttering sound emerged. He tried again, with even less impressive results. The Shaido made grumbling noises. Roth sighed, tucked the shell away and cupped a hand to his mouth. "Hoy! Let us in!" he shouted.

After a moment, a squat, bare-chested man appeared at the parapet of the palisade. He wore a grubby woollen hat and his arms were heavily tattooed with anchors, mermaids and other such watery things. Cohradin suspected that he might be a 'sailorman' but couldn't be sure. The man eyed them with disfavour from beneath a heavy brow. He was inexpertly holding a Wetlands crossbow, pointed vaguely in their direction. "You didn't blow the signal," he complained.

Roth shrugged. "I haven't got the lips for it." He raised his harp and strummed it, producing a pleasing sound. "There! There's your bloody signal! Now let us in, Bari!"

Another of what Cohradin presumed to be 'sailormen' appeared next to the first. He was tall and lean, with a lantern jaw and wore a threadbare, striped, woollen jersey. The bald dome of his head gleamed in the bright sunlight. "The Gleeman came back!" he called down to someone below, then looked at them suspiciously. "Those look like Aielmen with you," he observed, disapprovingly.

"I am no man!" shouted Manda, indignantly.

The sailors eyed each other dubiously, then turned their collective gaze on Roth Blucha. The first spoke; "if we let them in, they might stab people with their spears, or set fire to things…"

"And her Ladyship will blame us, not you," added the second sailor, mournfully.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Roth exclaimed, "Jer, you know perfectly well that she blames me for everything! Now open the flaming gate!"

Cohradin knew that he could scale the rough palisade with ease, as could the others, but decided to wait. Grumbling, the sailors disappeared from sight. After a moment, there was a creaking sound and a section of the palisade lowered to the sand, suspended by a rope on either side. A space for three men to walk abreast was revealed. They started forward.

Then, a tall man appeared in the gateway, holding a drawn sword, blocking their entrance. He wore a long coat and trews, shabby and salt-stained, as well as high boots, somewhat scuffed. His dishonourable blade gleamed and looked well cared for, Cohradin noted. The swordsman was young, with reddish hair and a large, carefully tended moustache beneath his aquiline nose. His blue eyes were fierce.

"Aiel," he muttered disparagingly, before asking; "do you stand surety for their good behaviour, Roth?" He had a strange Wetlands accent, lilting and burring.

"Of course, Dagnon." Roth turned to the Shaido. "Behave yourselves!" he hissed. Cohradin frowned. They resumed their approach, but Cohradin paused at the gateway.

"Wait. Where is Chassin?" The Shaido looked around. There was no sign of the diminutive Knife-Hand.

Then, Gerom pointed. "There he is."

Chassin was emerging from the forest, a dead walaru slung over one shoulder. He rejoined them. They looked at him. "What?" he muttered, then added, "the Gleeman said they taste like goat. That is good enough for me."

The tall swordsman, Dagnon, stood grudgingly aside to let them pass. Roth made hurried introductions as they did so. "Dagnon, this is Cohradin, Gerom, Chassin and… and…"

"Manda!" snapped Manda.

"I was about to say that. Shaidos, this is Dagnon do something-or-other…" Dagnon scowled. "He's a sort of Warder, but hasn't got one of those special cloaks because he isn't supposed to be Gaidin."

Cohradin eyed Dagnon, not particularly warily, but with a certain degree of respect. He looked as though he could dance well, and he had the bird on his sword, the Wetland bird that denoted a 'Blademaster.' Cohradin thought that it was called a 'melon' but wasn't sure. He would ask Gerom, if he remembered to.

Dagnon fell in with them. "I am the Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois," he announced, giving Roth Blucha a dirty look.

The Gleeman grinned. "Yes, that's it, I never can remember… Murandian names are so long!"

"Stupid Gleeman!" Manda hissed, "with your meagre memory, how do you ever manage to recall all of your silly songs and stories?"

"Oh, that's different; people pay me silver to remember those. Incentive!"

At the centre of the collection of rude huts was a larger cabin, better constructed. It even had rudimentary windows. A rough curtain hung over the entry, in place of a door.

Cohradin's grip tightened on his spear haft as more of the sailors appeared from the other huts, numbering about a score. They were attired much like the first pair, in ragged britches and shirts, arms tattooed for the most part, their feet bare. They stared at the Shaido without much in the way of hostility, more curiosity. They all looked rather thin and sickly, Cohradin couldn't help but notice. The one he presumed to be their leader was a big man with dark skin, wearing an open, brass-buttoned coat over his bare, barrel chest and an odd, three-pointed hat, his long hair plaited into a pigtail. His left hand ended in a stump to which was strapped a wooden plug, a heavy iron hook projecting from it. He had a short, curved sword tucked through his belt, whereas most of the sailors were armed only with knives.

If there was trouble, Cohradin decided that after he had waked the red-moustachioed Warder, he would deal with the big hook-handed fellow next. Then, he would help Chassin cook and eat the walaru, since he was famished. It didn't sound appetising, according to the Gleeman, but he would try to stomach it. Chassin certainly would, he could eat anything, he was known for it.

At the edge of the group stood one who seemed a little different. He was even darker than the big sailor with the hook, had tightly cropped, curly black hair. He wore only a pair of striped, red and white pantaloons, somewhat grubby, with a short, ivory-hilted sword sheathed at his belt. There was something shifty about the fellow, the way his dark eyes darted about. And he had tattoos on his hands, like the Sea Folk Warder did. Atha'an Miere, then. Cohradin decided to kill him third. And then eat the walaru.

The big man with the strange hat addressed Roth; "did ye go to where I said, Gleeman?"

"A mile or so along the beach," Roth answered.

"Good. The currents are favourable there, they flow due north…" The big man raised his voice, addressing the sailors; "relax, boys, one of those fool bottles will make it to the Westlands eventually, travelling at three or four knots, so we can mayhap expect a rescue in twenty or thirty years!"

The sailormen laughed dutifully. The Shaido eyed each other with confusion. What was funny about that? Wetland humour was odd.

Roth indicated the big man. "This is the Bosun. He's Tairen. Doesn't seem to have a name, everyone just calls him 'the Bosun.'"

"Aye, that they do," agreed the Bosun, then shouted at the sailors; "back to your duties, you lollygagging bunch of lackwits!" The sailors dispersed slowly, glancing over their shoulders at the Shaido with curiosity.

Cohradin thought he heard one mutter to another; "more of them!" There was supposed to be an Aiel here, was there not? No sign of him...

The Atha'an Miere sailor lingered, watching them. The Bosun eyed him with disfavour. "You too, Raab. Make yourself scarce. Nothing to see here." The shifty Sea Folk fellow shrugged, and strolled away.

Roth questioned the Bosun; "does Ysmet know we're here?"

The Bosun grinned, revealing several gold teeth that flashed in his dark face. "Her Ladyship has been informed, aye."

At which, the rough curtain over the doorway of the large hut was swept aside and a young woman emerged. She wore a low-cut dress of maroon silk, torn in places. Her dark hair was arranged into two long braids, one over each shoulder, her eyes pale, lips full and sensual. She was very beautiful, dark-skinned and exotic. She also wore the golden snake ring. Aes Sedai, then. She held the curtain aside and another woman exited, having to duck a little to do so. She was taller, equally beauteous, though in a more severe way. Something about her said that she was accustomed to giving orders – and having them obeyed instantly. Her hair was the same colour as the Aes Sedai's, bound back into a single, utilitarian braid, her eyes dark, chin firm. She wore a green divided dress with a wide belt and calf boots. A ceremonial jewelled dagger hung about her neck and a thin sword – what Cohradin thought was called a 'rapier' was buckled at her trim waist. The blade did not look incongruous on her, the woman moved like one trained to the dance. She regarded them coldly, hands on hips. The Aes Sedai ignored them, but smiled a sultry smile at the Murandian Warder. Dagnon may have smiled back, but it was hard to tell with the moustache in the way. He seemed to relax a little under gaze, though. The Gaidin did not choose to sheath his sword, however.

Roth Blucha attempted introductions. "This is Ys-"

"The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar," the woman in the green dress snapped, over-riding him. "Who are you?"

Cohradin stepped forward. Ysmet touched her sword hilt and the Bosun tensed slightly. "I am Cohradin of the Wet Sands Shaido. These are Gerom, Chassin and Manda, also of the Wet-"

"Shaido?" interrupted the Aes Sedai, "why, you're the ones who've been causing all the trouble out east, invading Cairhein and the like!"

"This is Rashiel Sedai," explained Roth, smoothly.

"The land of the Treekillers has been raided once more?" Cohradin frowned. "There are many fine things to be had there – and I am stuck here in Madman Land or whatever it is called, unable to participate and take my rightful share!"

