Gleeman Bob writes : Chapter 3 is kind of a N'aethan-heavy chapter, with some fairly lengthy flashbacks, but I wanted to reveal certain things about his childhood since he has gone back to the place of his birth, which sparks all sorts of memories. the next chapter will be almost entirely made up of flashbacks, exploring Gen's unhealthy obsession with cheese! no, not really...

the next bit is for the attention of Nynaeve's sister. if you are not Nynaeve's sister, don't read it! write me a nice review instead! or go and put the kettle on...

Nynaeve's sister - thanks for the review, it was nice to hear from you again. I am writing to you like this because you have your Private Messaging turned off. it is rare that I get constructive criticism so I wanted to answer it... but firstly, I can reveal that there WILL be a Mad Max type vehicular chase in blinged-up jo-cars at the end of the story! ah, if only! and I hope you are a Fury Road / Tom Hardy fan and not an aficionado of the Mel 'I hate Jews and pommies' Gibson films. personally, I think he belongs in the Land of the Madmen, as he is clearly completely insane! but with regards to your criticism, I have to say that the Hawx are NOT descendants of the armies of Seanchan, but definitely hail from the survivors of the ill-fated Shara expedition. I think that Artur Hawkwing's court would have been very formal, with references to nobles as 'the Blood' and absolute loyalty unto death demanded from his adherents. Chantel may be a spoilt child but she's no fool, and enjoys the unique position of being the only female member of the Blood left alive at the present time... since their first ruler was a High Princess - the Hawkwing's daughter - all subsequent rulers have been female, like in Andor, and have used that title rather than 'Queen.' but you are right that there is definitely a power behind the throne... but who? Kor? Severina? Rags, even?! and finally, the parts of Australia where the Hawx island and the Collam Aman are located, are the REALLY HOT PARTS! where everyone has lizardish wrinkly skin and poisonous spiders lurk beneath toilet seats! but no, it is actually the Northern Territory and parts of Queensland; the city of Larcheen corresponds to modern-day Darwin (where the foolish Gleeman was born in the Light!) and I believe that the Isle of the Spire where the Hawx live is currently called 'Magnetic Island.' I could tell you where the Collam Aman is hidden... but then I'd have to kill you! of course, the weather has changed significantly in the intervening aeons so now forests grow where there was once just bush. and Australia has become fused with Antarctica during the Breaking of the World, so there may well be penguins in my tale, as well as kangaroos!

Walk in the Light everyone!

Ah, the Collam Aman, where I carried out my greatest work, and suffered my greatest disappointments. But hold – did I say my greatest work? Well, that is not exactly true. There was a final project on which I laboured long, of whose results I am the proudest. That was at the Collam Doon, naturally, the lesser place of study to which I was exiled by the accursed, interfering Hall of Servants. Yes, definitely my finest achievement... I would happily tell you all about it, but of course, then I should have to kill you.

Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai

Interviewed by Kukas Luie, Correspondent; Hall of Public Record, Paaran Disen

Chaime Kufer, otherwise known as 'the Defector,' he who had come back from under the Shadow, entered the nursery-laboratory through the circular aperture as the heartstone portal rolled open, the pair of Warmen guards stepping aside with military precision to let him pass. His chief Da'shain, Ledrin, paced just behind him, the tall Aiel looming over the slight Aes Sedai as he always did.

There were three people waiting in the nursery, two Da'shain Aiel nurses, their mouths and noses covered by medical green surgical masks, wearing loose cadin'sor of the same hue, and Jojin, clad in the grey robes of an Apprentice. The small chamber contained three cribs set in a line against the wall and a large cage in the corner. The cage was occupied by one of the big wildcats of the Southern Continent; a female, white furred and sharp of claw. She snarled briefly at the sight of Chaime, blue eyes glaring, then subsided, curling up on the floor of the cage, long tail arranged around paws.

Chaime ignored the surrogate, addressed the Da'shain'mai. "You may leave us." The Aielwomen bowed gracefully to the Master and left the nursery-laboratory through the open portal, which rolled shut behind them, sealing with a loud thud. Chaime did not fail to notice that one of the nurses flashed a meaningful glance at Ledrin as she walked past him. He eyed the tall Da'shain with dark, tilted eyes that had seen nearly six centuries pass.

"I hear that you stepped on Corai's wreath, Ledrin," Chaime commented.

Ledrin smiled gently. "I did not step upon it, Master. That would have been rude. I merely did not pick it up."

"Much the same thing. She did not look pleased with you." Chaime sighed. "You should take another wife, Ledrin. It would be good for you. Good for Jarn, also."

Ledrin shook his head, his long tail of hair sweeping against his broad back. "I will not marry again. I am too old for that."

"Have it your own way, then. I shall not interfere in your domestic arrangements."

Chaime tried not to think of the fate of Ledrin's wife. He had managed to save Linora when he was captured by Aginor's minions, but she could not come with him when he fled from under the Shadow, it would have been impossible to disguise the tall, golden-haired Aielwoman from the enemy. So, after wishing him well and giving him a message for Ledrin, Linora had opened her veins. She had been the bravest Da'shain he ever knew, and that was saying something…

Chaime turned to Jojin, who was waiting patiently, watching them with dark eyes. He was the best of the Apprentices; he had been a Warman Officer cadet until the age of fifteen, when he began to manifest and touch the True Source. Some of this still showed in his demeanour and he always kept his hair cropped short in the military style.

"Make your report, Jojin," Chaime requested.

Jojin bowed smoothly. "As you know, Master, there were seven in the original litter, but only three have survived thus far, all male specimens." He indicated the row of cribs. "One is extremely aggressive…"

"Yes, I hear poor Medric lost a finger."

"A Restorer re-grew it for him. We have had to sedate that one. Another shows signs of persistent catatonia. But the third seems docile enough, aware of its surroundings, responsive to stimuli, receptive to-"

"Let me see him," interrupted Chaime, eagerly.

Jojin led the Master of the Collam Aman over to the crib at the end of the row. Chaime gazed down at the small occupant with satisfaction. Bipedal, yet covered in fine white fur, small black claws on the hands and feet, pointed, tufted ears… the odd-looking baby rolled over and made a mewling sound. Cobalt blue eyes stared up at Chaime, unblinking.

"Hello there, Thirdborn," whispered Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai. "One day, you shall fight for the Light. You will make us all proud, Blood of the Dragon."

Chapter Three * The Dragon College

"The seals have weakened further, I am convinced of it…" N'aethan muttered to himself in the Old Tongue. The Dark One was breaking free of his prison. He did not know how he knew such things, he just did. "The Last Battle is coming."

"Stop talking to yourself, Chami," Mitsu chided, "Madmen do that."

"They certainly do," agreed Feren.

The bulk of the Collam Aman loomed above them, more than massive and seemingly impenetrable; a distended dome shape covered in over three thousand years worth of twisting vines, moss and lichen. N'aethan gazed up at it with satisfaction, tempered by a touch of trepidation. He had always thought that from the outside, the Dragon College looked a bit like a sho-wing hangar, though several magnitudes larger. He frowned, recalling the voyage down here with Kiam Sedai in the ancient sho-wing, long ago. That had been an unpleasant experience, he had hated flying even before the fateful journey, he would rather face another Gholam than repeat it…

"This is wonderful!" enthused Feren in his deep voice, "I have never seen anything quite like it!" He turned to N'aethan. "Built by humans in the Age of Legends, you say?" He sighed. "I have always wished to build things, not just to grow them," he added, mournfully.

"Gardeners do not build," Mitsu scoffed.

"Maybe not in Seanchan, but they do now in the Westlands, seemingly…" N'aethan spoke without looking at either of them, his strange eyes fixed on the place of his birth. "All things change," he muttered, more to himself than to them. All things – except for the Collam Aman.

"So how do we get inside, Chami?" Mitsu enquired, "I see no doors."

N'aethan looked at his companions. "The doors were all sealed, by order of the Big Hall. Can you climb?"

"Of course," replied Mitsu, scornfully.

"I have climbed trees, even the Great Trees," Feren responded. He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Those vines look strong enough to support me."

"Leave the bag of books behind, just in case. You won't need them."

Feren grumbled a little about this. His two unwanted companions following – and he had thought of and discarded several ways to get rid of them! – N'aethan began to pace around the lengthy perimeter of the Collam, looking up all the while. Looking for the right place. He was on the verge of giving up, of climbing the entire height of the edifice and going in through one of the skylights, when he finally saw it. The gallery. Only his eyes could have made it out, hidden behind a mass of flowering vines and ivy, but it was there.

"We only have to go halfway up," he told the others, before directing his attention solely to Feren. "Lose the library, Runaway! It will only weigh you down."

Muttering no-doubt uncomplimentary things in his own incomprehensible tongue, Feren carefully secreted his bulky knapsack beneath a holly bush. His ears drooped. "Do you think my books will be safe there?" he wondered.

"Not unless the local wildlife have taken up reading…" N'aethan trailed-off, realising something. He would have noticed sooner, but had been preoccupied. There seemingly was no local wildlife, by the sound of it. No birdsong, no animal calls, no tracks or trails – the forest around the Dragon College was eerily deserted. He shivered slightly, shaking off a sense of foreboding. "Come on," N'aethan urged, gripping a thick vine and beginning to climb.

Feren secured his sung-wood club to his back with a leather strap and followed. Mitsu simply retained a grip on her Heron-mark blade and climbed one-handed. It did not seem to hamper her. N'aethan whistled softly between his teeth as he ascended the vines, as simple as a staircase to him. The forest fell away beneath them, a green swathe, the vast edifice looming above. The noon sun was overhead by the time they reached the gallery. N'aethan drew his sword and hacked a way in through the vines and ivy. One by one they crawled through, over a stone lip to stand on cuendillar tiles in a dark, wide hallway. They were inside the Dragon College!

It was rather dusty, with a neglected feel, but that was hardly surprising. The Collam had been sealed and closed for all time in the sixth year of the War, and had presumably lain undisturbed ever since. Except that Father had come here to leave his message, and something else. N'aethan suspected that he knew what… and wished to confirm those suspicions. The constant nagging worry about Ellythia Sedai and the others did not help his objectivity, however. But he had a plan for finding her, which involved a bed. With this in mind, N'aethan led the way unerringly through the dark hallways, until they reached an ornate sung-wood door.

