In the Land of the Madmen

by Bob G. Leeman

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

10. Chapter 8 : The Bottle

Gleeman Bob writes: well, it is now 2018 & here is Chapter 8 of itLotM, a bit earlier than planned but I wanted to post it in time for the Feast of Lights... or New Year's Day, as it was once known, back in the primitive First Age. it did not take so long to write, since a big flashback in the middle was already waiting to go... I wrote it years ago, back during the posting of He Sleeps Under the Hill, and although there wasn't room in the already WAY too long book to include it, the scene was tentatively titled 'What Happened to Rashiel?' as we all know, the character of Rashiel Tamor, Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah, is introduced in Chapter 5 of HSUtH, where she and her old adversary Ellyth trade barbs & insults during an obligatory & gratuitous nude bathing scene. after the capture of the False Dragon Mazrim Taim, Ellyth & Rashiel (on better terms now) go their separate ways. Rashiel later reappears at Tar Valon in Chapter 8 of HSUtH, where she visits Renn in the Library... despite having a nicer hairstyle, she is wearing scruffy men's clothing, has Bonded herself a Warder (which, being a Red Sister, she really isn't supposed to do) and is covered in welts, having been cruelly whipped with the One Power. so, what happened to Rashiel in the intervening period? you are about to find out... read on!

but first, in order to properly celebrate the Feast of Lights, I thought it might be nice to have a... QUIZ! everyone loves quizzes, right? what? they don't? oh... well, let's have one anyway! there are various allusions, clues and hints scattered throughout both HSUtH & itLotM that I am not sure if the reader has picked up on, so it is time to test your knowledge and have some fun at the same time! if you wish to take part, then you will find the requisite 13 Questions at the end of this chapter, feel free to Private Message me with any or all of your answers. the quizzer who gets the most correct will win the MYSTERY GRAND PRIZE! however, if there is a tie, then the two high-scorers will be required to duel to the death for supremacy, in my special Arena of the Shadow, using poisoned Aran'gar & Osan'gar daggers! I know it sounds harsh, but there is only one prize, and I am sure you will agree that this is the fairest & most sensible way of deciding who gets it... so, let the contest commence!

Walk in the Feast of Lights!

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Ranim the Darkfriend assassin, once but no longer of the Travelling People, knelt on the too-green spongy grass, breathing deep, his frigid mind in turmoil. He did not particularly relish new experiences, had a conservative streak to his dark nature that made him prefer the reassuringly familiar over the troubling tides of change… and yet he had just been unwilling party to the strangest event of his short but violently active life.

Ranim forced himself to look up, cold blue eyes scanning the clearing around him for enemies, his hand moving automatically to the dark, Thakan'dar-forged knife at his belt. A score of his men, Darkfriends all, were scattered about the vicinity; an open space bordered by tall and unfamiliar trees. The air was humid, sultry, hotter than it had been back on the coast of the Dead Sea, from whence they had departed but a few scant minutes ago… minutes, but also an entire year, if the irritating Raven-man from the Shadow Library had surmised correctly. But the heat… clearly, they had travelled far indeed.

The charred skeleton of a small ship lay nearby, Ranim could just about equate the scorched craft with the one in which the White Tower witches and their pet Dragonspawn had escaped, for all that it was practically unrecognisable now. And of course, behind him stood the Portal Stone, the ancient artefact that had brought them here when linked with the other Stone that his Dread Mistress, her silly 'prentice and two of the Shadowrunning, channeling Aielmen had activated with their powers.

Ranim eyed the Portal Stone with distaste, trying not to think on the visions that had tormented him whilst voyaging through it. He very much hoped not to have to do so again and clearly, he was not the only one. Close by, Big Vaale crouched upon the ground, sobbing loudly as he clawed at the grass with large, muddy hands. Ranim's lip curled with contempt. The huge, dangerous Darkfriend was supposed to be a hard man, an unremitting killer, and yet there he was; crying like a baby! He should be ashamed of himself… Glancing around, Ranim noted that most of his men were in the same sorry state; blubbering and shuddering, though some just knelt or sat quietly, staring at nothing with shocked gazes.