This did not exactly seem to be the right thing to say, both Ysmet and Rashiel scowled at Cohradin, and the Warder, Dagnon, muttered uncomplimentary things under his breath.

Roth attempted to salvage the situation; "what Cohradin means to say is that-"

"Silence, husband!" Ysmet's voice cracked like a whip. She glared at Roth. "You go off to throw one of your silly messages into the sea, and you return-" she turned her disapproving gaze on the Shaido "-with yet more mouths to feed. Aiel mouths at that!"

"We can feed ourselves," declared Chassin, truculently, "there are many more of these strange creatures to be had." But then he dumped the carcass of the walaru unceremoniously at Ysmet's booted feet. "This is for you, though. May we have leave to come into your Hold, Roofmistress?"

Ysmet Mitsobar glanced at Rashiel Sedai, clearly unsure what to say. Rashiel shrugged. Then, Gerom and Manda stepped forward, adding respectively a silver-chased pipe and a small emerald pendant, repeating Chassin's words. Cohradin tore his gaze away from Rashiel's impressive cleavage, sighed, then stepped up and added the Sea Folk knife to the pile. He regretted it, but if Jabal Lionfish's appraisal was correct, it was likely a Shadowrunner dagger and no fit blade for him to use. He had his own knife anyway, a superior weapon, the hilt bound with gara-hide. An ivory grip could slip in the hand…

"I ask leave to come beneath your roof, Ysmet Mitsobar," he growled, somewhat sulkily.

Ysmet eyed the Shaido for a moment, then nodded curtly. "You have my leave," she allowed, "provided that you do no harm to my men." She seemed to relent a little; "and I thank you for these fine gifts…"

"Except for the ill-tasting walaru," Rashiel Sedai muttered.

"Shut-up, Rashiel," Ysmet chided, though in a not unfriendly way.

Cohradin and the others bowed, spear-points stuck in the sand, cupped hands held out. "It shall be as you say, Roofmistress," he stated.

Ysmet blinked, then curtsied gracefully. Rashiel Sedai performed the same action, with an air of parody, leaning forward a little. Cohradin found himself staring at her bust again, and averted his eyes.

Ysmet turned back to the cabin. "We shall speak presently, Aielmen. I should like to know how you got here. Roth! Attend me!"

Roth Blucha smiled in sickly fashion, then reluctantly followed Ysmet inside the large hut. The curtain swished closed behind them. It did little to mask the unmistakeable sound of voices raised in argument.

Rashiel lifted her eyebrows in exasperation. "They're at it again!" She sashayed away, Dagnon falling in step with her, finally sheathing his sword. "Come along Shaido, you really don't want to listen to this and I expect you're hungry." She glanced over her shoulder. "Does anyone require Healing? I'm not very good at it, but I'll do my best…"

Shaking their heads, the Aiel followed her, the Bosun bringing up the rear. Cohradin strained his ears as the sound of shouting diminished behind them, but could make out little of what was being said; accusations on the one part, defensiveness on the other. He wondered what it would be like to be married. He shuddered. He would far rather face the Great Bird of Shara again, than take a wife!

They arrived at a hut guarded by a fair-haired, sunburnt sailor, bearing another crossbow. He jumped at the sight of the Shaido, and stood aside.

"This is where we keep our provisions," Rashiel Sedai explained, "what is left of them, at any rate. We couldn't save much from the wreck." She went inside, they could hear her rummaging around. "Normally we're only allowed one ship's biscuit a day, but you're guests, so I suppose you can have two…" Rashiel re-emerged bearing greyish things wrapped in a handkerchief, and passed them out. Cohradin tried one cautiously. It tasted bad, a little like the wafers in the Nightwatcher's Father's Hold, and he noted that small black things were crawling around inside. "Sorry about the weevils… they get into everything," Rashiel apologised, "but apparently they're good for you."

"Full of nutrition," said the Bosun, and laughed heartily. He strode away, whistling a shanty.

Chassin had finished his second biscuit before any of the others had completed chewing their first bite. Cohradin gave him his. "You would eat your own mother, Chassin," he derided him. Chassin just shrugged and stuffed another weevily biscuit into his mouth.

"So how did you get here, then?" Rashiel Sedai asked curiously.

"A Stone of the Age of Legends, or before even that," Gerom explained.

"It brought our whole ship-boat here," Chassin added indistinctly, speaking with his mouth full.

Manda didn't say anything, she was eyeing Dagnon speculatively. Rashiel noticed, and scowled.

Cohradin regained her attention however. "Ellythia Sedai brought us to this place, with her two friends, also Aes Sedai."

"Ellyth? You don't say… wait, what friends?"

"Shrinalla Sedai and Rennetta Sedai."

"Shrina? And… and Renn?! The last I heard, she was off to Toman Head..."

"Ah, you know of them, Aes Sedai."

"We were novices together. And Accepted. So where are they now?"

"Regrettably, they and their Warders were taken captive by the ones with painted faces, who the foolish Gleeman names 'Hawx.'"

"No!" Rashiel Sedai's face was flushed, her eyes sparking with anger. Dagnon put a placating hand on her shoulder but she shook it off. "We must rescue them!" the Aes Sedai cried.

"That is why we came to here, to make plans for such a venture," Cohradin explained.

"Wait here. I must go and tell Ysmet, because Roth probably hasn't bothered to! I assume that they have kissed and made up by now, but quite frankly, I don't care if they haven't!" Rashiel stalked rapidly away, back towards the cabin, Dagnon trotting after her.

The Shaido looked at each other. Cohradin broke the silence; "you know, the strangest thing about the Wetlands – not that we are in the Wetlands anymore, of course – has been the Aes Sedai. They are certainly not as I expected."

"Not at all," agreed Gerom, passing Chassin his biscuits.

The sailor with the crossbow was gaping at them, Cohradin noticed. He addressed him; "what is your name, wetlander sailorman?"

"Owyn…"

"Owyn, is there anything in that hut that is good to eat and not vile, as these ill-tasting, bug-infested biscuits have proved themselves to be?"

"They are not so bad," observed Chassin indistinctly, whilst chewing. Manda passed him hers.

Owyn blinked. "There is some cheese left, but-"

"Cheese?!" repeated a cracked, oddly-accented voice, "why, I should dearly like some of that!"

The Shaido whirled round, unaccustomed to being successfully sneaked-up upon. A very unusual-looking person stood there. He wore short britches and a jerkin, seemingly fashioned of walaru skin. Long, scraggly white hair and a longer, knotted white beard obscured his features, which bore faded, dark tattoos and rheumy brown eyes peered from a heavily lined face, above a large nose. He cackled loudly, revealing yellow teeth that had been filed into points, at least those few that were not missing.

"Go away, Gen," muttered Owyn the sailor wearily.

The old man did not go away, but instead began to dance an awkward jig, his bare feet scuffing in the sand. In a broken voice, he chanted at the same time; "cheese please, cheese please, cheese please!"

Owyn sighed. "You know you can't have any more, her Ladyship said so!"

The peculiar old man ceased his jigging and scowled furiously. "Not fair!" he hissed. Then, he stood and stared up at the sun awhile, unblinking. "I do think it's going to rain," he muttered.

Cohradin eyed him askance, as did the other Shaido.

"That's Gen," explained Owyn, "he comes from around these parts. He's our guide."

Cohradin blinked. The odd man who sang of cheese was obviously completely crazy… but this was the Land of the Madmen, was it not? No doubt he himself would end up that way, if he stayed here much longer. He addressed the guide, Gen; "tell me, strange fellow," he began, "what know you of the Hawx? They have-"

"Hawx!" squealed Gen, "no! Not them! Nooo!" With that, he turned and ran away surprisingly fast for one of his advanced years, disappearing behind a hut.

"How can one such as he possibly be your guide?" Gerom wanted to know.

"Oh, he has his good days and his bad days," Owyn stated airily. He shrugged apologetically; "and I'm very sorry but I can't let you have any cheese either… orders." The Shaido frowned.

"Open the gate!" an unseen voice shouted, "Ruon returns…"

"That is an Aiel name," observed Gerom.

The Shaido turned and made their way rapidly to the palisade. A rough-hewn ladder led up to the parapet, they scaled it swiftly. They stared, shading their eyes. A tall Aielman, about Cohradin's size, was emerging from the forest, trudging down toward the gate. His cadin'sor was rather shabby and its cut told them that he was a Water Seeker of the Tomanelle Clan. But, strangely for an algai'd'siswai, he seemed to have sliced off his warrior's tail and let his dark auburn hair grow long, down to his broad shoulders. Even stranger, he carried no spear and not even a belt-knife hung at his waist. Instead, he bore a bucket of water in each hand. The Shaido watched as he paced through the open gate, which was hastily hauled up behind him. He went to a large wooden cistern and proceeded to empty the buckets into it.