Feren ran his thick fingers over the ancient portal with interest. "This is very fine work," he mumbled, "I would that I could sing wood so well as this…"

"Well, you sang a mighty fine club to hit me over the head with," muttered N'aethan, a little uncharitably, giving the door a push. It did not budge. He pushed harder. Still nothing. He shoved, with all his strength. A cracking sound; the door split in two and the separate halves fell to the tiles with a crash. Feren groaned with regret. "Sorry," N'aethan muttered, "but nothing lasts forever. Mayhap we can glue it back together? I think I know where there is some glue…"

"What is this place, Chami?" Mitsu asked, suspiciously.

"My old living quarters, mine and Father's, and Middle Brother's too, before he went off to the War. Elder Brother lived here as well, but I never met him," he added, regretfully.

Mitsu raised her thin eyebrows. "So you and the other Chami dwelt here?"

"It seems that the plural of Chami is 'Chami.' How interesting. But they weren't Chami – and neither am I! What is a bloody Chami, anyway?"

"It is a kind of monster," answered Mitsu, mysteriously.

"Ah, well, you may have something there…" N'aethan stepped into his old living quarters, past the wrecked door that had once opened for the Dragon himself, Feren and Mitsu reluctantly following. He inhaled deeply; the air was musty, but there were hints of familiar scents that stirred profound memories. His eyes searched the gloomy interior, looking for some sign of Father's message. There were only so many places that the ancient Aes Sedai would have left it, and this was one of them.

The living quarters were spacious, luxurious, as befitted the Master of the Collam Aman; dusty tapestries yet hung from the walls, as did exquisite works of art, fine sung-wood furniture was scattered about, which Feren examined with interest. N'aethan went into his old room, Mitsu following. It was much as he remembered it; the bed and cupboard, both of sung-wood, the Briar Patch board still set out on the rug, the big poster of the Dragon tacked to the wall, curling at the edges…

"Who is that?" Mitsu asked, pointing at the colourful, if dusty, image of the handsome man in the armour and cloak, the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai emblazoned on the breastplate.

"Lews Therin Telamon, he is," N'aethan answered. He remembered that the Dragon had been a little embarrassed by the poster – not to mention the overt hero-worship – when he had visited.

"The Kinslayer," Mitsu muttered, disapprovingly.

"Don't call him that! It wasn't his fault, what happened."

"He was one of those who broke the World – were he alive today, he would be put to death before he could cause such chaos!"

"He is alive today! He has been reborn, remember?"

"I do remember. I was at… at Falme." Mitsu said the word with reluctance.

"So would you put the Dragon to death before Tarmon Gai'don and doom us all?" N'aethan demanded.

"Of course not, Chami! Not before the Last Battle – after! But first, the Dragon Reborn will kneel before the Crystal Throne. It has been foretold." Mitsu's voice held absolute conviction.

N'aethan eyed her sardonically. "What if it is your precious Empress who has to kneel before him?" he asked.

"That is blasphemy, Chami! To suggest that the Empress – may she live forever – would abase herself before a pitiful Madman! Had I not sworn an oath, I would kill you where you stand for saying so terrible a thing! You are the one who deserves to be spanked!"

"Um…" Feren stood in the doorway, looking embarrassed. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No!" they both shouted, glaring at each other.

N'aethan sighed. "Come on," he muttered, "there is nothing to see here…" he glanced at the bed, "…though I think that I shall return later, spend the night in my old room." He nodded to Feren. "You can have Elder Brother's bed, it should be big enough for you…" he scowled at Mitsu; "and you can sleep on the bloody floor, for all I care!"

Mitsu shrugged. "I will not sleep. I shall stand watch," she stated flatly.

"Don't be silly, you've travelled far, you're clearly exhausted!"

"A Bloodknife is not as ordinary folk. I can go many nights without rest."

"Well, have it your own way." N'aethan left the living quarters, Feren and Mitsu trailing after him.

"Where do we go to now, Chami?" the Seanchan assassin enquired.

"Downstairs. Down to the lowest levels, where the monsters live…" N'aethan laughed spookily. Feren moaned softly. N'aethan grinned. It had been long since he had lived here, even not counting the time spent in the Stasis Box, but he remembered the route through the hallways in which he had played as a boy as if it were only yesterday. One thing had changed. There were no Apprentices, no Da'shain, no Warmen – the halls were silent and empty, which they had never been before, excepting at night-time. It felt good to be back – how dull the tiny Collam Doon had seemed compared with this vast playground! It had been a relief to go off to the War, and get away from that boring place.

Finally, N'aethan stopped at a particular tapestry. Like all the tapestries, it had a Keeping woven on it, else would have crumbled away to nothing long since. Curiously, Mitsu brushed some of the dust from it. Feren sneezed, an Ogier-sized sneeze that echoed in the deserted hallway. The tapestry depicted a beautiful, gleaming city of glassy spires and crystalline towers, above which an immense white sphere was in the process of shattering and breaking apart, bursts of black fire erupting from its cracked surface.

"What is this, Chami?" Mitsu asked.

"It depicts the destruction of the Sharom, over the city of V'saine," N'aethan answered, "the catastrophe which let loose the Dark One's touch on the world. Lanfear's doing, only she wasn't called that then…" Feren moaned again. N'aethan swept the rather morbid tapestry aside, revealing an archway in the stone wall. It was gloomy enough in the hallway, but almost pitch-black beyond. "You, with the big eyes," he addressed Feren, rather rudely since the moaning was getting on his nerves, "can you see in the dark with those things?"

Feren shook his head. "They are not that big," he mumbled, under his breath.

Mitsu shook her head too. "Only you can see in the dark, Chami." She thought about it. "The better to hunt your victims," she added, accusingly.

"You're the assassin, not me! How many victims have you had?"

Mitsu scowled, and declined to answer.

N'aethan dug in one of his belt pouches and pulled out the miniature sar-light he kept there. It had always seemed a waste of time to carry the thing, since he didn't need it, but he did anyway, in case he had to light the way for others. Which he now did…

Beyond the arch, a spiral staircase descended into the darkness. N'aethan handed the glowing sar-light wordlessly to Feren, then started down the steps. Feren followed, holding up the small crystalline orb, pale light flickering off the stone walls, and Mitsu brought up the rear, unsheathing her blade. N'aethan smiled briefly; she would not need it, everything dangerous that had lived down here had been dead for thousands of years. They did not need to know that, though…

The spiral steps went down for a long way, ending in another arch leading out into a wide, circular chamber, lined all around with heavy iron doors. A deep well lay in the centre. N'aethan pointed at it. "They kept the most dangerous chumira down there," he lied. "It was a vicious monster called 'The Ripper!'" Mitsu looked at him sceptically. A deep moan from Feren. "Would you please stop doing that?!" N'aethan snapped, exasperated.

"Sorry, honoured Lightborn!"

"I thought you wanted an adventure?" N'aethan pointed-out.

"I thought that I did… but perhaps I should just go back to Stedding Dashai and get married?" Feren considered. "That does not seem so bad an idea now…"

Mitsu blinked, eyeing Feren uncertainly.

N'aethan felt guilty, as he had in the Cenotaph when he had let Ellythia Sedai think that Father's glimmer-message was a ghost. "Relax, good Ogier; I was just joking about the monster. The only thing they kept down there was water."

Feren looked relieved.

Mitsu snorted. "I knew you were lying, Chami." But she looked slightly relieved also.

N'aethan led the way to one of the doors in the circular wall. He knew exactly which one… some things, you never forget. It was unlocked and swung slowly open with a squeal of rusty hinges when he pulled. He stood in the doorway a moment. Remembering.

The small boy sat on the bench in his cage, feet dangling above the stone floor. There were sharp black claws on those feet, on his hands also, folded neatly in his lap, and he had long white hair and strange, cobalt eyes. He wore a simple dark vest and pair of shorts. He didn't have a name, but thought of himself as 'Three' since he was in the third cage along. This seemed a good enough title to accord himself, for the time being…

The boy in the cage next to his never said anything, never made a sound, just sat on the floor in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, slowly rocking back and forth. Three had long since given up trying to make friends with him. And as for the boy in the far cage… well, there was definitely something wrong with him. Whenever someone walked past, he would snarl and launch himself at the bars, trying to scratch them with his claws. He seemed more like an animal than a person. Three had no interest in making friends with him.

Both of the other boys looked alike – in fact, he suspected that they looked like him, but since he lacked a mirror in his cage, could not be sure. He supposed that they must be his brothers, but he did not think of them as such. And where, then, was his mother? Where was his father?

The big door at the end of the room swung open and someone came in. It was not one of the Warmen, nor the tall Da'shain who periodically fed them… it was not anyone he had seen or heard before, but someone new. A stooped old man in black robes, with honey-coloured skin. His skull was hairless, his eyes dark and almond-shaped, and small white tufts grew from beneath his nose, projecting to either side of his thin-lipped mouth. A blunt-looking dagger hung about his neck on a cord. He shut the door behind him and started down the line of cages.

The first boy growled and attacked the bars, reaching through, claws extended, trying to slash the old man. He paused, eyeing the boy with profound disapproval. "Stop that!" he snapped.

Surprisingly, the boy obeyed, subsiding to crouch on the floor, making a mewling sound. The old man continued his progress. He glanced regretfully at the next boy, rocking back and forth, and shook his head. Then, he arrived opposite Three's cage and stood there, examining him with a dark, perceptive gaze. Three examined him back. He had never seen anyone quite like the old man.

"Who you?" Three asked.

The old man raised his white eyebrows in surprise. "You can speak!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. I listen. I learn."

"Listening is the best way of learning… well, since you ask, I am Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai."

At which Three scrambled down from the bench and performed a clumsy bow. "Honour to serve, Aes Sedai," he murmured, doing as he had seen the Da'shain do.

The old man – Chaime Kufer – laughed softly. Then, he bowed back. "Honour to be served, Lightborn."

Three's brow furrowed. A new word, that he had not heard before. "What Ligh'born?" he asked.

"Lightborn." Chaime Kufer pointed to him. "It is you. It is what you are. And your name is 'Tro.'"

"Tro," repeated Three, "what mean?"

"It means 'three' in the Root Speech."

Three made a mewling sound. It took Chaime a moment to realise that he was laughing. "Already called that! 'Tro.' Hmm. It will do."

Chaime Kufer approached the bars, taking a key from the pocket of his robe. He unlocked the cage door, swinging it open. "Come, Tro. Let us leave this place. Time for a history lesson."

"What his story?" Tro asked, following Chaime down toward the room's exit, his bare feet silent on the stone floor.

"History. It is what we should learn from, but never do."

Tro glanced at the other boys as he went past their cages. The boy next to him had momentarily ceased rocking back and forth, had raised his head, cobalt eyes staring at them. The boy at the end was still crouching, claws unsheathed, watching them with his customary hostility, his pupils narrowed into slits.