"I am sorry, father… I did not mean to… you know that I would never harm you…" Big Vaale was moaning, in between the sobs. Ranim scowled. The bloody great oaf was supposed to be his lieutenant, his trusted subordinate… what sort of an example was he setting for the others? Ranim took three swift, stalking steps and kicked Big Vaale hard in the ribs, causing the massive, heavily-bearded Darkfriend to grunt with pain and surprise as he rolled onto his back. Wide, bloodshot eyes stared up at the slim, colourfully-clothed assassin.

"Control yourself, Vaale," Ranim snarled, "cease your weeping and whining, or I shall soon require a new lieutenant." He touched the hilt of his dark blade for emphasis. It was difficult to tell what Big Vaale thought of this rough treatment, since a heavy, black beard covered most of his face, giving him a bestial appearance, especially when combined with the bulky furs that he wore. Ranim did not care for beards; he thought them unhygienic and carefully shaved each morn, though in all honesty he did not yet really need to...

Big Vaale's dark eyes slowly cleared as awareness of his surroundings seeped into what passed for his consciousness… then, they narrowed slightly. Ranim allowed him this much defiance, but no more. Well, he had kicked him, after all. It had felt satisfying to do so, like chastening an ill-behaved dog. He had never really liked dogs, even well-behaved Tinker dogs, they were unhygienic too. As a boy, when still amongst the wagons of the Tuatha'an, Ranim had taken a mastiff puppy into the woods to a place of seclusion, and then brutally killed it with a sharp stone. Just to see what it felt like, to kill something. It had felt good. That had been a satisfying experience, also… the first of many.

Big Vaale sat up and sniffed loudly, rubbing at his broad nose. He glanced around. "So it worked, then?" he muttered, his voice deep and rough.

Ranim nodded. "Presumably. We are now in this 'Land of the Madmen' that the Sea Folk pirate warned us of, I would suppose."

"Better than the bloody Blight," Big Vaale growled, getting to his feet. Standing, he towered over Ranim, but there was little doubt which of the two was the more dangerous. "The Dread Mistress did not say ought of the nightmares…" Big Vaale mumbled, patting himself to check that his various concealed weapons were still there.

Ranim shrugged. Over and over, he had lived different lives, followed differing paths, but all had led inexorably to the Shadow. He found this recurrence of destiny eminently reassuring, though it had been a decidedly unpleasant experience, reliving certain events. One that he had no wish to repeat. He would swim back to the Westlands, if he had to! "I think me the Dread Mistress did not know," Ranim conjectured, "she has done many things in her long life, but told me that she has never yet travelled through a Portal Stone."

Big Vaale stared at Ranim, eyes wide. "But Mistress Kirikil knows all!" he objected.

Ranim sneered. He did not particularly like Vaale, the man was a lumbering brute with vile habits and he stank… despite being a surprisingly competent assassin who usually preferred to kill his victims with his powerful, bare hands; strangling them to death. Especially women… But then, Ranim did not particularly like anyone, himself included, and the obvious awe and respect Vaale held for his Dread Mistress was an attitude he could only approve of. Ranim believed that Vaale was some sort of a Borderlander, though the big man never spoke of his origins… the ex-Tuatha'an assassin did not really care, in any case. It was enough to know that Vaale, with whom he had worked before, was almost as proficient at the art of murder as he. Though less clinical in the way he went about it… well, each to his own.

Chuan came stumbling toward them, a lanky, dark-skinned man with a long-sword sheathed at his back, a perpetual half-smile twisting his lips. He sketched a salute at Ranim, since he had once been a soldier and yet had military habits ingrained into him. Chuan was a former Defender of the Stone, in fact, still wearing the faded, striped remnants of his old uniform… he had been cashiered for attempting to touch the Sword Callandor, whilst inebriated. As well as for a variety of other, less pleasant offences…

"Burn my soul, but that was nasty!" Chuan commented, to no-one in particular, "I kept living different lives and always ended up dead each and every time!"

"Everyone dies," Big Vaale pointed-out, morbidly.

"Some sooner than others," Ranim added, giving Chuan a cold stare.