The Shaido descended the ladder and approached him. "I see you, Ruon," Cohradin called out, wondering if the fellow knew of his bold fight with the other Tomanelle in the cave over the goat. He was somewhat notorious amongst their Clan for this incident, since he had slain one of their people, almost starting a blood feud, and had had to make painful restitution.

The Tomanelle turned and regarded them without much interest. "Shaido," he stated, flatly. "Knife Hands and a Maiden." His face was scarred, but his green eyes were oddly meek, like those of a gai'shain. Which he was not, though doing the work of one.

"What is wrong with you, Ruon?" Cohradin demanded, "where are your spears?"

"I broke them," answered Ruon, tonelessly. "My knife, I threw into a ravine. I had no wish to carry them. I follow the Leaf Way now."

"What?!" Cohradin shouted. Some passing sailors glanced at them curiously, until Chassin glared at them, fingering his knives, and they found reason to be elsewhere.

Ruon gazed at them expressionlessly for a long moment, then sat down on the edge of the cistern, looking weary. "You Shaido, you do not know what happened in the Three-fold Land," he surmised.

"We have been away from our home for a long time," Gerom explained.

"Searching in the Wetlands for the Chief of Chiefs," added Manda.

"The Car'a'carn was found," Ruon muttered. He smiled bitterly. "He Who Comes With the Dawn. Well, he came. I would that he had not."

"Who found him?" Cohradin demanded, "it was not a stinking Shaarad Stone Dog named Gaul, was it?" He had no wish to lose his wager…

Ruon shook his head. "No, it was Rhuarc, Clan Chief of the Taardad, and some others. Perhaps this Gaul was amongst them, I do not know. They found the Chief of Chiefs in Tear and took him back to Rhuidean to fulfil the Prophecy. I myself saw him at Al'cair Dal, I was there as leader of the Duadhe Mahdi'in of our Clan." Ruon eyed them blankly. "That is where Rand al'Thor told us the truth."

"What truth?" Cohradin asked. The other Shaido watched soberly.

Ruon ignored the question, he seemed to be speaking to himself as much as to them. "I went mad for a time, I could not believe it… but the Clan Chiefs confirmed the words of the Car'a'carn, it had to be so… I… I broke my spears. For many days and nights I ran, not eating, not drinking, barely pausing to sleep… finally, I reached the Wetlands, close to death. I wanted to die! But some Lost Ones found me, they took me in, nursed me back to health, taught me their ways… we travelled far together, though I was never one of them. Then, in Illian, I took ship to a distant place, to try to escape my shame." He looked around himself, hopelessness evident in his eyes. "So, here I am."

"What truth?" Cohradin repeated, though he had a sinking feeling inside his stomach, which could not just be attributed to hunger. He did not know what Ruon would say, but he did not think he would like the answer…

Ruon looked at the Shaido with his oddly placid gaze. "We Aiel," he explained, "long ago, in the Age of Legends, we were the Da'shain Aiel and served the Aes Sedai. And we followed the Way of the Leaf. We did no harm. None." He sighed. "We broke the Covenant by taking up the spear… it is a dishonour that can never be assuaged."

The Shaido stared at Ruon. "This explains much," Gerom muttered, "I suspected that Vron'cor was hiding something about us, something terrible…" Chassin looked stricken. Manda gaped.

"But… but…" Cohradin spluttered, "the Nightwatcher confirmed that the Aiel were mighty warriors in the War with the Shadow! He said so!"

For the first time, Ruon's fatalistically meek expression changed. He looked perplexed, even slightly curious. "Did you say Vron'cor? The Nightwatcher?" he enquired, "from the tales our parents told to us?"

Cohradin nodded impatiently. "Yes, the one from the stories… only he is real! We found him!"

Ruon looked vaguely sceptical. "You are telling me that Vron'cor exists?"

"Aye, that he does!" Cohradin scowled ferociously. "Though when next I meet him, he will certainly wish that he did not!"

---

Ellyth awoke with a pounding head and a sick taste in her mouth. And she could not touch the Source. For a panicked moment she wondered whether she had been stilled but no, she could still sense the One Power; opening herself to saidar produced nothing though, no rush of sweet sensation such as she was accustomed to, no intensification of the senses.

"If you are trying to channel, then you are wasting your time, barbarian." The voice was velvety and spoke the Vulgar well, though with a strange accent placed on certain vowels.

Ellyth looked up and gasped. The dark-skinned young woman sitting cross-legged across from her wore a simple, grey robe and sandals, her features stern but rather handsome, large eyes almost black, full lips – and entirely tattooed! A network of lines, whorls and dots covered her face.

Ellyth sat up, nursing her aching head. She had been lying on a thin rush mat in what was unmistakeably some kind of a cell. A stone chamber, rather small, bars over the window and a heavy wooden door, bound with iron hasps. If she could channel, she might have smashed that door to pieces in a heartbeat, and made her escape… but she could not.

Ellyth's dark, perceptive gaze returned to her cellmate. The tattooed woman was sitting upon another of the mats and seemed at ease with her situation. Ellyth sat up too, smoothing her skirts over her crossed legs.

"Here," said the young woman, passing her a clay bowl filled with water. Ellyth took it and drank gratefully. It was rather stale and tepid, but helped to wash the ill taste from her mouth. She recalled the events on the beach, the attack of the strange, painted people. Clearly, she had been drugged… where were the others?

"Thank you," Ellyth murmured, lowering the bowl, then added; "why can't I channel?"

The woman smiled bitterly. "There is an artefact here, of the Last Age, which precludes the touching of the Holy Power." Ellyth frowned. It sounded like the Guardian in Far Madding… "I suspect it is why our captors chose this island as their home, to be safe from the Mad Ones. And us."

"We are on an island?" Ellyth decided that the best thing she could do with her time was to fish for as much information as possible. She must be patient. She would get her chance to escape, or Naythan would come for her.

The tattooed woman was nodding. "An island, yes, a small one. About one mile offshore from the mainland."

"Where are you from?" Ellyth could not help but ask. She had never seen anyone quite like this person!

Her cellmate seemed happy enough to talk. "Co'dansin. What you barbarians call 'Shara,' I believe."

"Shara! Where the silk comes from?"

"Yes. Where the silk comes from. You are wearing some of it now, I see. Though somewhat besmirched."

Ellyth glanced down at her favourite dark blue gown and sighed. Rips, tears, blood and salt stains. It was ruined. Then, she drew herself up a little. "I am Ellyth," she stated, "may I know your name?"

The tattooed woman eyed her, then shrugged. "Since we are companions in captivity, I do not see why I should not tell you… my name is Dara."

"I am glad to know you, Dara. You can channel, can't you?"

"Yes, of course." Dara pointed at her face. "Why else do you think I have these?"

Ellyth blinked. "In Shara, I mean Co'dansin, those who channel have tattooed faces?"

"Why, certainly. It is the way of things. We are called 'Ayyad' incidentally." Dara glanced at her gold ring. "You are Aes Sedai?"

"I am."

"Tsk. Our captors care little for your kind. And less for mine!" Dara chuckled softly.

It seemed to be a private joke, but Ellyth smiled hesitantly even so. "Who are our captors?" she asked, "those people with the painted faces?"

"Oh, they are barbarians, like you. Though not like you, it would seem. They style themselves 'Hawx.' A foolish name."

"Why do you call us that? Barbarians?"

"Because it is what you are," Dara explained patiently, as though speaking to a child. "All those not of blessed Co'dansin are barbarians. But if the word offends you, I shall not use it."

Ellyth shrugged. "Oh, I don't mind. I've been called worse." Her line of questioning completed for the moment, Ellyth rose and went unsteadily to the window. By standing on tiptoe, she could just glimpse the outside view through it. There was not much to see, just a crenulated wall of rough-hewn granite, the blue sky above… and a flag pole with a long banner whipping in the wind. Ellyth stared at it, trying to make out the design on the flag. The breeze steadied and it stood out straight for a moment. A golden hawk in flight.

"That is Artur Hawkwing's banner," Ellyth muttered confusedly.

Dara joined her at the window. She was taller and did not need to go up onto her toes to view the world outside the cell. "Aye," she agreed, "their High King, as was. They venerate his memory." Her sing-song voice fell into a cadence, as though she were reciting a tale; "one thousand years ago, the barbarian King sent a mighty army in a great many ships to try to invade Co'dansin. They failed, of course. The Ayyad blasted them with the Holy Power, set their ships aflame with lightning and hellfire. Our glorious armies prevailed against those few who were able to land. A massacre." Dara shrugged. "But there were some survivors. They could not go back home, with the dishonour of their defeat, so they came here. And they have been here ever since. Our captors, the Hawx."