"Goodbye," Tro whispered. He did not think he would see them again…

The line of cages was still there, the doors hanging open. The room was empty, deserted. And N'aethan had a fairly good idea what had happened to the two other boys. Father had never tolerated failure in his experiments…

"What is this place?" Feren wanted to know. Mitsu just gazed suspiciously with her dark, tilted eyes, blade still drawn.

"It is where I learned to speak, and to serve," N'aethan answered, cryptically. Well, there was no sign of a message, not that he had particularly thought there would have been, but he had wanted to come here anyway… it was where he had first met Father. That made it important; but also, a dead-end. There remained one likely location. "Come on," N'aethan said, "we are wasting our time down here."

"Where do we go now?" Mitsu asked. "Chami," she added.

"Why, to the Hall of Servants of the Collam Aman, of course. Where else?"

It was hot in the wooden stockade, the noon-day sun directly overhead, and the Warders had been denied water in punishment for their latest escape attempt. This meant that their odd cellmate also went without, but he did not seem to mind. He was a cheerful sort.

Aebel was keeping watch whilst Blaek scraped at the sand at the base of the thick wooden logs that made up the walls of their cage. One dark eye pressed to a gap in this wall, Aebel could make-out the beach, several of what he had learned were called 'war-canoes' drawn up on it, as well as various people moving about, most of whom held weapons of one sort or another. He frowned. He had seen one of the hawk-masked guards bearing his sword. Though it was not a rare, Power-wrought blade, he still prized the weapon highly. Shrina had given it to him, on his nineteenth Name-day.

Shrina… where was she? Aebel had not seen her in days. Worse, he could not sense her through the Bond. This worried him a great deal. Behind him, his brother, Blaek, dug industriously at the sand with his hands, though the logs went down deep. Aebel could not do much digging himself, since he had a broken arm, a legacy of their last escape attempt. His left limb was held in a rough sling that their cellmate had made for him, and throbbed painfully.

A low groan came from the other side of the stockade. Aebel turned away from the logs for a moment. Jabal was awake. Aebel felt relief at this; he had feared that his Sea Folk friend might never recover consciousness. Jabal stirred on the straw mattress, groaned again.

"Lay still," Aebel told him. Jabal's face was heavily bruised, he had at least two broken ribs, perhaps internal injuries. Since he had killed one of their number, the guards had gone hardest on him when they were recaptured. But also, they seemed to have no great love for the Atha'an Miere.

Sitting beside Jabal, tending to him in a limited capacity, was their cellmate. Though accustomed to the fellow by now, Aebel still found him a strange sight. He was a handsome youth, well-muscled, dark-skinned with wiry, curly brown hair, his eyes almost black. He wore a rough, homespun shirt and britches of the same material, cut-off at the knees. And his face was covered with tattoos! Intricate ember lines and curlicues interspersed with dots were inked over the entirety of his features, giving him an outlandish appearance.

Seeing that Jabal was awake, the odd youth carefully put a damp rag, soaked in what little water remained to them, over his eyes. He spoke, not in the Vulgar, or even the Old Tongue, though he knew a few words of each, but rather in his own language, an exotic, fluid speech. Then, he looked at Aebel with his dark eyes, speaking again at some length. His eyes flicked toward Blaek as he spoke, then back to Aebel.

"What did he say, Jabal?" Aebel enquired, not liking to disturb the wounded Atha'an Miere Gaidin, but wondering if it was important. The youth, who seemed to be called 'Ayyad' rarely spoke, but when he did, it was to the point. Fortunate that one of their number understood him…

At first, Aebel thought that Jabal had not heard him and he was wondering whether to repeat the question, when the Sea Folk Warder answered in a weak voice, barely more than a whisper; "he told me not to move. Then, he told you that your brother is wasting his time trying to dig his way out. He has tried it himself… the logs go down too deep, and the guards will only notice the hole and punish us all."

"Oh." Aebel looked at the tattooed young man curiously, then asked; "how came you to speak the language of Shara, Jabal?"

"I used to trade with them. I wasn't always a Warder. And they don't call it Shara, they call it 'Co'dansin.'"

The youth nodded. "Co'dansin, yes," he agreed, then pulled a disgusted face, his tattoos twisting. "Co'dansin bad."

Aebel's dark eyes searched Ayyad's decorated features for signs of subterfuge, but detected none. At least, he assumed the youth was called that; when first he awoke in the stockade, his cellmate had thumped his chest and said 'Ayyad!' a couple of times, so that was presumably his name. Recalling his duty, Aebel turned back to the gap in the logs, in time to notice that several guards were on their way toward the stockade…

"Hide the hole!" Aebel hissed to his brother.

Blaek scowled. "How does one hide a hole?" he demanded.

"I know not… think of something!"

Blaek seemed at a loss, but then Ayyad threw him a blanket, making a spreading motion with his hands. Blaek swiftly stretched the blanket over the hole in the sand he had dug, then lay down in front of it. Aebel turned away from the log wall and went to sit next to Jabal. He examined him with concern; his Atha'an Miere friend did not look well…

With a squeal, the rough wooden door of the stockade was pulled open on its iron hinges and a familiar figure entered, flanked by two armed guards. They had to duck to get under the doorway, then crouch, since the roof was not high enough to allow anyone to stand. Except for Lord Wakime, Aebel thought snidely.

The leader of those who had attacked them on the beach surveyed the prisoners, expressionless. He wore neither war-paint nor buckskins on this occasion, but a purple robe, the ivory-hilted Power-wrought Sea Folk blade tucked through the belt.

Jabal removed the damp rag from his eyes and raised his head wearily, noting that their enemy had appropriated his weapon. "Thief," he growled, "when I take my sword back from you, I shall gut you with it, like a codfish!"

The leader, whose name was apparently 'Kor,' scowled. "I am no thief, I am of the Blood. Your sword, which is now my sword, is a rightful spoil of war. Were you not already marked for death, I would kill you for your insult!"

"Kill me, then," Jabal muttered, "it is better than having to listen to your lies."

"Where are our Aes Sedai?" Aebel and Blaek demanded, at the same time. Kor ignored them.

Ayyad uttered a sting of liquid syllables, and Jabal translated without being asked to; "he wants to know the location of someone named 'Dara.'" Ayyad muttered something else, with a note of menace to it. "He also says that were he not shielded from the Holy Power, he would turn you around inside your own skin!"

Aebel eyed Ayyad cautiously. This was the first indication he had that the young man could channel… a Madman, in their midst!

Kor did not seem impressed by the threat, nor inclined to tell them the whereabouts of their womenfolk. "I came here to ask questions, not to answer them," he hissed, then; "apart from the Aiel savages you brought with you, how many more of you are there? Have the Sea Folk returned? How many came in the ship that lies in the Ghost Forest, beside the Everstone?"

"Hundreds," answered Jabal weakly, "we will burn your castle to the ground and stake you out on the sand at low tide!"

Kor ignored him and focused on Aebel and Blaek. "You, who look so alike – answer me or one of you will mourn his brother's death!"

The Twins eyed each other wordlessly. Then they smiled coldly at Kor and said, in unison; "kill us both or not at all!"

Kor sighed, frustrated, eyeing the three Warders with grudging respect. "You are all brave men," he conceded. Then, he scowled. "I shall return tomorrow, at dusk. If you do not answer my questions then, you will be fed to the sharks!" Kor left the stockade, the guards following, backing out warily, blades bared. Another wordless glance between Aebel and Blaek. If they were going to rush them, now was the right time, while the door was open. But they had already tried that once, and all it had gained them was bruises and a broken arm. Worse, in Jabal's case…

Ayyad spoke softly as the door was closed and bolted.

"What did he say this time, Jabal?" Blaek asked.

The young Sharan held something up. Three long straws, which he had prized from one of the sleeping-mats.

Jabal coughed, then whispered; "he says that he has a plan."

Again, N'aethan, Feren and Mitsu made their way along numerous hallways and galleries, of which the Collam Aman had a great many, down ramps and up staircases. N'aethan led the way unerringly.

"It is like a termite's nest," Mitsu complained.

"I still find it hard to believe that humans built this place," commented Feren. His deep voice took on a note of disbelief; "humans live in mud huts and… and caves! Not places such as this…"

N'aethan glanced over his shoulder and grinned, pointy teeth flashing in the gloom. "The humans of the Age of Legends lived in abodes such as you would not believe, Runaway!"

Feren's ears drooped sadly. "How far they have fallen," he muttered, gloomily.

N'aethan sighed. He was starting to think that young Feren had a strongly pessimistic streak to his nature. Or perhaps all the Treebrothers of this insane land were like that? Understandable, since they had not had an easy time of it, by the looks of things…

"You should see the magnificent cities of Seanchan, Gardener," drawled Mitsu, "Sohima, Kirendad, the great port of Takisrom where I was born, our glorious capital, Seandar… they would impress you."

"I suppose that they might," Feren allowed, "but I should rather just return to Stedding Dashai and…" he trailed off, and blushed, ears twitching.

"…and get married!" N'aethan prompted, completing the sentence. He glanced at Mitsu. "Are you married, Anchovy?"

Mitsu smiled coldly. "Yes." She held up the sword, still unsheathed. "I am married to this!" She shrugged. "And I am married to death. I am a Bloodknife, Chami."

"You are an assassin, Anchovy." N'aethan glanced curiously at Feren. "What I don't understand is; you have lived within spitting distance of the Dragon College all your life… have you never wondered what it was?"

"I thought it was a hill!" Feren responded.

N'aethan laughed his mewling laugh. "Ogier!" was all he could manage to say.

In silence they walked further through the depths of the Collam Aman. Then, N'aethan paused, recognising a particular tapestry. It depicted the destruction of Jalanda in all its gory detail. "I wonder if it is still there?" he muttered, in the High.

"If what is still there, honoured Lightborn?" Feren asked, in the same language.

Mitsu, who did not speak the Old Tongue, eyed them both with her customary suspicion.

N'aethan did not answer Feren. "Wait here," he muttered, in the Vulgar, then swept the tapestry aside and slipped through the archway that lay beyond. He found himself in a round chamber, almost filled with tall, crystalline tubes, standing on end. When last he had seen them, they had been glowing with eldritch power, exuding an aura of implacable knowledge. Now they stood, still and lifeless. He supposed that only an Aes Sedai could activate them, but there were probably none alive today who knew how. Pulling at his coat and shirt, N'aethan glanced down at the shimmering blue Lightmark on his broad chest, emblazoned into the skin over his heart. Remembering…

The old man and the young boy paced through the deserted hallways of the Collam Aman. Tro glanced around curiously.