If Chuan was concerned by this veiled threat, he gave no sign of it, continuing to smile faintly. The man was utterly fearless and also, Ranim suspected, not quite sane. But he was a skilled killer and knew how to obey an order, which was more than could be said for most of the sorry specimens under Ranim's reluctant command… he would so much rather have come here on his own, perhaps with Vaale and Chuan and a couple of the others who shared their competence, but leaving the rest of this rabble behind. The Dread Mistress had insisted on an incursion in force, however, so there it was.

Ranim disapprovingly regarded the score of Darkfriend brigands that filled the clearing. Clothed in furs and rough woollens, armed with various lethal blades, they were evidently in a bad state, though some were beginning to recover from the ordeal of travelling through the Portal Stone, picking themselves up and taking stock of their surroundings.

"Vaale, Chuan, make a head-count, see if there is anyone missing…" Ranim glanced at the edge of the clearing, his eyes narrowing. "I am going to talk to the Aielman." A tall figure, clad in dusty, grey and brown cadin'sor, was crouching over something at the tree-line. Ranim approached on soundless feet, but five paces away, the shoufa-wrapped head turned, revealing a red veil covering nose and mouth. A soft voice acknowledged him;

"Lost One."

Ranim scowled, then noticed what the Samma N'Sei was examining and moved closer. A dead Trolloc, wolf-muzzle gaping wide in a death-scream, in an advanced state of decomposition. Ranim wrinkled his nose with distaste. The only thing that smelled worse than a live Trolloc was a dead one…

The Eye Blinder rose, and turned to Ranim, empty green eyes staring above his veil. "This Shadow-twisted was slain with Fire," he reported, voice flat and toneless, "not ordinary flames, but those of the Power. Saidin."

"The raven saw a madman," Ranim commented, "if he is still about, I wish for you to deal with him, Shadowrunner."

The Samma N'Sei shrugged. "That is why I am here," he agreed, levelly. His inhuman eyes scanned the ground whilst Ranim took notice of further dead Trollocs and the still corpse of a headless Myrddraal… the lost patrol. Useless creatures, Shadowspawn, the Dread Mistress should have sent him the first time.

"The tracks are faint," the Eye Blinder muttered, moving about the edge of the clearing, Ranim following, "but it would appear that the souvraniene went that way…" he pointed east, "…and there were others, three I think, who came to this place from the same direction, then travelled north…" the Samma N'Sei paused, his blank eyes moving over the ground at his feet, "…at least, two of them did… one was carrying something heavy, the prints are deeper, and…" he trailed-off, eyeing Ranim expressionlessly.

"Yes?" Ranim prompted, impatiently, "you were saying..?"

"We are being watched," the Samma N'Sei whispered, "eyes are upon us, in the forest to our backs." Ranim began to turn his head. "Do not look, Lost One! You will alert them!"

Ranim scowled, but obeyed. "So what do you suggest, Shadowrunner?" he enquired, out of the corner of his mouth.

"My name is Edaryne, not Shadowrunner."

"Well, my name is Ranim, not Lost One!"

"Yes… Ranim. I suggest that we wait for the hidden watcher to depart, then follow them into the trees and wake them."

Ranim frowned, puzzled. "But what if they are not asleep?"

"What?"

"You speak of awakening them, Edaryne, but there is no guarantee that-"

"Wake means slay, Ranim."

Ranim blinked. "Oh. Kill them? Yes, I see. But I should like to ask them some questions first. Tell me, Edaryne, do you know how to torture prisoners?"

"Of course."

"As do I. But it has been a while. Can you use your channeling to elicit true answers?"

"After a fashion, though they will never be the same again when I have finished with them."

Ranim shrugged. "That does not matter. Are they still watching us?"

Edaryne shook his cloth-swathed head. "I no longer sense eyes upon me, they are gone now. Come, Ranim." Without another word, the Eye Blinder turned and moved stealthily into the trees, pulling a short-hafted spear from the harness at his back.

Ranim followed silently, drawing his dark blade from its sheath, feeling the customary excitement that imminent blood-letting always engendered. It was the only pleasure he knew, or cared to know. He had lain with a Tanchico courtesan once, to see what it was like, but the experience had not come close to the sheer delight of murder. Though it had been enjoyable enough to kill the girl, after the disappointing act was concluded, so he supposed that she had earned her coin after all… just not in the way she had anticipated.