Ellyth gaped at her. "Those savages are descended from Artur Hawkwing's lost army?"

"Not savages. Barbarians! Like you, though not like you." Dara smiled, white teeth flashing in her dark face.

Ellyth smiled back. The tattoos were a little alarming, but she found herself quite liking her unusual cellmate. "How did you come to be here?" she asked.

Dara frowned, the lines and whorls on her face shifting. "I wish I knew. My companion and I were being pursued by our own kind, we stood upon the very edge of death. I panicked, and channeled, a weave I had never used before, and a… a doorway of some kind opened, in the air. A different land lay beyond. We ran through and it closed behind us." Dara scowled. "Believe me, I have tried to replicate that weave, many times, to take us away from this dread place, but am unable to. I simply do not remember what I did, or how I did it."

Ellyth's dark eyes widened. "That sounds like the lost art of Travelling! Why, we too came here via-"

Loud footsteps approached from outside. They both looked at the heavy door. There was a muffled jangle of keys, the sound of the lock turning, and the door swung open.

A heavyset, shaven-headed man stood there, wearing a leather jerkin and trews tucked into boots. His eyes were unfriendly. "Come, Aes Sedai," he said, in thickly accented Vulgar. His eyes moved to Dara. "You stay."

"If I could but summon the Power, I would turn you inside out," Dara told him, sweetly. He scowled. Dara then glanced at Ellyth, with a touch of regret. "May the Holy Ones watch over you, Aes Sedai," she said, then added; "that is to say; 'barbarian.'"

Ellyth smiled. "Walk in the Light, Dara." She turned, and staring straight ahead, her posture regal, went to meet her fate.

---

"Did you have to light that beastly thing? Couldn't you eat it raw?"

Thaeus glanced up from the small rabbit on a spit that was cooking over the flames, looked over his shoulder. Feir was crouching at the edge of the darkness, eyeing him with disapproval. Her pale eyes seemed to glow a little in the gloom.

"Do you fear fire?" Thaeus enquired.

"I fear nothing!" Feir growled. There was a pause. She sighed. "Well, I suppose I am a little scared of it, actually," she allowed. "I can't help it. It's part of my heritage."

"What heritage would that be?"

"Hmm, well, I suppose I can tell you since you're my Brother's friend and I've decided not to kill you…" Feir considered a moment, then asked; "have you ever heard of the Eelfinn?"

"No."

"What about the Aelfinn, then?"

"Them neither. Sorry."

"The Snakes and the Foxes?"

"The game?"

"The story."

"Bili beneath the Hill?"

"Yes, that's the one. Only his name was Gwili. He was my uncle, sort of. A nice man, he used to bring me presents and sing rude songs when Father wasn't about."

Thaeus laughed. "Bili under the Hill was your uncle?!"

"Gwili. Gwilimin Leafwright, Aes Sedai. He built the Ways."

"The Ways? Renn Sedai and her Warder travelled through them. A nasty place, by all accounts."

"Well, they weren't always. But we're getting side-tracked here, pretty man." Feir moved a bit closer, taking care to not look directly at the flames of the small camp fire. "The Eelfinn are the Foxes, from the game and the story. They live in another world, which they call 'Sindhol.' Father went to see them, a very long time ago, and in addition to his knife-ter'angreal and Big Brother's Howling Axe, brought back some of their blood. He used it to make me." She shrugged. "I suppose that I inherited some of their tendencies, that's all." She looked at him suspiciously. "You're not musical, are you?"

"Not particularly," Thaeus responded, "my sister likes to sing, or did before she went to the White Tower, but I have a voice like a sick bullfrog. Can't play any instruments either."

"Good. I absolutely detest music. Don't you dare whistle any tunes. It has a strangely soporific effect on me."

Thaeus raised a hand solemnly. "I promise not to." He lowered his arm, wincing.

"What's wrong with your shoulder?" Feir asked.

"I met some of the inhabitants of this lovely land earlier. Cannibals, actually. We fought, and I took a nasty blow from a club." Thaeus glanced back at the rabbit. Nearly done… The Gholam had sulkily provided the skinny creature, before slipping soundlessly into the forest.

"Let me see."

Thaeus jumped. Feir was crouched right behind him! How she had crossed the intervening space so swiftly was beyond him.

"Take off your coat and shirt," Feir snapped, imperiously.

Thaeus complied.

"Hmm, that's a nasty bruise," Feir commented. Her long fingers pushed and probed at his shoulder. Thaeus hissed with pain. "Don't be a big baby! Well, there's nothing broken, as far as I can tell. You'll be fine in a couple of days, in the meantime I'll make a sling for you." A ripping sound as she tore a length of cloth from his cloak. "One of the Da'shain medics taught me all sorts of useful things about anatomy," she added, conversationally. "I'd Heal you if I could, but my talents don't lie in that direction, unfortunately."

"Thank you," said Thaeus, as she fixed the make-shift sling about his neck.

Feir stood, looking down at him, regarding his bare torso with approval. "You have a fine physique," she observed, then grinned, her sharp teeth flashing in the firelight. "I wish you'd hurt your knee, then I could tell you to take your britches off too!" She laughed, that odd, yipping sound again, and Thaeus joined in. Then they paused, sniffing. "Uh, I think your rabbit is burning…"

Thaeus managed to rescue his meal from the flames, more or less still edible, and set to, ravenous. Feir retreated from the fire a little and knelt smoothly, watching him eat. He glanced up at her, grease on his chin. "Would you like some?" he asked.

Feir shook her head. "I've already eaten, remember?"

"You eat saidin?"

"I most certainly do. Just like the Eelfinn. But don't worry, I'm not remotely like them in many other ways. They're wicked. I'm not. Well, not particularly."

"Oh." Thaeus glanced around the clearing. "Where did the Gholam go?"

"The Gholam? Oh, it's around here somewhere, hunting things and drinking their blood. Horrid creature, Father should have killed it when he had the chance."

"Naythan Shieldman killed a Gholam. He told me about it."

"It's pronounced 'N'aethan' and yes, I know he did. Can't have been easy, they're very tough." Feir sighed. "I've wanted to meet my Brother all my life but… what if he doesn't like me? What if we don't get along?"

"Oh, I'm sure that you will. You're very personable."

Feir frowned. "For a monster."

"If you were a monster, you wouldn't care about the fact that I have a wounded shoulder," Thaeus pointed-out. "You would not have told the Gholam to catch me something to eat. And you wouldn't be worried about what your Brother will think of you."

Feir's mood seemed to brighten. "I suppose." She eyed him curiously. "You say you have a sister?"

Thaeus nodded, his mouth full of rabbit.

"And… and parents?"

Thaeus swallowed. "My mother is dead, my brothers also, but I have a father. Lord Guye, scion of House Desiama."

"He sounds rather grand. So what's it like, having a family?"

Thaeus thought about it. "Comforting. Infuriating. Supporting." He shrugged, then winced, and returned to the rabbit. Before long, there were just bones left. He tossed them into the fire, glanced at Feir, then kicked dirt over it.

Feir sighed with relief and rose, approaching him. The starlight lit her fine features, her graceful movements. "All done?" she asked. Thaeus nodded. She smiled wickedly, then drew the bronze blade and threw it point-first into the earth. She unbuckled her belt and let it drop to the ground. Finally, she removed her dress with a single, deft motion. She wore nothing beneath. Her supple, dancer's body held his attention, Thaeus felt his pulse quicken. He rose.

"Time for dessert," said Feir softly, wrapping long arms about Thaeus' bare shoulders, pressing her lithe form to his and kissing him full on the mouth. Thaeus hesitated, but then responded in kind. They sank down to the grass, twined together.

In the distance, an animal screamed in the night as the Gholam killed it.

---

"Cake?" enquired the Ogier maiden Maram in the Old Tongue, her voice a low contralto compared with the deep baritones of the males.

N'aethan's eyes widened. "Cake!" he cried enthusiastically, in the same language, "why, I haven't had cake for more than three thousand years!"

Maram raised her delicate eyebrows and proffered a large, Ogier-sized plate full of large, Ogier-sized pieces of fruit cake. N'aethan took a slice. He wondered how he was going to be able to eat it all. He sat in a large, Ogier-sized sung-wood chair, his booted feet dangling above the tiled floor, within an ornate yet comfortable subterranean room built amongst the roots of one of the Great Trees.

Elder Hahal sat across from him, Maram was serving tea and the aforementioned cake and there were six other Ogier Elders present, also seated; three male and three female. All were ancient and exuded wisdom and patience, though none more so than Hahal, who led their council. Balal and Feren were also there, though they had not been offered seats. N'aethan rather wished that he had not either, he felt like a child, his legs swinging in the overlarge chair.