"Where everyone?" he enquired.

"Asleep," answered Chaime Kufer. "I thought it best to fetch you at night. There are eyes here that it would be best did not see you."

"Oh." Tro pointed a claw at the horn-hilted, blunt dagger that hung around Chaime's neck on a silken cord. "What that?"

"A ter'angreal. A very special ter'angreal, rare beyond belief, gifted to me by the Eelfinn. It protects me from the attentions of the Great Lord of the Dark." Chaime made a tutting sound. "That is to say; the Dark One."

"Ah," said Tro, "you mean Shai'tan!"

Chaime raised an eyebrow. "Where did you hear that name?" he demanded.

"Don't know. Have always known…"

"Well, kindly do not use it again. Naming the Dark One brings ill luck to those that do."

"Yes Aes Sedai. I obey. I will not say."

In due course, they arrived at a tapestry depicting a burning city. Monsters rampaged through the streets, corpses littered the pavements. Tro looked at it with interest.

"War," he hissed, under his breath.

Chaime nodded sadly. "Yes, war. In my youth, the word was entirely unknown, except by the more esoteric of historians. Now, it is all there is."

Tro looked at Chaime with his strange eyes, that glowed a little in the gloom. "I made for war," he stated, softly.

Chaime nodded. "That is most perceptive of you, Tro. You were indeed. But first, there is a sort of test to be passed. Come." Chaime held the tapestry aside and they went through the archway that lay beyond. Tall, crystalline tubes awaited them, standing on end. On a small, sung-wood table rested a golden hand, life-size, index-finger extended. Chaime picked it up, holding it by the stump of the wrist.

"What that?" Tro wanted to know.

"A sa'angreal. One of the most powerful ever made." Chaime raised the sa'angreal, the pointed finger aimed at the tubes, concentrating. To Tro's strange vision, the glow of Power about him flared and intensified for a moment, then the crystal tubes came alive, shining and pulsing with arcane forces. Chaime lowered the sa'angreal, looking weary. "There," he said, "it is done."

"What now?" asked Tro.

Chaime indicated a gap in the tubes. "You must go in there, young Lightborn. You will see visions." He hesitated a moment, then added; "you may not come out again. Some do not."

Tro shrugged. Then he bowed, a little less clumsily this time. "Honour to serve, Chaime Sedai," he said, then walked into the glowing crystalline tubes without hesitation.

An intense flash of light. Tro blinked. Where was he? Who was he? He stood beneath a tall tree with trefoil leaves, that seemed to exude an aura of peace and harmony. There were more of these trees to the left and right, running down the centre of a long, wide avenue. Something shot by with a loud, humming sound and he jumped, surprised. It was silver, shaped like a distended rain-drop; there were many of the strange vehicles racing back and forth to either side of the trees. And beyond them; pavements thronged with colourfully dressed people of differing aspects, making their way to and fro. Enormous buildings loomed above, each edifice a towering work of art. And above them…

Tro stared. An enormous white sphere hung in the sky, seemingly unsupported. What was it? Something like a giant bird swooped past above it, a pale wing-shape. It was all too much to take in.

Tro examined himself instead. He was not a little boy anymore, he seemed to be an adult. He wore a suit of dark, shimmering cloth, with fine lace at the collar and cuffs. He fingered the lace, and noticed that there were no claws on his hands. He wiggled his toes inside his knee-boots. No claws on them either, by the feel of it. Hesitantly, he touched an ear. Round, like a human's, not pointed and tufted. What had happened to him?

Something caught Tro's attention in the crowd on the other side of the avenue. An altercation of some sort… a tall, red-headed Da'shain lay on his back, a bearded man in a long, colour-shifting coat standing over him. A woman, clad in a gown that also seemed to keep changing its garish hues, stood beside him. Tro watched as the man helped the Aiel to his feet, dusting solicitously at his cadin'sor. The two seemed to be apologising profusely to each other while the woman looked on, embarrassed.

Then; a huge noise from above, a vast booming sound. Tro stared upwards and gaped in horror. The massive sphere was in the process of shattering, breaking apart, gouts of dark flame bursting from it as it began to fall. And the screaming began. Tro started to run, but he knew it was too late. It had always been too late.

An intense flash of light. Tro blinked. Where was he? Who was he? This time he glanced down at himself before taking in his surroundings. Again, no claws. And he wore the cadin'sor – he was Da'shain! Tro touched his distinctive tail of hair wonderingly, then noticed that there were other tall Da'shain Aiel standing with him, reddish and fair hair, blue and green eyes, all male. Except one. A Da'shain'mai, wearing a long skirt and blouse, she had golden hair, was very beautiful. She looked sad. They all did, their mournful gazes fixed on something. Tro followed their line of sight. He wished he had not…

Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, clad in a black robe, lay upon the stony ground, scattered with human skulls. A tall, pale man stood over him. No, not a man. He had no eyes and exuded menace. Long, lank, black hair, serpent-scaled armour, a dark sword gripped in one hand… and his booted foot pressed to Chaime's neck, holding him down. Chaime looked younger than when last Tro had seen him, he had a halo of wispy white hair about his skull. He also looked terrified.

An old, old man wearing crimson robes was talking to Chaime. He seemed to embody evil somehow… it lay not so much in the cruel half-smile on his lips or the way that he was clearly enjoying the situation, but in his pale eyes. They held no pity, no mercy. They were the eyes of a man who had seen and done terrible things… and simply did not care.

Beyond them waited a score of hulking creatures swathed in spiked armour, gripping crude, barbed weapons. Tro stared. They had the aspect of beasts; wolf muzzles, boar snouts and eagle's beaks, shaggy fur and feathered crests, hooves and paws as often as booted feet… and yet, their eyes were horribly human. Tro strained his ears to hear what was being said...

"But Ishar…" moaned Chaime.

"Aginor," snapped the ancient, evil man, "use my former name again and I will have you blinded."

"But Aginor, I cannot…"

"Silence! I will make this perfectly simple for you, my old Apprentice. Agree to serve me and swear your oaths to the Great Lord, or my minions shall eat you alive."

"What… what are those things?"

"Trollocs. I am rather proud of them. And this creature with its boot upon your neck is a Myrddraal, a sort of throwback to the human stock I used in making my Trollocs. I am even more proud of the Myrddraal, though their making was something of an accident, so I claim no credit for it. Enough questions! Choose."

"I… I will serve you, my old Master…" The words seemed to be wrenched from Chaime's soul.

"Good. A sensible choice, given the circumstances."

"What of my Da'shain?"

"I have no use for them. Leaf-loving cowards. They can feed the Trollocs. Such hungry monsters, they are!" Aginor laughed cruelly and motioned for the Myrddraal to remove its foot from Chaime's neck.

Released, Chaime struggled up to his knees, hands clasped together. "Please! Aginor… the Aiel... do not…"

"Oh, very well. I am in a good mood, so I will let you keep one. Again, you must choose."

"I… I cannot…"

The Da'shain Aiel chose for him. As one, the men all pointed to the woman. Tro found himself pointing also. They all bowed to the Master a final time. Tro bowed too. Then, without hesitation, they walked toward the waiting Trollocs. The beast-faced horrors fingered their weapons and licked their muzzles in anticipation.

Tro walked with the others, head held high. He did not feel fear at his horrible fate. He did not feel hatred, for the Beastmen who would kill and eat him, or even for Aginor, who had so casually ordered his doom. But he did feel pride… pride that he had served the Master to the best of his abilities, pride that he had lived the Way of the Leaf to the last. That was enough.

An intense flash of light. Tro blinked. Where was he? Who was he? This time he wore crimson robes, like those Aginor wore. Looking around, he saw that he was with a group of similarly clad acolytes. They were all smiling cruelly. He could tell that they had sold their souls to the Shadow. Beyond them was Aginor himself, as well as Chaime Kufer, both wearing the same crimson robes. They were in a large cavern, crammed with sophisticated scientific equipment of all kinds. He recognised none of it.

"Number forty-two," called out Chaime briskly, "present yourself for experimentation duty." He looked older now, care-worn, his skull completely hairless. In answer to his summons, a Myrddraal stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the cavern. It wore no sword or armour, just a simple black coat, britches and boots. It stood before Aginor, looking on him with loathing, though no eyes to look with.

"Forty-two, in this next experiment we are going to test your resistance to fire," Aginor stated crisply. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Chosen-one," the Myrddraal answered, in a voice like the sloughing of dead snakeskin.

"You will most probably not survive the test," Aginor continued, sounding bored, "none of the others have."

The Myrddraal did not trouble to reply.

"Get in the thermobaric chamber," ordered Chaime, indicating a spherical piece of equipment with a clear door standing open. The Myrddraal complied, clambering inside. The door cycled shut. "Initiating," muttered Chaime, sounding satisfied. Within seconds, the Myrddraal was burning busily. It did not scream, made no sound at all.

Aginor watched, unmoved. "Increase temperature." Chaime did so. Tro noted that there was a look of profound pleasure on his face as he watched the Myrddraal die.

An intense flash of light. Tro blinked. Where was he? Who was he? Looking down, he saw that he was clad in dark, glistening armour. There was a helmet on his head, complete with curving mandibles that protected his face, and a dark visor. In his gloved hands he bore a heavy length of metal, a tubular weapon. A curved, Power-wrought sword was sheathed at his belt. Similarly clad and armed men marched to either side of him, dozens of them. They were advancing up a hill. To his left, Tro could see a column of armoured Ogier, armed with large axes and war-hammers. To his right, more armoured humans, but their armour was white and gold, their helmets shaped like the head of some snarling beast, their gloves and boots tipped with golden claws.

At the top of the hill waited the enemy, a horde of Trollocs, interspersed with Myrddraal. Tro felt no fear at facing them, just eagerness to join battle. And between the forces of the Shadow and them…Tro stared. A giant! Taller even than the tallest Ogier, an enormous man clad in white ceramic armour, the snowy pelt of some great beast thrown over his massive shoulders. In his hands he bore a great axe with four silver blades. He closed on the foe with long strides, the soldiers of the Light running to keep up. He turned. He had a strong, heavy-jawed face, framed by long white hair, his eyes shining with an unearthly glow. A golden circle was emblazoned on his breast-plate. He raised the axe.

"For the Light!" the giant roared, and the soldiers cheered, scrambling up the hill in his wake. Turning back to the enemy, the gigantic man strode toward them, beginning to whirl the axe over his head. Fluted holes in the blades made an eerie, howling sound. He tore into the ranks of Myrddraal and Trollocs like some unstoppable force of nature, his axe rising and falling, sweeping from side to side, cleaving great swathes of death in the ranks of the Shadow. As he killed, his booming laughter seemed to shake the sky. Tro knew instinctively that he was looking at a Hero of the Light.