Ranim knew that he did not possess much in the way of feelings, but he had some, at least. Whereas, he rather doubted that the Samma N'Sei leading the way into the forest felt anything at all, anymore. Edaryne had been Turned to the Shadow, and as far as Ranim was aware, the experience left very little inside a person that could still be classed as human… assuming that Aiel savages even counted as human in the first place?

As they crept further into the shadows beneath the tall trees, which effectively blotted out much of the bright sunlight, Ranim's wariness increased. Over and above Edaryne sensing that they were being watched, his own instincts were indicating near danger, and since he did not have much of an imagination, he had learned to trust such warning signs as reality rather than make-believe.

Edaryne abruptly ceased his forward progress, balanced on the balls of his feet, spear poised. Ranim was not tall enough to look over the Aielman's shoulder so, frowning, took a soundless step to the side to see what he saw. Up ahead, what was left of a Draghkar had been bound securely to a thick tree-trunk, marks of violent interrogation on its twisted body, torn wings drooping, head slumped forward.

A young woman, pale-skinned and barefoot with short, dark hair, was leaning against the tree, unconcernedly examining her fingernails. She wore an overlarge shirt and trews of frayed, black cloth, was of middling height and seemed altogether unremarkable.

Ranim and Edaryne exchanged a wordless glance, then moved forward silently. The strange girl immediately raised her head and stared at them. Ranim's steps faltered; she had blank, soul-less eyes and there were fresh blood-stains around her thin-lipped mouth. Clearly, whoever she was, she was not to be underestimated.

"Take her!" hissed Ranim.

Edaryne raised his free hand, squinting at the girl as she moved casually toward them. Ranim expected something to happen, her progress to be impeded by some working of the One Power, but nothing of the sort transpired. The Eye Blinder let his arm drop to his side, limply. When he spoke, he sounded almost shocked… the first outright emotion Ranim had heard in his voice. "My weaves… I make attempt to wrap her in bonds of Air, but the flows melt when they touch her," Edaryne mumbled confusedly. The girl smiled slightly as she advanced on them, a predator stalking prey. Ranim was more accustomed to it being the other way around. Edaryne tugged down his red veil and bared his sharp, filed teeth.

"It is a good day to die!" the Samma N'Sei shouted, then leapt forward, plunging his spear-blade into the pale girl's chest. This did not concern her overmuch, no blood issued from the wound… she simply reached up with inhuman speed, placing a hand to either side of her attacker's head, and broke his neck easily with a sickening snap. Edaryne collapsed bonelessly to the ground to lie curled and twitching at the girl's bare feet. Then, he lay still.

Ranim felt absolutely no sense of loss at his comrade's demise, he had been planning to kill the Eye Blinder himself in any case, once the Shadowrunner's usefulness was at an end… rather, his regret was reserved for himself in failing his Dread Mistress, since he was in all probability about to die, his mission unfulfilled. Ranim watched with fascination as the young woman – though he did not now think that she was a woman – calmly plucked the spear from her chest and tossed it carelessly away. Through the hole in her shirt, Ranim saw torn, pale skin meld together, leaving no trace of a wound. The inhuman girl gazed down at the dead Samma N'Sei for a moment, nostrils flaring as she seemed to inhale something, then she looked up, an expression of elation flickering over her blank, pallid features.

Knowing that it was almost certainly a doomed effort, Ranim lunged forward, stabbing with his Thakan'dar-forged blade. His opponent flowed to one side, avoiding the swift and deadly attack with contemptuous ease. Ranim rapidly slashed at her throat, but she slipped easily beneath the blade. She was smiling again now, and Ranim felt himself becoming angered. He was no object of amusement, he was not to be toyed with by this smirking monster! Ranim feinted at her eyes, then forward-rolled and swept his dagger upwards in a lightning-fast disembowelling stroke. It was a move that he had practiced assiduously, winning no few desperate knife-fights with the technique… but this time, a small, pale hand slapped down on his wrist, gripping and wrenching with abnormal force, whilst a bare foot lashed out and kicked him extremely hard in the abdomen.

Ranim landed on his back beside Edaryne's still corpse, eyes wide, winded… whilst the monster that resembled a girl stood over him, holding his prized blade, examining it with apparent interest. She spoke for the first time, her voice as blank as her eyes; "forged at Thakan'dar… quenched in the blood of an innocent… I have not seen one of these in a long time…" She conversed in the Vulgar speech, tinged with an accent he could not place. She looked up, fixing Ranim with her inhuman gaze. "You are an assassin of the Shadow, boy?"