Elder Hahal refused the offer of cake, muttering something about his poor digestion. N'aethan noted that all of the Ogier spoke the Old Tongue in his hearing, out of deference to their guest, he supposed. He took a cautious sip of his tea from a cup the width of a soup bowl. It tasted rather bitter and wasn't like the other tea being drunk, but contained herbs that Maram had assured him would ease his aching head. N'aethan glanced around at the burnished wooden walls, the polished roots that flowed overhead like asymmetrical roof beams.

Maram moved over to Balal and Feren, her gait graceful as a willow bending in the breeze. Balal shook his head curtly at the offering. Maram then placed a large piece of cake on a dish and gave it to Feren, smiling. He took it clumsily, nearly dropping it, his ears twitching furiously. N'aethan repressed a grin. That young fellow would soon find himself married if he wasn't careful! He knew something of Ogier ways, and was glad that they were not his ways.

"Are you feeling better now, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor?" Elder Hahal asked gravely.

N'aethan nodded and took another sip of the tea. It seemed to be helping, his headache was gradually fading away. "Um… you don't have to call me that every time, honoured Elder… 'N'aethan' will be fine. Or 'Lightborn' if you prefer. The full title takes rather a long time to say, don't you find?"

Elder Hahal shrugged. "It does not seem so long to me."

"Ah, but you are Ogier! I recall that the warriors who served with us against the Shadow, the Alantin Guard, gave me a name in their own tongue that was very long indeed!"

"Yes, we know," said a female Elder, her voice a musical burr. "All of your names are recorded in the histories."

"We know of your deeds," added a male Elder in his deep tones, "particularly of how you preserved Stedding Mospha from the wrath of the insane Companion, Goaeur Rantoel." A buzz of appreciation rose from the Elders. Balal nodded approvingly. Feren and Maram were staring at him, wide-eyed – which, for an Ogier, was very wide indeed.

N'aethan shifted uncomfortably in his huge chair. "I was only doing my duty," he mumbled. "I'm glad you remember me, though," he added, "the humans certainly don't. Except for the Aiel, and they have it all back to front…"

Elder Hahal raised his impressive eyebrows. "There are yet Da'shain in the world? This is good news, almost as good as that of our cousins to the north."

"Yes, I suppose. They have changed a great deal."

"What has not?"

"True. But all the other humans have no recollection of the Lightborn, or Father. Though there is a tale told of my Brothers, I hear…"

"Humans lead such short lives," muttered another of the male Elders. "Commensurately, their knowledge of history is equally poor."

N'aethan nodded, thinking about Ellythia Sedai. Ellyth. She was Aes Sedai, her life would be far from short… they could live a long time together, if fate smiled on them. The thought attracted him and scared him at the same time. It was all very confusing…

"Humans are a curse!" snapped a severe-looking female Elder, "they raid our orchards, despoil our fields, fell our trees..." There was no doubt as to which she considered the worse crime. A rumble of agreement from the other Elders. Balal looked very grim for a moment.

"This is why you kill humans on sight, if they trespass on your stedding?" N'aethan posited.

Elder Hahal nodded. "Indeed." His demeanour became melancholy. "There were once five inhabited stedding in this accursed land. Now there is but one – Stedding Dashai. We are all that is left." A deep sigh from the other Elders, like a gust of wind.

"What happened?" N'aethan asked indistinctly, around a mouthful of cake. It was very good. He swallowed hastily, brushing crumbs from his coat with a gloved hand.

"The savages alone could not prevail against us," answered Balal in his deep bass, "but the forces of the Laughing God are strong. One by one, the other stedding have fallen, burnt and defiled, their denizens massacred or fled to here."

The Elders nodded, their hairy ears drooping. The female Elder who had spoken harshly of humans had unshed tears in her large eyes. "I myself hail from Stedding Washaw," she stated. "It fell nearly one hundred years ago." Another Elder touched her shoulder in commiseration. "The trees there were very beautiful," she whispered.

N'aethan blinked. "Who is this 'Laughing God?'" he wondered. The second word was unfamiliar to him.

Elder Hahal answered. "An insane male channeler. Very powerful. Very old. He is as mad as all of the others that plague this unhappy land, but his madness is of a different kind."

"He dreams of conquest," rumbled Balal, "of ruling over everything."

"A common ambition amongst Madmen," N'aethan commented. The Elders nodded in agreement. "Would you like me to kill this Laughing God for you?" N'aethan offered. "I should be happy to oblige."

The Elders stared at him in surprise. "Even Sin'aethan Shadar Cor might find that a difficult task," Elder Hahal replied, "he is closely guarded, his followers fanatical."

"I am sure he is and I am sure they are, but I can attempt it even so." N'aethan ticked off his tasks on thick, powerful fingers. "First I must go to the Dragon College…" The Ogier Elders shifted in their chairs at the name of this place and looked at each other uncertainly. "Then, I must locate Ellythia Sedai's missing brother and return him to her… and then I will find this Laughing God and execute him for the crimes of burning stedding and murdering Ogier civilians." N'aethan looked up and closed his gloved hand into a fist. "And finally, I should like to go back to the Westlands and visit the White Tower of the Aes Sedai. I hear there is a message awaiting me there, a final communication from an old friend." Or enemy. A bit of both, perhaps. Concerning Kiam Sedai, he had never been quite sure…

Elder Hahal blinked his large eyes. "It shall be as you say, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. If you can accomplish the end of our ancient enemy and his reign of terror, Stedding Dashai shall owe you a great debt." The other Elders nodded. Balal was looking sceptical, Feren and Maram hopeful.

"The tea and cake will suffice for the debt… and perhaps a bed for the night? I shall leave at dawn, there is much to do."

"But of course." Elder Hahal looked less melancholic now, as did the others. "But before you retire, tell us what you know of the Ogier of the Westlands, if you please."

N'aethan was feeling tired and not particularly in the mood for exposition, but he liked Elder Hahal, so humoured him. "I only know what little Renn Sedai mentioned to me… there are many stedding, mostly located in the less populated areas. The Ogier do not have much to do with humans, though the two races seem to live together peaceably enough. Oh, and skilled Ogier masons built the early human cities that were constructed after the Breaking of the World. Fine architecture, apparently."

"Ogier that work as masons?" uttered young Feren excitedly, "who work with stone?" The Elders looked at him with disapprobation. The Ogier youth fell silent, his ears wilting. "Forgive my interruption, honoured Elders," he muttered.

Elder Hahal smiled. "I can forgive much of our most talented Treesinger," he allowed. Feren blushed.

"Yes, Treesinging," said N'aethan, recalling, "that is a talent that is apparently dying out amongst the Ogier of the Westlands." He eyed Balal and Feren's armour. "Not so much here, it would seem…"

Elder Hahal frowned. "I am sorry to hear that. We value sung-wood for its useful properties rather than its aesthetic value. We have many fine Treesingers amongst us."

"Necessity breeds capability," commented Balal, in his deep voice.

"Indeed," agreed N'aethan, then furrowed his brow quizzically. "There is one thing that I have been wondering..?"

"Speak, and I shall answer if I can," said Elder Hahal.

"Well… you don't seem surprised to see me. It has been near four thousand years since I last walked in the world."

"And yet, here you are, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. That period of time is but eleven or twelve generations for we Ogier. We recall much that is lost to humans. It was foretold to our ancestors that you were not dead, that you would eventually return… and so you have!"

"Who foretold it?"

"Your Father, the Aes Sedai, Chaime Kufer. He was always a good friend to the Ogier of these lands. They say he even spoke our tongue… to a degree."

"Oh, he spoke many languages…" N'aethan agreed vaguely, his mind working furiously. What was Father up to this time? Telling the Ogier that he would be back, sending him to the Dragon College on some mysterious errand, inscrutable as ever…

"Where have you been all this time, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor?" Feren blurted, still holding his uneaten cake gingerly.

The Elders looked at Feren coldly, Balal frowned. The Ogier youth blushed. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Feren," growled Balal, in soft tones, "you know of the rose bushes next to the Great Stump?"

"Yes, of course, uncle."

"Go and guard them for a while, would you? I fear that they may be in danger."

"At once, Balal!" They watched as Feren retrieved his club from where it leant against the wall and hastened from the room. Some of the Elders smiled.

Elder Hahal spread his large hands in apology. "Forgive the youth, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. He is overly hasty."

"He is curious," revealed Balal of his nephew. "A bit too curious," he added, darkly.

Maram placed the teapot and cake plate on a sung-wood table. "Excuse me grandfather, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, I will go and help Feren protect the rose bushes from harm…" she explained, a little breathlessly, then left the room with swift steps. This time, all of the Elders smiled.

Elder Hahal turned back to N'aethan. "It is, of course, your business where you have been for so long," he said. It was clearly a question, but framed as a statement.