An intense flash. Blink. Where? Who? Now he was in a vast hall, countless elstone columns supporting a marble roof so high as to be nearly lost to sight. Cuendillar tiles bearing the circular symbol of the Aes Sedai lay beneath his booted feet. He wore garments a little like the cadin'sor, except that they were a deep green in hue, decorated with numerous golden trefoil leaves. A heavy cloak of red velvet hung from his shoulders. Looking around him, Tro saw near a hundred men waiting, all dressed in their best finery. He somehow knew that they were all powerful Aes Sedai. The enormous chamber seemed to hum with energy at their combined presence, and he was one of them, and one with them.

Above them all, up on a dais, seated on a crystalline throne, was a tall, handsome man, though careworn, also Aes Sedai. He had brown hair, streaked in places with white, falling to his broad shoulders, and sad eyes. He wore a red coat and dark trews, tucked into finely-worked golden knee-boots. A heavy, fur-trimmed cloak framed him. On its breast was a velvet badge; a stylised image of a fierce, lion-maned creature with five golden claws on each foot, curled into a circle, biting its own tail. The man exuded power and authority, wisdom also, but tempered by kindness. Tro instinctively knew that he was looking at Lews Therin Telamon. The Dragon. At which, the First Among the Servants spoke, his voice mellifluous, echoing in the great hall.

"Step forward, Culan Cuhan." He smiled. "Light's Wrath."

A huge Aes Sedai, clad in a suit of golden shattercloth, strode forward from the throng. He mounted the steps swiftly, went down on one knee before the throne, and the Dragon who sat upon it. Lews Therin Telamon passed him something and they exchanged a few quiet words, before Culan Cuhan rose, bowed, and descended the steps, rejoining the others. He was grinning savagely.

"Come forth, Veic Shuul Savoran, Flagservant."

A tall, cadaverous Aes Sedai frowned and responded to the summons. He wore dark, velvet robes, silver boots and a sour expression. In one hand he bore a long flag-pole. A pale, rolled-up banner was tucked beneath his arm. He knelt before the Dragon and again, was presented with something, again the exchange of quiet words. Tro strained his ears, but could not make out what was being said.

"Present yourself, Goaeur Rantoel!"

A strange-looking Aes Sedai obeyed the command. He had a red face, long fair hair, a seemingly permanent smile. He wore purple silks and as he stumped forward, Tro noted that his left leg ended at the knee in some kind of bizarre prosthesis, shaped like the Dragon's foot on the badge, complete with five golden claws. The odd fellow didn't seem to have any trouble walking with it, he mounted the steps rapidly enough and went down on his good knee. Again, the presentation. Again the quiet words, though interspersed with muted laughter this time. Again, the bow.

It went on like this for some while, until at least half of the assembled Aes Sedai had been called to the throne. Then;

"Advance, Jaric Mondoran."

No-one obeyed the summons. Tro realised that those nearest were looking at him expectantly. He must be Jaric! He gathered his courage and started up the steps. The closer he got to the Dragon, the more trepidation he felt. What if Lews Therin Telamon were to shout; 'impostor!' He did not, however. Instead, as Tro knelt, a richly-fashioned velvet badge was pressed into his hand. It was identical to the one on the First Among the Servant's cloak, the circular design depicting the Dragon biting its own tail, in imitation of the Eternal Serpent.

"You are now a Companion to the Dragon," Lews Therin Telamon stated quietly, "may the Light always shine on you, Jaric."

"I thank you, Lord of the Morning," Tro replied in a voice not his own. He rose and bowed, descended the steps in a daze. He had met the Dragon! He was now a Companion! Surely, life got no better than this!

Flash. Blink. Where? Who?

And so it went. Life after life, death after death, Tro saw through the eyes of others, saw the evil and horror of the Shadow, the honour and justice of the Light. He was submerged in the foul miasma of the Dark One, he was raised up to shelter in the Hand of the Creator, and everything that could exist between these two polarities. He saw much, he listened well, and he learned. And then, finally, it ended.

Tro stepped from the aura of the crystalline tubes and stood blinking in the light as they slowly faded and became quiescent. He was back in the Collam Aman again. Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, stood watching him, smiling a thin smile.

"At last," Chaime said, "I was beginning to fear that you might not return."

Tro eyed the ancient Aes Sedai uncertainly. "How long?" he asked.

"Almost three days."

"Oh. Seemed shorter. Also, longer."

"You are disorientated. Look at your chest. The left side."

Tro pulled his vest out and looked. There was a shining blue tattoo, shaped like a triangle with curlicues at the points, etched into the skin over his heart. "What this?" he wondered.

"What is this."

"What is this?"

"It is your Lightmark. All Lightborn are given them. All of my Sons have them."

"Sons?" repeated Tro, blinking his strange eyes.

"Yes. I constructed the Lightborn. I created you, Tro. Therefore, to all intents and purposes, I am your Father. You are my Son. Does this please you?"

Tro thought about it. Then, he smiled, his pointy teeth flashing. "Yes, Father."

"Excellent. Tell me, my Son; what do you wish to do with your life?"

Again, Tro thought about it. There was really only one answer to give. He scowled, his pupils slitting. "Want to fight the Shadow," he growled.

"And so you shall."

"Chami?" The voice came from the other side of the tapestry. "What are you doing in there?" As usual, Mitsu sounded suspicious, but curious also.

N'aethan snapped out of his reverie and frowned. "I am making love to a beautiful Courtesan on top of a pile of rose petals!" he shouted, "what do you think I am doing?!"

There was a pause. Then Feren's voice was heard, sounding uncertain; "are you really, honoured Lightborn?"

"No! I was being sarcastic!" N'aethan stalked back to the hallway, twitching the tapestry aside. "Father's message was not in there," he muttered. Though he did not think it would have been… "Come. The Hall of Servants awaits. It is not far. It is an interesting place. There are stone carvings there, done by Father. You will see."

The Madman had no nose, just a blackened hole where it should have been. His skin was covered in weeping sores, he was filthy and wore but a ragged pair of britches. In one grimy hand he held a severed head by its long, lank hair. He muttered to himself as he wandered along through the forest, his bloodshot eyes wide and staring.

Feir and the Gholam, Thaeus also, watched from the bushes as he approached. Thaeus stared in fascination and revulsion. So that was the fate that awaited him…

"Feir," Thaeus whispered.

"Uh-huh?"

"You… you'll kill me, before I get like that, won't you?"

Feir didn't answer, just stared at him unreadably with her large, pale eyes.

"I will kill you, if you like," offered the Gholam softly. "I'll do it right now. Just say the word, human."

"Hush, Gholam!" hissed Feir. Then, she rose smoothly and stepped from cover with her habitual grace. "Hello Madman!" she called out, cheerfully.

The Madman stopped walking abruptly, and stared at her. He looked offended. "Not mad!" he shouted in a thick dialect of the Vulgar, "I am the Mountain God!"

"No you're not, blasphemer! There's only one God, and that's the Creator. Where did you get that head?"

"Not telling," replied the Madman slyly. "Mine now!"

"You're a real mess," commented Feir, disparagingly. "Really, you've got to be the dirtiest Madman I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a few, I can tell you!"

The Madman seemed confused by this. "You dare to insult the Mountain God?" he muttered, in tones of disbelief.

The Gholam slipped from the bushes and stood beside Feir. "Ask him what he's doing up here, Mistress," it suggested.

"Good idea, Gholam. Hoy, Madman! Why aren't you down south in the Wastelands, with all the other Madmen?"

"It's a secret!" the Madman shouted back.

Thaeus joined Feir and the Gholam, blade drawn, though he felt somewhat superfluous.

The Madman raised the hand that was not holding the severed head. "Enough talk. You bore the Mountain God. Time to die, mortals!"

It might have been his imagination, but Thaeus thought he could see a nimbus of light forming around the Madman… the air shimmered and he could feel the temperature rising.

"He's trying to burn us," Feir muttered. "How unoriginal." She took a step forward. The light around the Madman shattered, the wave of heat dissipating. "I just disrupted your flows," Feir told the Madman. He looked at her with vague surprise. "Now it's feeding-time," she added. Feir seemed to inhale, her pupils expanding, then sighed with contentment. "The savour…" she whispered. She fingered her bronze blade, then glanced at Thaeus. "Would you mind awfully doing the honours? I'd rather not get too close to this one…"

"Certainly, my Lady." Thaeus glided forward, blade at the ready, gripped in his good hand.

The Madman watched him, looking confused. Then, his bloodshot eyes widened. "You like me!" he stated accusingly, "souvraniene!"

"I'm not like you," Thaeus growled. His injured shoulder precluded the usual two-handed form, so he lunged with the sword instead, stabbing the Madman neatly in the heart. As far as he was concerned, he was doing the fellow a favour, delivering mercy to one who was too far gone to save. And protecting others from his deadly madness, too. He twisted the blade as he withdrew, blood spurting from the hole in the Madman's chest. The Madman gazed at him, shock evident on his ruined face, then collapsed limply to the ground.

The Gholam made a soft, moaning sound at the sight of the gore. "Mistress?" it enquired.

"Very well, Gholam," Feir muttered, "you may feed."

The Gholam started forward eagerly. Thaeus wiped his sword clean on a rag and sheathed it at his back, watching as the Gholam knelt by the corpse. With a long-nailed finger, Feir authoritatively turned his face away from the grisly scene.

"Trust me, milord, you don't want to see this next bit," Feir murmured. She kissed him, somewhat demurely. Thaeus returned the kiss, putting his good arm around her shoulders, trying to ignore the wet, lapping sounds coming from the Gholam as it fed on the Madman's blood. His gaze came to rest on the severed head that the Madman had been holding by its dark hair. It had rolled on to the grass when he dropped it, lay a few paces away. His eyes widened.

Feir noticed. "What's wrong?"

Wordlessly, Thaeus pointed at the pale features of the head, framed by long, lank locks of hair. The mouth was open, teeth bared in a rictus of hatred, and the face lacked eyes, just smooth skin where they should have been.

Feir stared. "Is that what I think it is?"

Thaeus nodded. "Uh… I think we may have a problem..."

The Hall of Servants of the Collam Aman was an enormous chamber, not so vast as the Grand Hall in Paaran Disen had been but long enough to make walking from one end of it to the other something of a chore. And of course, unlike the Grand Hall of the Servants and Paaran Disen itself, it was still there. It was gloomy in the Hall, the illuminations clearly had not functioned in a very long time, but N'aethan thought he could make out something on the long rectangular dais at the far end of the chamber.