Ranim scowled. He did not appreciate being called 'boy.' As he was yet too breathless to speak, he merely nodded.

"As am I," the creature holding his dark knife commented, "we are both of us Shadow-sworn assassins… though you are but a pale reflection of me." Without another word, the monstrous young woman stooped beside the Eye Blinder's corpse, slashed open his bared throat with the Thakan'dar dagger and, dropping to all fours, fastened her eager mouth over the wound. Ranim struggled to sit up and watched as the creature greedily drank the blood from Edaryne's still-warm body, to the accompaniment of nauseating, wet, suction-sounds. The sight did not overly concern him, he had seen worse, though not by much… but he found the noises distasteful. Blood-sucking… now what did that make him think on? Something that the Dread Mistress had spoken of..?

Meal complete, the monster raised its head from its kill, licking the gore from thin lips with a long tongue. Dark, empty eyes met the shocked gaze of Ranim… no, not quite empty… there was a spark in them now, engendered by bloodlust, a look of satisfaction on its pale face that had not been there before. It was then that Ranim abruptly realised what it was that he must be facing. "You are a Gholam!" he wheezed, clutching at his bruised belly.

The Gholam blinked slowly. "You have heard of my kind?" it responded, tonelessly.

"Not I… my Dread Mistress has… you must be the one she sought."

The Gholam sat back on its heels, considering. "Interesting. And I thought knowledge of the Gholamin all-but lost. Except amongst the Chosen." It pinned Ranim with a disturbingly blank stare. "This Mistress of yours; is she Lanfear? Graendal? Semirhage?"

"No, none of them, though she aspires to the rank of Chosen…" Ranim was well aware that it was his Dread Mistresses' dearest desire to be numbered amongst the favoured elite of the Great Lord of the Dark, to be rewarded with the immortality that she craved, and he wished her well of it. "Her name is Arachnae Kirikil, an ancient and potent wielder of the One Power, and wisest of all Friends of the Dark."

The Gholam shrugged. "Never heard of her."

"My Dread Mistress sent me to this place to seek out her enemies, three Tar Valon witches and the Dragonspawned creature that serves them."

The Gholam tensed. "The Dragonspawn, say you? Now him, I have heard of." There seemed to be something almost avid in the Gholam's manner now… Ranim felt his interest in the deadly creature increase. He struggled to his feet, watching the Gholam warily as it, too, rose smoothly. "What know you of me, boy-assassin?" the Gholam demanded.

Ranim scowled again, but answered readily enough; "I ken that you are Shadowspawn of a rare kind, created during the War of Power… that you subsist on blood, and cannot be harmed with an ordinary weapon… that you stand immune to channeling…"

The Gholam nodded approvingly. "You are passing knowledgeable for one of this debased Age," it observed, patronisingly. "It seems unlikely, since you are yet alive, but have you ever encountered a Gholam before?"

Ranim shook his head curtly. "No. I think me that you are the very last of your fell kind, Gholam."

Now it was the Gholam's turn to shake its head. "Not so. One of my Brothers yet exists, somewhere far to the north. I sense him, as he doubtless senses me. He awoke a time ago, presumably from a Stasis Box, as did I."

"I saw this Box," Ranim revealed, "within a hidden place of the Age of Legends, set beneath a great statue."

The Gholam nodded. "The Cenotaph," it muttered, frowning slightly.

"That place was destroyed in its entirety, by some great working of the One Power."

The Gholam smiled thinly, then wiped the blood from its mouth with the back of its hand. "This news pleases me. I have ill memories of the time I dwelt there. It sounds as though the accursed Traitor's saidin-well was unleashed, that self-destruction was initiated."

Ranim had no idea what the Gholam was talking about. "What now?" he asked quietly. The Gholam gazed at him for a long moment, and the young assassin was well aware that his life hung in the balance. Then, the Gholam arrived at a decision, and passed Ranim his blade back, hilt first. He took the knife, wiped it clean of Edaryne's blood on the side of one of his garish, crimson knee-boots and returned the dark weapon to its sheath.