N'aethan shrugged his broad shoulders. "Oh, but it is a valid query and I do not mind answering; I have been inside a stasis box." A buzz of interest from the Elders. "An Aes Sedai freed me from its confines. I serve her now." And sort of love her too, he added privately.

"This explains much," whispered Elder Hahal, "only a stasis box could survive the Breaking of the World."

"That and the Dragon College."

"You mean to go there, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor? Take care if you do, for it is a bad place. A dangerous place, even."

"Oh, I know that. I will be careful." N'aethan grinned, his sharp teeth flashing. "I was born there, true – but I assure you that I have no intention of dying there."

---

In the stone corridor outside the cell, a half-dozen soldiers awaited Ellyth. They were different from those who had captured them – in place of paint, they wore ornate steel masks over the top halves of their faces, fashioned like a hawk's visage, complete with a cruel curved beak that covered their noses. The mouths beneath these masks were set and grim. Two of the soldiers were female; all had swords sheathed at their belts, no two blades alike. Instead of the buckskin garments, they wore dark coats and britches tucked into boots. A silver hawk in flight was emblazoned on the front of their uniforms.

The leather-clad gaoler indicated that she should go with them; as if it were her choice, Ellyth paced down the corridor, back straight, head held high. The soldiers fell into step around her. Was she being taken to her execution? "Where are we going?" she asked the soldier next to her. An abbreviated red plume projected from the top of his mask, marking him out as the leader.

Cold eyes flicked towards Ellyth through the holes in the mask. "The Throne Room," the man answered shortly, in thickly accented Vulgar.

"Oh. Where are my companions?"

"Enough questions, witch! Wait and see…"

This precluded any further conversation. Ellyth proceeded to be escorted through what proved to be a large castle of rough-hewn granite by her silent guards, up steps, down hallways, along galleries overlooking empty courtyards.

At one point, Ellyth glanced out of a window and stopped abruptly. On a hill beyond the castle loomed a tall, three-sided silver tower. It looked like something left over from the Age of Legends, such as she had seen at World's End. She could also sense that it was a ter'angreal, even from half a mile away. Easily the largest and most powerful ter'angreal that she had ever encountered. She knew without having to ask that this was what prevented her from touching the True Source. It was presumably as potent as the Guardian in Far Madding, but she could not be sure, since she had never been there; dear Atual would not have liked it, he had loathed the city of his birth…

The plumed leader shoved her rudely. "Keep moving!"

Ellyth glared, but did as she was bid. As they continued on their way, she saw no-one else, no more soldiers, nor servants either. The entire castle seemed deserted. Then, she became aware of the low buzz of voices in the distance. The noise increased as they got closer to it. They came to a broad hallway with more hawks emblazoned on the tiles beneath their feet – Ellyth was getting a little tired of the sight of the dratted things! – and broad, high double-doors at the end. The doors swung open as they approached, the sound of the voices increasing as they did so. The large chamber beyond, lit by numerous stand-lamps – the Throne Room, Ellyth assumed – was full of people. The missing soldiers and servants mostly; and nearest the throne itself - a black obsidian chair shot with veins of red, up on a dais with carven steps leading to it - stood what were presumably the most important people, wearing flowing robes of an odd cut, their braided hair long and hanging down their backs. The throne itself stood empty; above it, in bas-relief, was carved a huge hawk, its wings spread wide. Along either side of the room, set in alcoves, were numerous statues; all women, all wearing robes and diadems, their features cruel and cold. They looked ancient, as well as similar, as though they were all related to one another. The crowd of people fell silent as they entered, all eyes fixed on Ellyth; then the conversation gradually resumed.

Ellyth was led towards the dais and as people moved aside, she beheld Shrina standing before it, surrounded by six more guards. Additional soldiers lined the walls; all wore the hawk masks, all had swords, though everyone else was seemingly unarmed. Ellyth and Shrina smiled at the sight of each other and embraced warmly.

"Where is Renn?" Shrina asked.

"I thought that she was with you."

Shrina shook her head, then glared at one of the guards, a slight female soldier. "That one there – she has my sword!" she hissed, furiously.

It was true; the curved-forward Saldaean blade was sheathed at the woman's belt.

"Hopefully she can't read the Vulgar poetry on it, yes?" Ellyth observed dryly.

"Silence!" snapped the plumed soldier, the leader.

Glumly, they fell silent. Presently, the double-doors at the end of the chamber opened again and Renn came in, surrounded by six more guards. She looked about herself with interest, confusion also. Shrina waved at her and she smiled and came over, the soldiers moving with her.

"There was the most peculiar person in my cell," Renn told them, "an ancient wilder who claimed that-"

"Quiet!" barked the leader of the soldiers.

"Peculiar? You should have seen my cellmate," Ellyth muttered, ignoring him.

"My cellmate is this big rat," Shrina observed mournfully. "Why can't I touch the Source?" she added.

Ellyth opened her mouth to explain.

"Silence, witches! The next one to speak loses their tongue!"

Ellyth closed her mouth. She wished her tongue to stay where it was.

A gong sounded, deep and sonorous, and the crowd of courtiers ceased their conversation, a wave of expectancy surging through those who stood in attendance. A rotund man in servant's livery appeared through a side doorway. "She comes!" he announced loudly, "the Blood of the Hawkwing comes!" At once, the assembled throng sank to their knees.

Ellyth wondered whether to do likewise, but the decision was made for her by a guard; a hard hand clamped down on her shoulder and pushed. She found herself kneeling next to Shrina and Renn. Only the hawk-masked soldiers remained standing, ever vigilant. More of these soldiers promptly trooped into the Throne Room, followed by a tall, severe-looking woman in a pleated robe of dark purple, her long, braided hair falling almost down to her ankles. A young maiden in a shimmering white gown followed; she wore an elaborate head-dress of hawk's feathers, a sulky expression on her pretty face. More soldiers followed.

Ellyth watched the tall woman carefully as she stepped onto the dais; but then, to her surprise, she merely took up a position next to the throne while the maiden sat down upon it. She couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old – this was their ruler? The girl gazed at the kneeling courtiers with dark, arrogant eyes for a long moment, then made an upward gesture with a heavily be-ringed hand.

"The High Princess bids you stand," intoned the servant. The crowd rose to their feet, the three young Aes Sedai doing likewise.

The Princess' eyes turned to the prisoners. She seemed about to address them, then paused, glancing around. "Where is Rags?" she enquired, in cut-glass tones. She raised her voice; "Rags!"

"Coming your Majesticness, coming!" The voice was high-pitched and squeaky; it emerged from an odd-looking fellow who had appeared in the side doorway. He wore a patched shirt and pantaloons, multi-coloured, a little like a Gleeman's cloak; except that there were small silver bells sewn all over his costume, that jangled when he moved. His shoes tapered into long points to which more bells were attached. He was very short, almost dwarfish, and rather ugly. His hair was long, lank and yellow, his eyes a pale blue. He capered over to the dais and sat down on the steps at the Princess' slippered feet.

"There, that is better," remarked the High Princess, leaning forward and patting Rags on the head as though he were a dog. "Now we may proceed." Her imperious gaze moved back to the Aes Sedai prisoners. "Announce me, and find out what their names are," she murmured in an aside to the tall woman.

The woman spoke, her voice stern and surprisingly deep; "you stand in the presence of Chantel Paendrag Talvor, High Princess of the Blood, direct descendant of the Great Hawkwing. What are you called, Aes Sedai? Answer!"

The three young Aes Sedai looked at each other, then Ellyth took a step forward. The soldiers tensed, hands on their hilts. "I am the Lady Ellythia of House Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah."

Shrina's turn. "Shrinalla Tolamani of the Do Miere A'vron and the Green Ajah. The Battle Ajah," she added, defiantly.

Renn was staring at the carving of the hawk above the throne with interest. She did not seem to be attending… The High Princess shifted impatiently on her throne, and scowled.

"Renn!"

"Introduce yourself!"

"Hmm? Oh, I'm Renn, of the Brown. Renn Faltrey, that is. Your Majesty."

The High Princess Chantel looked at them curiously. "So you are Aes Sedai? I have never seen one, not a real one anyway, just pretend ones, though have always wished to. You are not what I expected. Not at all." She eyed Renn disapprovingly. "Especially you."

Renn blinked.

Rags unexpectedly sat up straight and shouted; "they broke the burning world in two – if you're nice to them they'll be nice to you!"

"Shut-up, Rags. Don't be silly." The High Princess turned to the tall woman by her side. "Ask them why they speak the Vulgar, and not the Old Tongue."

"Why do you speak the Vulgar, and not the Old Tongue?"

Renn answered; "the Vulgar is in regular parlance in the Westlands now, only scholars and nobles speak the Old Tongue." She paused. "I speak it," she added, as an afterthought.