Feren was still holding up the sar-light though they did not really need it, faint rays of sun were still intruding through the skylights far above. Though it was approaching evening, N'aethan thought, they had best get back to his old living quarters before it got dark. But first, he had to know; what answers? What had Father meant? Couldn't he have just told him while he was still alive?

Mitsu's slurred tones intruded on his thoughts, as they so often did. "Who is that, Chami?" She had stopped walking, was pointing at one of the bas-relief carvings that filled the alcoves to either side at regular intervals. It depicted the head of a sallow-looking woman, wearing a haughty expression, attached to the body of a decorative bird of some kind.

N'aethan paused and sighed. "If I tell you, will you stop calling me 'Chami?'"

"No."

"I thought not. Well, I will tell you anyway. That is Milisaine."

"Who was she?" Feren asked, curiously.

"Oh, a powerful traitor Aes Sedai. One of the Forsaken, in the early days of the War. A vain woman, by all accounts, that is why Father depicted her as a peacock. That is to say; a peahen."

"There was no Forsaken by that name," Mitsu protested.

"There was! She was a rival of Graendal, who had her assassinated – something you would know all about, Anchovy! They say a Gholam did it. Then Be'lal took her place on the Shadow Council, the dirty turncoat." N'aethan smiled coldly. "He is dead now," he added, with satisfaction. Too bad that Graendal wasn't… she was by far the more dangerous of the two.

"How do you know all this?" Mitsu demanded.

N'aethan opened his mouth, but Feren answered for him. "The Lightborn N'aethan comes from the Age of Legends," he explained, "he knows much that is lost."

"Yes I do," agreed N'aethan. Particularly about the notorious carvings of the Forsaken in their alcoves, all done by Father in his few spare moments. He had been a talented sculptor, amongst other things. The ancient Aes Sedai would walk with him down the length of the Hall when he was just a young lad, and if he could correctly name all of the Forsaken, he would be rewarded with sweets. He didn't much care for sugary things, but Ledrin did, so he would give them to the old Da'shain.

They resumed walking. Of course, when it came to the Age of Legends, his knowledge was not exactly infinite, since he had been born in the Light at the very start of the War of Power. By the time he went out into the world to do battle with the Shadow, much of civilisation had been destroyed, and was lost forever. At times, he thought that if anyone knew more about the last Age than he, it was probably Renn Sedai, who seemed to have soaked up every bit of esoteric knowledge about the previous Age that there was to be had… N'aethan sighed. He liked the earnest, scholarly young Aes Sedai, liked the fiery Shrina Sedai too, and loved Ellythia Sedai. The thought of them and their brave Warders being held captive by an unknown enemy made him angry, very angry indeed.

N'aethan made a soft, growling sound. Feren and Mitsu eyed him cautiously. He did not notice. In order to rescue his companions, he would first have to find them. He had a plan for doing so, to be enacted later that night. But first things first.

Eventually, they reached their goal, the dais at the end of the Hall of Servants of the Dragon College. Three things were upon it, none of which was a chair.

"There are usually chairs here," N'aethan explained to the others, not taking his eyes off the three things. The chairs in which the senior Aes Sedai had sat, to judge Father, and to decide N'aethan's fate. Though he had still been called 'Tro' back then. Well, the Dragon had overruled them in both instances. N'aethan owed his life, his entire existence, to Lews Therin Telamon. Something that he had never forgotten…

N'aethan approached the dais, climbing the brief steps that led up to it. Mitsu and Feren followed.

"What is that?" Feren asked, pointing a large finger at an array of crystal tubes, growing from a marble plinth.

"A messenger-ter'angreal," N'aethan answered vaguely, his attention on something else.

"Someone died here," Mitsu observed.

That much was obvious; a yellowing skeleton wrapped in a ragged cloak lay sprawled upon the dais, the bones of an adult male, judging by their size. That was two things; the third was unmistakeably an open and empty Stasis Box.

N'aethan examined it closely. It was much like the one in which he had slept those many years, if a little smaller. Undoubtedly a Jorlen Corbesan design. "What did you do, Father?" he muttered in the High, then moved to the messenger-ter'angreal. It came alive at his approach, the crystal tubes humming and glowing; N'aethan turned briefly to the others. "Someone is about to appear, to speak to me," he explained, "but do not fear! It is not a ghost!"

Feren merely blinked his large eyes.

"There are no such things as ghosts, Chami!" protested Mitsu, scathingly.

"There are no such things as Chamis, Anchovy!" N'aethan retorted, then turned back to the messenger, feeling pleased with himself.

"There are ghosts," Feren muttered, but no-one paid any attention to him.

The air before them shimmered, and then Father appeared. At least, his image did. He looked a little younger than when N'aethan had last seen him, slightly less careworn. Even in the form of a glimmer-message, with the stones of the Hall's rear wall showing through his semi-transparent body, his dark, knowing eyes were as perceptive and penetrating as ever.

"Hello, Father," said N'aethan softly, in the High. "It is good to see you again."

"Greetings, my Son." Chaime Kufer spoke in Mino'tan, a dead language that only the two of them understood. "I would that I could see you, see the Hero of the Light that you have become. I am proud of you, and apologise for my harsh words when you left my service and went north to the wars. But we shall certainly meet again before the End, you and I. It has been foretold."

"We did meet, Father," N'aethan affirmed, not caring that the ancient Aes Sedai could not hear him. His brow furrowed. "Foretold by whom?" he wondered.

Chaime Kufer continued; "you are doubtless wondering who foretold our meeting. It was Deindre Sedai, naturally."

"The Sister who never wore shoes!" N'aethan expostulated.

"Shoes?" mumbled Feren. Mitsu said nothing, just stood their fingering the hilt of her sword, but her tilted eyes were a little wider than was usual.

"Deindre has been of great service to me," Chaime Kufer continued. "She has predicted much which has come to pass, and more that has yet to transpire…" The glimmer-message flickered a little and Chaime straightened his stooped frame, fiddling with the horn-hilted blunt dagger that hung about his neck, as he always did when he was worried about something.

N'aethan moved a little nearer, paying close attention to the ancient words in the lost language.

"My Son, I would have you to know that there is a weapon hidden here, in the far south. A terrible weapon. It was created by Adepts of the Shadow in the final days of the War, in response to the threat of the Choedan Kal…"

"The what?" N'aethan muttered.

"This weapon, known in the High Chant as 'Bhan'dhjin Samma' and in the Vulgar speech as 'The Breaker,' has the power to shatter the Great Wheel itself, to bring to an end all existence so that the Great L- that is to say, so that the Dark One might reign over nothingness, as has ever been his wont."

"But who would be insane enough to use such a weapon?" N'aethan wondered.

"Weapon?" mumbled Feren.

"You are doubtless wondering who would be insane enough to use such a weapon, my Son." Chaime Kufer spread his long-fingered hands in apology. "I regret to say that I know not. I am merely aware of that which Deindre has told me; that unless you intervene, the Bhan'dhjin Samma, The Breaker – hidden beyond my ken – will ultimately be unleashed. All life as we know it will cease to exist. You must prevent this from happening, at all costs. It is a task of more import than Tarmon Gai'don itself, even. A task which I do not entrust to you alone…"

Here it comes, N'aethan thought.

"There is a fourth Lightborn."

"I know, Father! I saw the tubule in your secret laboratory, the one with 'four' in the Root Speech stencilled on it! I'm not stupid!"

Chaime continued; "I sent the Fourthborn here to seek out the weapon and prepare for your arrival." His thin-lipped mouth twitched slightly, the closest Father ever came to smiling. "She eagerly anticipates finally meeting her Brother."

N'aethan's mouth dropped open. He had not considered that the fourth Lightborn would not be male… he had a Sister! He had always wanted a Sister…

"There remains but one thing to say, my Son." Chaime Kufer smiled his slight smile again, a touch sardonically this time. "Good luck."

A war-council of sorts was taking place in Ysmet Mitsobar's cabin. It held the largest room in the camp, but this was not saying much. With nine people inside, it was rather cramped. Ysmet and Rashiel sat beside each other on her narrow cot, one of the few pieces of furniture that had been salvaged from her wrecked ship, the Queen Mab. As usual, whenever she thought of her lost craft, Ysmet felt a tide of regret and anger rise within her. Curse that storm! And curse the coral reef onto which it had driven them. Well, she would salvage what she could and build another ship, a better one, and escape this dreadful place…

Dagnon Gaidin hovered protectively over Rashiel, the Bosun performing the same office for his Captain. Though he would never admit it, he was devoted to Ysmet, fiercely loyal. The three Aiel squatted on the sandy floor, leaning on their spears, seeming perfectly content to do without chairs. The guide, Gen, was hunkered down by the doorway, gnawing on a cheese rind. Ysmet had relented and allowed him some of his favourite food, despite their dwindling stocks… she could only hope to receive some lucid information in return for her largess. You could never tell with Gen, some days he was almost rational, on others… and that left Roth, over in the corner, perched on a wobbly, three-legged stool. He was not taking part in the council, but idly strumming soft chords on his harp.

Ysmet sighed. Her husband… a feckless Gleeman! Who would have thought it? What would Aunt Tylin say, if she ever found out? Which she likely would not, since they were probably doomed to rot in this accursed land until death took them… her rather morbid train of thought was interrupted by a query from the chief Aielman, the big, scarred fellow with the red glass eye… she thought he was called 'Caradin.' Odd names, these Aiel had…

"Tell me, Ysmet Mitsobar," the chief of the Aiel enquired, "do you possess a 'boat?'" He spoke the word as though it were unfamiliar to him, which it doubtless was. "I do not mean the larger manner of 'ship' but the smaller craft, that may be propelled across the water with… with…"

"Oars," muttered the short Aielman.

"Yes, them!" agreed the one-eyed chief.

Ysmet glanced at the Bosun, who answered for her; "we saved a longboat from the wreck. Which we keeps it hidden in a cove, not far to the west."

The chief of the Aiel nodded. "Then we must take this 'long boat' to rescue the Aes Sedai from the isle of the painted fools… and free their Warders too, I suppose…" He turned his disturbing gaze on Gen. "You, Madland cheese-eater! Did you not say that these 'Hawx' who lack honour dwell upon some kind of an island?"

Gen sucked his yellow teeth thoughtfully, then answered in his cracked, oddly-accented voice. He had learned the Vulgar in Illian, picking up a trace of the local patois. "Aye, Aielman. The Isle of the Spire, they do calls it." He leered at Rashiel. "Your channelings won't work there, my busty lovely!"