The Gholam was examining him, head tilted slightly to one side. "Why are you dressed like that?" it wanted to know.

In addition to the boots, Ranim wore sky-blue britches and a bright yellow shirt, whilst a colourful coat striped in green and orange, combined with a red-and-white polka-dot neckerchief, completed his wardrobe. Feeling self-conscious, Ranim answered; "I was once of the Tuatha'an, the Travelling People. I yet garb myself as they, for reasons of mine own."

"You look ridiculous," the Gholam remarked rudely, then turned and began to stalk further into the forest. "Come, boy, I have something to show you," it declared, as it did so.

Glaring at the Gholam's back, Ranim followed it into the trees. He rather detested the creature, for all that its nature was undoubtedly compelling, but knew that his Dread Mistress would be pleased with him… he had found her Gholam! She might be able to unleash it upon the Aes Sedai of the White Tower after all!

A few spans away, the Gholam and Ranim came to a small glade. A thickset man lay on his back, a wooden club studded with what looked like shark's teeth resting near to his outstretched hand. He was dead, very dead, his throat torn open… Ranim recalled that the Gholam had blood besmirching its lips before it had fed on the unfortunate Edaryne, and assumed that this was the reason why. Nearby, a tall woman was slumped against a fallen log; she had been gagged, as well as bound hand and foot, with strips of her own, torn clothing; a buckskin kilt and jerkin. Dark eyes glared up at them; a scalp-decorated lance, snapped in twain, lay discarded to one side. For some reason, both corpse and prisoner had their faces painted, in a stylised, feathery design, making them resemble fierce birds of prey. Though in the Gholam, they had encountered something infinitely fiercer than they.

"Who is this?" Ranim wondered, idly turning the captive woman's head with his boot, to better examine her decorated face. Her eyes stared defiance and hatred up at him.

"A scout," the Gholam explained, "one of the Hawx. Descendants of the High King's lost Eastern Army, they came here a long time ago, and I came with them. All part of my then-Master's plan."

"Why have you not killed her?"

"I was saving her for later. Do you wish to question the prisoner?"

Ranim shrugged. "Does she know anything that you do not, Gholam?"

"I doubt it."

"Well, in that case…"

After he had cut the scout's throat and the Gholam had drained her dry, an action that had made him feel slightly like a butcher, Ranim regarded the rare Shadowspawn assassin curiously. "Who is this Master that you mentioned?" he wondered, "is it… Ishamael?"

The Gholam shook its head, mouth and chin bloody once more. It certainly was a messy eater… "Not he, though I served the Betrayer of Hope briefly once. My last Master amongst the Chosen was Aginor, he who made me. I was sent to assassinate the one the Light-sworn fools called 'the Defector,' the Traitor Aes Sedai, Chaime Kufer, but he…" the Gholam trailed-off and scowled. "Never mind! Suffice it to say; I was captured, suborned, reconditioned… my present Mistress is the War-Construct Feir the Fourthborn, nominally Daughter to the Traitor and Sister of the Dragonspawn. It is she who commands me in all things… and I would have it otherwise!"

Ranim raised his reddish eyebrows. So the Dragonspawn had kin, did it? An interesting development. Family were a weakness that could be exploited, after all. "Perhaps my Dread Mistress can aid you in freeing yourself?" Ranim suggested, "there are none alive, but for the Chosen, who know more of the Shadow's dark arts than she… what has been done may be undone."

The Gholam considered a moment, then shrugged. "I have little to lose," it muttered.

"And everything to gain," Ranim pointed-out smoothly, congratulating himself on his keen diplomacy. With the Gholam at her command, the Dread Mistress might well become Chosen. And then, Ranim knew that she could finally reward him with that which he desired above all else… the blessed strains of the Great Lord of the Dark's divine Song.

"Betray me and I will make you beg for death, boy," the Gholam warned.

"I do not fear death and my name is 'Ranim,' not boy!"

The Gholam smiled coldly. "Very well… Ranim." It raised a thin eyebrow. "This is the Land of the Madmen, not a Troubadour Show! You will stand-out like a Cohra-dancer in a Purity Temple in that loud garb… you had best consider a change of clothing." Ranim nodded sulkily. The Gholam began to head back to the main clearing. "Let us examine the Portal Stone. There may be a way to send a message to your sagacious Mistress through it."