"I see." The High Princess Chantel addressed Renn directly. "Nobles? You mean, the Blood?"

"I suppose, your Majesty…"

"How strange. But much time has passed since the Hawkwing's day." The High Princess raised her voice; "but we remember. We keep faith." A murmur of assent and approval from the crowd of courtiers. "For example, did you know that my illustrious ancestor, the High King, put a price on the heads of all Aes Sedai? That he laid siege to Tar Valon for twenty years?" Chantel did not await an answer, but turned smugly to the tall, serious-looking woman. "You see, Severina? I did pay attention to some of my lessons."

"Some of them, Highness," agreed Severina, neutrally.

"Not many!" muttered Rags.

"Be silent, Rags!" The High Princess turned back to the Aes Sedai. "Why did you come here, to my dominion? To cause trouble? To break the world again?"

Ellyth shook her head. "We sought to escape our foes. A Darkfriend wilder and her Shadowspawn horde."

"Shadowspawn? Why, those are but tales to frighten young children! There's no such thing!" The High Princess giggled girlishly, a hand over her mouth. Some of her courtiers laughed fawningly also.

"I would that were so," Ellyth said sadly, thinking of Atual's death at the hands of a Myrddraal.

"Shadowspawn are real enough," Shrina interjected, "we have fought them many times." She scowled. "Where are our Warders? I can't sense my boys. What have you done with them?"

"You are here to answer questions, not ask them, witch!" snapped Severina.

The High Princess raised a placating hand. "Come now, Sev, no need for that. There is no harm in their knowing that their armsmen are being held in close confinement." She shrugged. "They keep trying to escape, you see." She glanced at Shrina accusingly. "Come forward, Kor."

A tall man in a long robe stepped from the front of the throng. It took Ellyth a moment to recognise him as the leader of those who had attacked and captured them. He looked quite different without the war-paint and the buckskins…

"Tell me, cousin, is this the one who slew two of your men?" The High Princess Chantel indicated Shrina.

Kor's cold eyes moved to her. "She is, Majesty. The Aes Sedai witch used her dark powers to draw the lightning down from the sky. She burned them."

"Then she must die." The High Princess' voice was final. Severina nodded approvingly. Rags pulled a face.

Shrina sneered. "Kill me, then. I am not afraid to die. As I told you, I am of the Battle Ajah."

"But it was self-defence!" Ellyth cried, "your soldiers attacked us unprovoked!"

"To come uninvited to my lands is provocation enough," the High Princess pointed-out, somewhat pompously.

"We intended to take you alive for questioning!" Kor snapped, "your Aiel savages killed ten more of my best hunters, and the Sea Folk Warder another!"

"Then he must die too," observed the High Princess.

"Death is so final," complained Rags, "couldn't you just be kind to them instead?"

"Hush, Rags." The High Princess smiled brightly. "By the way, what do you think of my fortress?"

Ellyth and Renn eyed each other. The girl was rather quixotic…

"It is very nice…" answered Renn, haltingly.

"It took near two-hundred years to build. We are all very proud of it." The courtiers murmured approvingly, some applauding sycophantically.

"Please," Renn began, "the Atha'an Miere Gaidin – Jabal – he is my husband… he was only trying to defend my person, punish me, not him!"

The High Princess Chantel blinked, and turned to Severina. "Isn't it a little unusual for an Aes Sedai to marry?" she enquired.

"It is, Highness. But I do not believe it is entirely unknown."

"Odd indeed!" The High Princess turned back to them. "Well, now that is settled, there remains but one question…" She leant forward in the throne, her dark, merciless gaze fixed on the Aes Sedai. "How, in the name of the Hawkwing's soul, did your ship come to be in the middle of a forest?"

---

As the dawn sun arose, Thaeus lay on his back in the grass, Feir curled against him, her head resting on his shoulder. His unwounded shoulder, he was glad to say. The other ached a little more, from the exertions of the night, but he felt surprisingly content, more so than he had done in a long time. Well, he had this strange, rather forward young woman to thank for that!

Feir was awake too, slowly trailing a long fingernail down his bare chest, towards where his black cloak covered them both. Thaeus sighed happily.

"Well, that was pleasant," Feir commented softly, then added as an afterthought; "it was my first time with a man, you know."

Thaeus blinked. "It certainly didn't seem like it," he muttered.

Feir chuckled. "Oh, one of Father's Courtesan friends taught me a thing or two… how to seduce men, how to please them, and so forth…"

"You seem to have made a habit of acquiring useful skills from people who weren't actually your tutors."

"Why, that's exactly it! I never could stand my lessons, so I used to sneak off and find others I could learn from." Feir laughed, the odd yipping sound he was becoming accustomed to. "Trust me, you don't want to know what I've learned from the Gholam over the years…"

"I'm sure I don't." Thaeus looked at Feir curiously. "How many years?"

"Oh, about fifty, give or take."

"Fifty?"

"Why, yes. We've journeyed from one end of the continent to the other, many times. I know everything there is to know about this dire place. The Gholam has been my sole companion, ever since it woke me from the stasis box. I was sixteen when I entered it."

"So you're about sixty-six? But you don't look any older than me!"

"I thank you, milord. I take it that was a compliment?"

"But…"

"I'm Lightborn, Thaeus. A Construct, and a rather fine one, if I say so myself. Father made me to last."

"I see." Thaeus eyed her uncertainly. "How long do you think you will live?"

"Not much longer if I don't get something to eat." Feir raised herself up on one elbow, looking a little hesitant, which was unusual for her. "Thaeus, would you mind awfully embracing the Source? Opening yourself to saidin? You don't have to if you don't want to."

Thaeus looked up at Feir. There was a glistening tattoo on her left breast, a red diamond shape. "I don't mind. I'll try, but I'm not very good at it." Thaeus let himself slip into the void and reached out. Nothing happened on his first two attempts, but he persevered and felt sickness and sweetness filling him.

Feir narrowed her pale eyes, seeming almost to inhale. And the saidin flowed out of him, leaving him feeling drained. Relief and disappointment vied with each other. Feir fell back onto the grass, sighing with pleasure. "Ah, that was nice. Thank you, milord."

"Pray don't mention it." Thaeus gazed at her curiously. "What is that mark on your… your chest?"

Feir sniggered. "You mean my breast? It's my Lightmark, stupid! All Lightborn have them. It is the symbol for 'four' in the Root Speech. Because I'm the Fourthborn, the fourth Lightborn – the foxy one! My name means 'four' too."

"My name doesn't mean anything," Thaeus muttered, lying back, sliding an arm around Feir's shoulders. She sighed contentedly, leaning against him.

"I would that I had gone to the wars," Feir whispered, a hint of regret in her voice. "I could have fought Dreadlords and Companions and earned names of honour, like my Brothers did."

"Well, they say that the Last Battle is coming. If you fight for the Light, I am sure you will be accounted a Hero."

"Heroine, actually. That might be nice, but I have another task assigned to me."

"Which is?"

"Sorry milord, you're awfully pretty and I rather like being with you, but I can't tell. It's a task for my Brother and me only. Father said so."

"You're overly mysterious," Thaeus complained. "And you're-"

A shadow fell over Thaeus and Feir. He immediately reached for his sword, then paused. It was the Gholam, looking down at them, its expression unreadable. Feir eyed it disapprovingly. "You've got blood on your chin, Gholam," she observed. The Gholam still didn't say anything, but wiped it off. "What do you want?"

The Gholam ignored the question. "So you've started sleeping with the food, have you?" it enquired, in its soft, sinister voice.

"I told you, he's not food! Not for you, anyway." Feir turned to Thaeus, smiled, and kissed him. "I do find him rather succulent, though…"

The Gholam seemed to frown, though it was hard to tell.

Feir sighed with exasperation and rose smoothly, hands on hips. Thaeus wrapped the cloak about his shoulders and sat up, eyeing her fine, lithe form with aesthetic approval.

"What have I told you about bothering me in the mornings, Gholam? You know I like to sleep late!"

The Gholam made a grumbling sound. "I would not have disturbed you, Mistress, but a Madman approaches. He is walking in this direction,and will be here soon enough."

"Well, why didn't you say so, instead of wasting time casting aspersions on my morals, when you know perfectly well I don't have any!" Feir glanced down at Thaeus. "Strange, a Madman this far north. Usually they roam around the wastelands in the centre, where the volcanoes are concentrated."

"That is where I was going when I met you!" Thaeus exclaimed.

"Very prescient of you. You wouldn't have lasted long, though. There are Madmen much stronger in the Power than you are down there. They destroy each other, as well as the natives." She frowned. "And there are other things that live there too, that are even worse. The Gholam and I dwelt there for a while. It was horrid…" Feir paused, raised an eyebrow. "What are you staring at?"