Dagnon scowled and fingered his sword-hilt, but Rashiel just laughed. She reached into a leather bag, took out a small square of cheese and tossed it to Gen. He snagged it from the air and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing with relish.

"And just why won't my channeling work there?" Rashiel demanded.

"Because of the Spire, in course!" Gen responded, impatiently. "Tis a thing of the last Age, and right potent it do be! And it do prevent the dread power from being used, though I knows not how. Tis why the Hawx-" he paused, to make a spitting sound "-do live there… afeared are they, of the Madmen!" He thought about it. "As am I," he added, mournfully.

"Then it is simple," said the red-eyed chief, "we shall go there by 'boat' and wake these Hawx, then rescue the prisoners."

Everyone looked at him. Some shook their heads slowly.

"I think that there are too many to wake," the short Aielman pointed-out.

"Of course there are!" Ysmet snapped, "if you have no better suggestion than that, Aielman, then keep silent!"

"I do not fear to dance with the enemy, for all that they outnumber me," the chief Aiel muttered sulkily. He lapsed into offended silence.

In the corner, Roth twanged a loud, discordant chord. All eyes turned to him. He addressed the Aiel; "you are the sneaking Shaido, are you not? It is not just meant to be a clever name! Couldn't you just, well, sneak in there under cover of darkness? And rescue Shrina and the others without dancing the spears?"

The Aiel looked at each other while Ysmet frowned at the mention of Shrina's name. She liked the young Aes Sedai well enough, but suspected that Roth still held a candle for her… she had been his first love, after all, and it was difficult to compete with something like that.

"What of your magickal pipe, Gleeman?" the Aiel maiden asked.

"Yes," agreed the short Aielman, "were we hidden from sight, our chances of not being seen would improve."

The maiden nodded, but the chief of the Aiel said nothing, was clearly still sulking.

Roth shook his head. "No good, I'm afraid; you have to stand perfectly still whilst using it. If you move around, there is a sort of shimmering effect in the air and you stand out like a sore thumb."

Ysmet scowled darkly. "What 'magickal pipe' is this, Roth?" she enquired, her voice dangerously calm.

Roth licked his lips nervously, looking a little like a guilty dog that has been caught stealing sausages. "Oh, did I not mention it, my sweet? It is just a silly ter'angreal that confers invisibility 'pon the user… Old Willi gifted it to me when he retired from a life of Gleemanry… it has saved my skin on a number of occasions."

"And why did you not tell me of this before?" Ysmet demanded.

"Uh… well, my love, I…"

"By the Light, I am tired of you keeping secrets from me, husband!"

"I don't! I mean, I didn't… I just forgot I had it, that is all!"

Ysmet took a deep breath. Rashiel elbowed her in the ribs. "If you two are going to start arguing again, then we're leaving," she threatened. "Come, Dagnon!" Rashiel began to rise from the cot, but Ysmet grabbed the back of her gown and yanked, making her sit again.

"Alright, no arguing," Ysmet growled. She turned an imperious gaze on Roth. "Return to your harping, songbird," she commanded him, "we shall speak of this at a later time."

Roth sighed, and did as he was bade. Ysmet supposed that she did argue with her husband rather a lot, especially since the misfortune of their being shipwrecked, but the kissing and making-up that invariably followed on from these altercations was undeniably pleasant… except for when it was interrupted! On the last occasion, Rashiel had come bursting in on them while they were making love, relating the grim news of the Aes Sedai and Warder's capture whilst she and Roth scrambled back into their clothes.

Though it was nothing the young Aes Sedai had not seen before! Back in Ebou Dar, when Ysmet had been a Noblewoman of House Mitsobar and Rashiel had been her constant companion, they had often shared men… amorous experiences… but then, Rashiel had gone off to the White Tower, somewhat reluctantly, and Ysmet had been expected to make an advantageous match with a high-born fool. Well, she had run away from the Tarasin Palace and married a fool of her own choosing instead! Ysmet surprised Roth by darting a fond glance at him, then turned to Gen.

"How many Hawx soldiers are there?" Ysmet enquired.

"There do be a great many, good my Lady. Warriors and hunters and scouts, why, they do almost rivals the forces of the Laughing God." Gen quailed at mention of that name, for all that he was the one who had mentioned it…

"The what? Who?" Ysmet demanded, but Gen would not speak further, hiding his face in his hands and making low, moaning sounds. Ysmet sighed. He wasn't much of a guide, admittedly, but was all she had. Ysmet glanced at the three Aiel. "My sailors are unaccustomed to venturing on land," she explained, "which of you is the most skilled tracker? The best at moving covertly?" The one-eyed chief and the maiden both turned to look at the small Aielman with the twin scars on his cheeks.

"Me," the short Aiel declared, then his brow furrowed, "but the enemy left in boats – I cannot track them over the waves!"

"You will not need to. We require more information about the Hawx before we can act. The Bosun and some of my men will take you to the Isle of the Spire at night, you are to investigate but not engage our foe, try to learn where the prisoners are kept." Ysmet's voice was crisp, concise, that of one accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed.

The diminutive Aielman nodded. "This I can do."

Ysmet smiled coldly. "Roth shall go with you. His mysterious ter'angreal may prove efficacious."

A loud twang from the harp. "Me?" cried Roth, "but…"

"Good. Then that is settled." Ysmet rose. "May the Light shine on you," she told the Aiel.

"May you always find water and shade," their chief responded, grudgingly.

Gen raised his head from his hands. "Is there any more cheese?" he whined. He was ignored.

Ysmet led the way outside, glad of the fresh air after the rather dank interior of the hut. The Bosun went to organise the boat trip. Roth remained inside, doubtless brooding over the unfairness of it all. Gen wandered away to his own hut; he had one to himself since none of the sailors wanted to share with him. Rashiel was clutching Dagnon's arm and whispering something into his ear. He was blushing.

Ysmet noted that the chief Aielman was looking around as though seeking someone. "Where is Gerom?" she heard him ask the other Aiel, "he should have been at the council…"

"We could have used his wisdom and book-learning," the short Aiel agreed.

"He would have been too big to fit through the door," the maiden observed, dryly. Then, her green eyes widened and she pointed with her spear. "Look! There he is! What is he wearing?"

The gate was lowered and the strange Aielman Ruon was coming through it, bearing two heavy buckets of water from the stream that he had found in the forest. Behind him walked the big Aielman, Gerom, carrying two more buckets. He was unarmed and instead of the usual sandy-coloured clothing, wore white. Ysmet was unaware of the significance of this, but it certainly seemed to trouble the Aiel, by their reaction. As Gerom came closer, she could see that he had apparently fashioned a piece of spare sailcloth into a loose robe. The other Aiel went to meet him. Ysmet followed, curious.

"Why are you clad as Gai'shain, Gerom?" the red-eyed chief demanded.

The big Aielman put down his buckets and smiled gently. "Because that is what I am, Cohradin," he answered. "I am now sworn to peace in battle."

"What is this foolishness? Where are your spears? Your knife?"

"I broke my spears. My knife, I threw into the ocean."

The chief – Cohradin – made a spluttering sound.

The Aiel maiden – Roth had told Ysmet she was called 'Magda' – gasped.

The short Aielman looked concerned. "For how long will you be Gai'shain, my brother?" he asked, "for a year and a day?"

Gerom shook his big head slowly. "For the rest of my life, Chassin," he answered, "however long that may be." He nodded to Ruon, who was pouring water into the cistern and ignoring them. "Ruon yet wears the cadin'sor, to remind him of what he was, but since we were as Gai'shain to the Aes Sedai in the Age of Legends, I have put on the white in perpetuity." He sighed mournfully. "Do you not understand, my brothers? Our ancestors broke the Covenant. Their dishonour is ours. We have toh to the Aes Sedai that can only be met in one way. This way."

"That is nonsense!" the one called Cohradin shouted. His eyes narrowed alarmingly. "If you say we have toh to the Aes Sedai, then that much is true, I grant you – but do you think you can meet it by dressing up as a Gai'shain and doing a Gai'shain's work? That is not good enough!"

Gerom raised his large hands placatingly. "Please, Cohradin, let us not argue over it. I have made my choice."

"Well, it is a bad choice!" Cohradin continued to shout, "carry buckets around like that foolish Tomanelle Water Seeker over there all you want, you will never meet your toh that way! You think your honour greater than mine, Gerom? We shall see about that! I will show you – I will show you all!" And with that, Cohradin stalked angrily away, muttering furiously to himself. The other Aiel watched him go, bemused.

Ysmet watched also. Aiel really are the strangest people, she considered.

N'aethan sat on his old bed, in his old room, in the heart of the Dragon College. It felt strange to be back here, after so many years. The bed had a Keeping woven on it, like the tapestries and other items, or it probably would have crumbled to dust when he put his weight on it. He looked at the ornate door to his room, more sung-wood, with briars carved into it. His eyes were slightly glazed, focused on something far away. Remembering…

Tro sat on the bed in his room. He had never owned a bed before, nor a room either, for that matter. It was all much nicer than the cage had been, but he felt at something of a loss even so… what was he to do now? After dinner, Father had told him to get some sleep, but he did not feel remotely tired. He did not need to sleep much, part of what the ancient Aes Sedai called his 'Design.' His experiences within the crystal tubes, a powerful 'ter'angreal' he had been informed, were still very much with him. It was all rather a lot to take in, for one so young and inexperienced…

The fancy door of his room swung open without being knocked upon first and Tro looked up, expecting to see Father. Perhaps he had forgot to tell him something? Instead, a tall, pale youth stepped into the room, moving with serpentine grace. He closed the door quietly behind him. He had long white hair, like Tro's, and wore a dark coat and britches tucked into soft knee-boots. There was something rather disquieting about the youth. He did not say anything, but stood with his arms crossed, looking at Tro. Which was strange, since he had a white cloth tied over the upper half of his face, covering his eyes. Though he had never seen him before, Tro felt there was something oddly familiar about the youth, though he couldn't have said exactly what.

"Who you?" asked Tro.

"Taw." The youth's voice was whispery, eerie, seeming to echo in his mind as much as his ears. "And you are Tro."

"Yes, Three," affirmed Tro.

A half-smile appeared briefly on Taw's thin-lipped mouth. "Can you count?"

Tro blinked his strange eyes, then held up a hand, spreading his clawed fingers and thumb one by one. "One, two, three, four, five," he chanted.