"Doubtful!" Ranim commented, hurrying after the Gholam, "given that you killed and drank the blood of our only channeler!"

"There is more than one way to skin a cat," the Gholam responded mysteriously. It came to a halt, considering for a moment, then enquired; "will your Mistress mind that I drained dry her Shadow-sworn Da'shain?"

"Not remotely," Ranim responded, "she has more Samma N'Sei at her disposal, and besides, the Shadowrunner was most probably a spy." What is a Da'shain? he wondered, but did not trouble to ask. They resumed walking, though as they came to the place where the dead Eye Blinder and the deader Draghkar languished, Ranim called out; "wait!"

The Gholam paused and turned, expressing impatience. "What is it?"

"Hold still." Ranim plucked the spotted kerchief from about his neck, wet it with his water-bottle and carefully wiped the traces of blood from the frowning Gholam's mouth and chin. "There. That is better…"

Meanwhile, Big Vaale and Chuan stood looking down at Rill, without much in the way of sorrow. The slender man lay upon his back, hands raised, stiff fingers clawed, an expression of profound dread set upon his rigid face.

"What do you think killed him?" Big Vaale wondered, not particularly caring.

"Fright, by the looks of it," Chuan speculated, smiling faintly.

At the other end of the clearing, the rest of the Darkfriends stood assembled, impatiently awaiting the order to move out. An order that could only be given by one man.

Chuan glanced concernedly at the trees into which Ranim had ventured with the Aielman, and not for the first time. "The Terrible Tinker has been gone quite a while now," he commented.

Big Vaale laughed, a harsh bark of mirth. "Call him that to his face, I dare you!"

"No chance!" Chuan refused, grinning, then added; "think we should go look for him?"

Big Vaale shrugged his broad shoulders. "Mayhap…"

But then, the former Tuatha'an assassin whom they obeyed implicitly stepped silently from the forest, though instead of the red-veiled Aielman, Ranim now had a slight, pale young woman with short, dark hair, walking sinuously beside him. The score of Darkfriend brigands stared as the two of them crossed the clearing, Big Vaale and Chuan most of all.

Ranim did not trouble to make introductions as they reached the pair of Shadow-sworn killers, just stood looking down at the cold corpse dispassionately. The newcomer's blank eyes were fixed on the Portal Stone. "What happened to Rill?" Ranim asked, quietly.

Big Vaale answered; "which we found him like this. Seems that whatever those visions were we saw whilst coming through the Stone, Rill just couldn't take 'em."

Ranim pursed his lips slightly as he considered this. "Is anyone else dead?"

"No, Boss," answered Chuan, "all present and correct."

"Some are a bit the worse for wear," Big Vaale added, then scowled darkly, "but they'll tend to their duty or I'll know the reason why."

Whilst they provided their report, both Darkfriends were yet peering curiously at the pale girl. She ignored them, continuing to stare at the ancient stone artefact.

"Remove Rill's garments," Ranim commanded, "we are of a size, and I need a change of clothes, apparently…" He eyed the Gholam pointedly, but this went unnoticed, then muttered; "I just hope that he didn't soil himself, dying folk often do…"

Big Vaale sniffed, hairy nostrils flaring. "Trust me, he didn't."

"Always was very considerate, was Rill," Chuan commented, going down on one bony knee beside the corpse, beginning to unlace the shirt.

"Uh… Boss?" Big Vaale enquired.

"Yes, Vaale?"

"What happened to the Eye Blinder?"

"It was quick. He did not suffer, overmuch."

"Oh…"

Chuan glanced up. "Can I ask a question too?"

Ranim sighed. "If you must, Chuan."

Chuan pointed at the pale, slim young woman. "Who is she?"

Ranim very rarely smiled, but he did now, lips twitching as he eyed his new-found companion complacently. She eyed him back, with dark, soul-less eyes. "Oh… her… she is a Friend." His cold smile widened perceptibly. "And she's on our side."

---

O to you who read this missive I now make my bold request;

and so turn ye not to northwards, steering neither east nor west

but continue on your passage to the sere and sunlit south

though do heed this wilful warning from the Gleeman's guileless mouth;

that this Land is filled with Madmen who do wield the Dragon's Power

yet I humbly beg for succour in my drear and darksome hour!