Thaeus grinned, rising, the cloak wrapped about him. "You! And a fine sight you are too…"

"Huh! Men!" Feir stalked away and slipped back into her dress. Then she turned, regarding Thaeus salaciously. "Lose the cloak, handsome!"

"Why?"

"You looked at me. I want to look at you. It's only fair."

"I suppose… send the Gholam away, though."

"Gholam, go and keep an eye on the Madman. I'll be along presently."

The Gholam scowled, and slipped soundlessly into the bushes.

Feeling vaguely foolish, Thaeus let the cloak drop to the ground. He wondered if he ought to strike some sort of a pose, like an artist's model? But Feir seemed happy enough, looking him up and down. She made a lewd, whistling sound. Thaeus blushed.

"Alright, that's good enough for me. You can get dressed now." Thaeus turned and went to get his garb, trying to ignore the resulting remark about his 'beautiful bottom.' Feir certainly wasn't like the demure Amadici maidens he was accustomed to… she wasn't like anyone he had ever met, for that matter. Except perhaps for her brother, Naythan Shieldman.

Both clothed, they faced each other across the clearing, a little uncertainly. Then, Thaeus smiled and performed an elegant bow, hampered a little by his arm being back in the sling. "Will you walk out with me, my Lady?" he enquired.

Feir blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It is what we say in my homeland of Amadicia, when we meet a woman we like and wish to spend time with," he explained.

Feir grinned. "Oh, so you want to be my beau?"

Thaeus wasn't sure what the word meant, but he could make an educated guess. Feir moved towards him with the unearthly grace he found so fascinating. "I've never had a lover," she mused, "not a real one, anyway. Only imaginary ones…" She draped her slim arms about his neck and they kissed. "Very well. I shall be your… Lady?"

Thaeus smiled. "Good."

"Come along. Time enough for canoodling later – and other things besides!" Feir nodded in the direction the Gholam had disappeared. "We'd better go and deal with that Madman, before he hurts someone."

"How shall we deal with him?" Thaeus wondered.

"We'll kill him, of course. How else?" Silently, Feir moved into the trees at the edge of the clearing.

Thaeus followed, feeling troubled. His Lady was rather… atavistic, he felt.

---

N'aethan left Stedding Dashai at dawn. But for a few guards along the perimeter, the Ogier were all still asleep. This suited him, he had never much cared for goodbyes. This was probably why he had not troubled to say his farewells to Kiam Sedai, that last time, though he had left her a note. He wondered if it had been rash, to offer to kill this Laughing God and save the stedding… but he had done it now. It sounded far from easy, but he liked a challenge. The conquest-minded souvraniene could not be worse than facing a Companion, surely? He hoped Ellythia Sedai would understand. Probably not. He thought about her as he strode through the trees. He wished to hold her in his arms again, he wanted to kiss her delicate lips, he-

N'aethan paused, frowning. Someone was definitely following him. He waited. Presently, young Feren appeared, striding along, sung-wood club propped on his shoulder, a heavy knapsack on his back. It bulged with rectangular objects – books doubtless, knowing Ogier. The youth paused at the sight of N'aethan, blinking his large eyes, ears twitching nervously. N'aethan noted that he was not wearing his helmet or armour now, just a simple long coat, britches and boots with the tops rolled down.

"What do you want?" he demanded of the Ogier youth, speaking the High. "Have you come to hit me on the head again?"

"No!" spluttered Feren, using the Old Tongue, "I said I was sorry about that!" He calmed a little. "I want to come with you, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. I want to see the Dragon College and… and other things besides. I'm running away!"

N'aethan laughed, the strange mewling sound he made when amused. "What of the maiden, Maram? She'll definitely miss you. She likes you, Feren – why, I saw her give you the largest piece of cake!"

"Well, I like her too… at least I think that I do…" Feren's voice rose to a near wail; "but I'm only ninety-five! I'm too young to get married!"

N'aethan waved his gloved hands in the air. "Hush, foolish Treebrother! The Guardians might hear you." He considered. "Very well, you may come with me, but don't slow me down and if I tell you to do something, you must do it!"

"I will! Thank you, Sin'aethan Shad-"

"Sss! The first rule is to call me 'N'aethan.' Got it?"

"Yes N'aethan. Sorry N'aethan."

"Come on. Time's wasting."

They set off, the young Ogier easily keeping up with his long strides, even though N'aethan forced the pace. Presently, the mysterious aura of the stedding abruptly vanished as they entered the world outside.

Feren sighed deeply. "It feels different," he muttered.

"Ever been out of the stedding before?"

"No… never."

"You don't get the Longing, do you?"

"What is that?"

"Never mind."

They continued walking. In the distance, the Collam Aman rose above the forest. N'aethan tore his eyes from it and glanced up at Feren. There was something he had always wondered about… perhaps the Ogier youth would know?

"Tell me, Feren, do you know my Ogier name?"

"But of course;" and young Feren uttered a long series of fluid vowels and deep fricatives in the Ogier speech.

"Yes, that's it. At least, I think it is. But what does it mean?"

"You don't know?"

"Would I be asking if I did? Whenever I tried to find out from the Alantin te Avende soldiers, they would just grin and shake their shaggy heads! They wouldn't tell me…"

"Oh." Feren considered a moment; "well, it is a little difficult to translate, but the rough meaning would be; 'He Who Guards the Grain of the Aes Sedai from the Rodents of the Shadow by Swiftly and Skilfully Seizing Upon Them.'"

"What?" said N'aethan.

Feren spread his large hands apologetically, shrugged his massive shoulders. "I suppose that the abbreviated version would be something like… 'Rat-Catcher...?"

"Rat-Catcher?" N'aethan hissed, "Tsag! I slay several Dreadlords, two Companions and a Gholam – and all the Ogier can think of to call me is… is… Rat-Catcher?!" He took a deep breath, spoke more quietly; "is that supposed to be some kind of a bad joke?"

"No…"

"Well, it certainly sounds like one to me…"

"But N'aethan… honoured Lightborn… the catching of rats is an important and worthy task! It preserves the food stocks and ensures that the spies of the Shadow do not-"

Feren fell silent as N'aethan raised a warning finger to his lips. He sniffed, then feeling a sense of what Father always called 'déjà vu' shouted in the Low, Vulgar speech; "I know you're there! You can come out now, Anchovy!"

After a moment, Mitsu emerged from the bushes. As usual, she was scowling, the heavy curved blade held loosely in her hands. She looked tired, as though she had travelled far.

"What do you here?" N'aethan demanded in the Vulgar, "I told you to go back to the beach!"

Mitsu ignored him and bowed to Feren. "Honour to the Gardeners," she murmured.

N'aethan stared. It was the first time he had seen Mitsu be even vaguely respectful to anyone. "Isn't he an Oathbreaker too?" he asked sarcastically.

"Of course not!" Mitsu snapped, "he is Ogier!"

Feren blinked his large eyes in confusion, but politely bowed back, revealing that he understood the Low speech by replying in that language; "I thank you. Honour to… to whoever you are, too."

"Well?" N'aethan persisted.

"I did go back to the beach, Chami! There had been a fight. The Oathbreakers were all gone. There were dead warriors there, with painted faces and crude weapons. Some had these." She rolled up her left sleeve, showing him a hawk tattoo. "I do not know why, but they did. Oh, and the tracks of the Aiel led west; I saw no reason to follow them so I came back to make my report to you."

N'aethan frowned, troubled. Had something happened to Ellythia Sedai and the others? Something bad? He hoped not. "I would that you had pursued the Shaido Aiel," he muttered, "they might have known what transpired."

"I do not like the Aiel," Mitsu growled. Her scowl redoubled; "and I like you even less, Chami!" She relented a little. "There was sign of boats pulled up on the sand, the Marath'damane and their Warders must have departed by sea, perhaps against their will." She glanced at Feren, who was gaping at them both, trying to follow what was going on. "You are not as the Ogier of the Deathwatch Guard," she commented, "there is something different about you…"

"He is running away from home in order to avoid the attentions of a beautiful maiden!" N'aethan shouted in exasperation, "therefore he is almost as big an idiot as you are, Anchovy!" He stalked away, not particularly caring if they followed. They did. He could hear the Seanchan assassin and the Ogier youth walking along behind him, speaking quietly to each other. He strained his ears but could not make out what they were saying…

The Collam Aman loomed closer.

"Where are we going, Chami?"

N'aethan ignored Mitsu. Really, he should turn around and head back to the beach, try and find out what had happened to-

"Where are we going, Chami?" Mitsu's voice was patient, persistent, she would keep repeating it until he answered, it seemed to say.

N'aethan sighed. His voice was a low growl; "if you must know, we are going back to where it all began."