"Good. I heard that is more than Wan could do, when he first arrived." Taw raised a pale, long-nailed hand. He extended the first finger. "Wan. Firstborn." A second finger. "Taw. Secondborn. Me." A third. "Tro. Thirdborn. That is you, Brother!"

"Brother?" Tro repeated, wonderingly. Apart from the hair, they did not seem very alike… and yet… Tro rose from the bed and moved to the centre of the room. Taw's head turned, covered eyes following him. "How you see me?" Tro asked.

"Easily," Taw responded, in his strange, whispering voice.

Tro considered a moment. "You scary, Brother!" he remarked.

At which, Taw did something disconcerting – he laughed. It sounded like the unquiet crumbling of rotten bones. "Yes, I am. I'm supposed to be. Father made me that way, all part of his Design."

"Where Wan?" Tro asked, "he our Brother too?"

"Yes he is. The Firstborn is at the War." Taw scowled darkly and Tro flinched. "Where I would be right now, if Father would bloody let me! I want to scourge the Shadow. I want to kill. Yes, I very badly want to kill something."

Tro thought about one of the visions he had seen in the ter'angreal. "Our Brother, Wan – he big?"

"Yes. Very big. And not very smart, either."

"I see him! In the… the…" Tro did not have the words to describe the ter'angreal, the crystalline tubes that glowed and pulsed.

Taw raised a thin, sardonic eyebrow. "The Tester? The ter'angreal, made up of crystal tubes?"

"Yes. That."

"Father must be getting desperate if he sent you in there so soon," Taw mused, in his disquieting voice. His expression became almost wistful. "I myself saw wonderful things in there, and terrible things also. I think that I preferred the terrible. But that is my nature, after all." Taw paused, then asked; "what else did you see, Tro?"

Tro blinked. With his limited vocabulary, it was impossible to describe such visions. "I... not have the words…"

"Oh, but you will. You strike me as being a fast learner, Brother… and you will need to be!" Taw abruptly grinned alarmingly, white teeth flashing in his pale face. "You know, my predecessor went in there and never came out? I suppose that he did not like what he saw." Taw shrugged his wide shoulders. "He was weak. We are strong, you and I. You have to be strong if you want to slay the Shadow."

"Want to! Very much!"

"Good enough. I like your claws, by the way. Wish I had some. Come." Taw went to the door, lingering when Tro did not immediately follow.

"Where go to?" Tro asked.

"Outside. You've never been outside, have you?"

"No," Tro muttered, blinking, then; "is allowed?"

"Of course not! But rules were made to be broken. Are you coming or not?"

Tro hesitated – then joined his Brother.

Taw nodded approvingly. "We shall have to be quiet," he told Tro, "there are Warmen guard on all the exits, but I know a way out to the forest that not even Father is aware of." He considered for a moment, then grinned again. "Oh, one last thing…" Swiftly, Taw raised the white cloth from his eyes – except that there were no eyes, just bare, pale skin. "Boo!" he hissed.

Tro screamed.

N'aethan smiled ruefully. Middle Brother and his dreadful sense of humour… but he had been kind to him, in his own, disconcerting way, had taught him much about the Dragon College and the world outside, which he had visited, though unauthorised to do so. He always went his own way, Taw did. He remembered the arguments that the Secondborn had with Father… he remembered much. Too much.

N'aethan opened his mouth and yawned hugely, exposing sharp, white teeth. It felt like an Age since he had last slept, even though it had only been the previous night, at the stedding, but mere sleep was not his intent. His sharp ears could pick up distant, rumbling, Ogier-sized snores emanating from Big Brother's old room. Feren had been impressed by the size of the bed in there, the largest item of sung-wood he had ever beheld – but had been confused by the soft toy bear, a golden circle on its chest, that had been reclining on the pillow. Apparently, the Ogier did not go in for such things…

Mitsu was out in the sitting room, keeping watch. When last N'aethan saw her, she was occupying a sung-wood armchair, feet propped up on a sung-wood stool, bared blade resting across her knees, dark, tilted eyes fixed on the doorway that led out to the hall. N'aethan didn't know why he trusted this strange assassin to watch over his sleep, but he did. She had sworn an oath, after all, and seemed to take such things very seriously.

Again, he thought about Father's message. He was not sure what to do about this weapon, The Breaker. Its name in the High, the Old Tongue, was more convoluted. He had gained a second opinion from Feren, and they both agreed that the closest translation for 'Bhan'dhjin Samma' was 'the eradicating terror that destroys.' This did not bode well. He supposed he must find it and dispose of it, if that were even possible. Perhaps his Sister had already located it? Yes, that was the other thing – he had a Sister! He was no longer the Last Lightborn! What was she like, he wondered? What would a female Lightborn comprise, personality-wise? But that was all for tomorrow, tonight he had an important task to carry out…

N'aethan removed his boots and lay down on the bed, shutting his eyes… but sleep eluded him. The mattress was too soft, that was the problem. In the end, he curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed, his sword unsheathed and near at hand, just in case. Somnolence soon descended upon him and in the blink of an eye, he was in the World of Dreams. Tel'aran'rhiod.

Unlike his last intentional visit to this eldritch place, he did not bother to adapt his corporeal form to a more normal template, but left his claws and ears the same as they appeared in the waking world. Though he was aware, with a vague sense of guilt, that he might have made himself a little taller… The stones of the Collam Aman became thin and insubstantial as he rose up through several levels to stand on the roof of the vast edifice, the dark green forest surrounding it on all sides. In the distance, N'aethan thought he could hear the howling of wolves, which added a touch of the familiar, he had not thought there were any of these creatures in this strange land. He glanced west, in the direction of the stedding, but knew better than to go there. They were one of the few places that did not seem to exist in the Dream World. Did Ogier dream? He was not sure. He would ask Feren, if he remembered to. Besides, he had another task, that night.

N'aethan closed his eyes and concentrated. This next bit was difficult, but Deindre Sedai had taught him how, long ago. She had been a good teacher… he wondered what had become of her? Most probably, she gave her life to create the Eye of the World, along with Solinda Sedai and the others. Someshta would know…

With difficulty, N'aethan blanked his rather undisciplined mind of all thoughts and feelings, entering a meditative state. When he opened his eyes again, he was floating in an expanse of endless darkness, punctuated by a myriad of tiny white lights. Each light a sleeping person; each light a dream. He sought out one light in particular, as he had before, when he came through the Portal Stone. Ellythia Sedai. There she was, a light seemingly no different from all of the others, but he knew instinctively that it was hers.

N'aethan approached. Cautiously, he entered Ellythia's dream. Where was he? A large manor house, whitewashed wood atop a foundation of dressed stone, loomed before him. There were many windows, a ramp leading up to wide double doors, stables and outbuildings clustered around the back. Tall poplar trees lined a driveway on either side, N'aethan walked down it, his feet crunching on gravel, and paused by the ramp. Should he go inside? Was Ellythia Sedai in there? There didn't seem to be anyone about… and then, a young maiden came trotting around the side of the manor house, mounted on a rather fat pony with white ribbons twined in its mane. Her chestnut hair was curled into ringlets, she wore a white sun-dress with divided skirts and matching slippers, an expression of detachment on her pretty face as she sang softly to herself…

N'aethan knew immediately that he was looking at Ellythia Sedai as she must have appeared a decade or so ago. The girl saw him at the same time he saw her and her dark eyes widened in surprise and delight.

"Naythan!" she squealed, slipping down from the pony, which promptly disappeared, and running towards him across the grass, graceful and light on her feet. As she ran, she changed, growing taller, more slender, older, until she became the person he had come to know and admire… and love… in the waking world. She flew into his arms, hugging him close and he held her tightly. "It is really you!" Ellyth cried, "I have missed you so much… I thought that I might never see you again!"

"Well, you see me now, Ellythia Sedai."

Ellyth stared at him in something like wonder. "You finally got my name right!"

"I have been practicing." N'aethan smiled fondly down at Ellyth. They kissed, for what seemed a long time.

"Is this real?" Ellyth murmured, when their lips finally broke contact, "it is a dream, yes?"

"Yes. And no. Quickly, tell me where you are being held – describe the place, so that I can find you!"

Ellyth visibly collected herself, her slim arms still draped about his shoulders. "It is an island, about a mile offshore from the mainland… there is a rough-hewn, granite fortress built at the southernmost end…" she blinked, "wait! There is a three-sided silver Spire, a relic of the Age of Legends. It stands upon a hill to the north of the castle…"

N'aethan nodded. "I can find that. Be patient, help is at hand."

Ellyth frowned, her delicate brows drawing down. "The Spire is a great ter'angreal, it prevents myself and the others from channeling… please hurry! They want to execute Shrina and Jabal!"

"I will hurry." N'aethan glanced at the big house. "What is this place, Ellythia Sedai?"

"Just 'Ellyth.' It is the manor where I was born. I often dream of it…"

"A coincidence! I am currently at the place of my birth, also!"

Ellyth smiled. "Where you were born in the Light, Naythan." N'aethan smiled back. "But how are you here, in my dream?"

"It is a talent I have, a gift from the Creator, mayhap." Quickly, N'aethan gave a brief explanation of Tel'aran'rhiod, and his ability to visit it. Ellyth listened intently, confusion giving way to acceptance and understanding.

"It must be marvellous, to walk in dreams," Ellyth murmured.

"It can be dangerous also…"

Ellyth looked him up and down. "So you can be anything and wear whatever you want, here? I must say, you look very smart…"

N'aethan glanced down at himself and realised that he was resplendent in the dress-uniform of a Warman Officer, complete with epaulettes and gold braid. He blushed. "Tis an Officer's garb and in truth, I have no right to it," he explained.

"Well, I think that it looks rather good on you, yes?" Ellyth smiled shyly. "Though I prefer you without…" She seemed to concentrate for a moment, and the Officer's uniform vanished, leaving N'aethan unclothed. He blinked. Well, it was her dream after all, she was in control. But this was Tel'aran'rhiod, and so was he. With a grin, N'aethan caused Ellyth's white dress to disappear. She was quite naked beneath – now, it was her turn to blush. They embraced and kissed again, more urgently this time, eyes closed. When they opened them, they hung in infinite darkness, studded with countless lights. Ellyth did not ask where she was, but merely accepted it, responding pleasingly to N'aethan's kisses and caresses, as he responded to hers. In the heart of the Dream, they floated in emptiness, giving and receiving pleasure in equal measure.

From a place of concealment far above, though 'above' was a relative concept in the Dream Void, pale blue eyes peered at them with interest through the eye-holes of a mask. An ancient, bronze mask, fashioned in the likeness of a smiling fox's face.

While even further above, bright, golden eyes warily watched the watcher...