I was stranded with my Lady when our ship was sadly lost

seek for us beyond the coral reef 'pon which our craft was tossed

you will know you've made right landfall when you spy a sunken mast

projecting from the waves where lionfishes make repast!

My fellow shipwrecked mariners do hope to eke be saved

and brought straight home un-murdered, neither eaten nor enslaved!

So sail steadily to windward 'til this barren strand ye reach

and I'll meet you with a glad heart on an arid, sandy beach

why, with golden harp and silver tongue I'll welcome you with song;

should ye rescue poor Roth Blucha then you'll not have done him wrong!

message discovered in a bottle, Great Southern Ocean;

translated from High Chant into the Vulgar Script

by Kivan din Rieta Sting Ray; deck-hand of the Stormchaser & Scholar of Clan Waketa

---

Chapter Eight * The Bottle

Red-eyed Cohradin of the Da'tsangs clambered wearily from out of the deep pit that he had spent most of the afternoon digging, his dark, frayed robe much besmirched with what was, appropriately enough, wet sand… for was he not of Wet Sands Hold? He had been gone from his home in Shaido lands for a long time now, how long he was not entirely sure. Distantly, Cohradin speculated about his goat… was it eating the correct kind of desert grasses, and not the wrong kind that gave it the debilitating goat-bloat? Had it made a sad mess of his Roof, as it so often did? Hopefully, the ill-behaved goat had not trespassed within Gerom's library, to chew upon his prized books…

Gerom was a placid fellow, except in the Dance of Spears, for all that he was now cravenly sworn to Peace in Battle for the rest of his boring life, but he had become quite angry on the last occasion that Cohradin's goat (it did not have a name) left teeth-marks in a rare volume, and had threatened to wake it from the Goat-Dream if it ever transgressed in like-fashion again. Gerom did not make idle threats, and the goat had avoided him assiduously from then on, its behaviour becoming almost bearable for a brief while.

Cohradin gazed vacantly down into the pit he had dug, breathing deep, his back resolutely turned to the disconcerting Ocean, which he did not care to look upon. His black robe, the mark of the Da'tsang, flapped about his legs in the fitful breeze. Again, he wondered about the large chest that he had found the garment in. Piled with other items salvaged from the foundered Wetlander ship, stacked behind one of the huts, it had mostly contained women's apparel… though not the raiment of either the Captain or the Aes Sedai of their camp, the dresses and shifts and other things had all been too big.

Cohradin had no idea that he was wearing the velvet morning-gown of the Queen Mab's second-mate, lost to hungry lionfish in the wreck, an eccentric fellow much given to transvestism. This was probably just as well.

Hefting the spade he had borrowed without asking from a pile of similar tools, Cohradin sighed loudly, then began to slowly fill the pit back in. His pride at declaring himself Da'tsang in order to assuage the shame of his ancestors breaking the Covenant remained strong as ever, he was yet pleased with himself for having thought of so clever a way of meeting his enormous toh to the Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends, even though they were all presumably long-dead and would never know about it. Even so… carrying heavy rocks up and down hills, helping the peculiar Gen look for particular kinds of sea-shells, digging deep pits in the sand and then filling them in again… it was all rather tedious. Especially searching for the foolish shells… he would need to think of some new useless labour to engage in, and soon. Invention had never been Cohradin's strong suit, however, perhaps Gerom would provide some sort of suggestion? Probably not, though, the big Gai'shain was doubtless still annoyed with him, for so intelligently winning the contest of honour.

"Cohradin!" At the deep-voiced shout, Cohradin looked up, wiping sweat from his brow with the hand that was not clutching the purloined spade, leaving dirty streaks of damp sand on his skin. Think of someone and they then appeared, it would seem… Gerom was striding down the beach toward him, his white robes looking as incongruous as ever.

"Who is this Cohradin?" Cohradin enquired, truculently. "I am Da'tsang, and now have no name."

Gerom frowned as he reached the pit, peered down into it, then frowned further. "Do you persist in this foolishness, Cohradin?" he demanded.

"I do!" Cohradin answered boldly, then scowled. "And it is not foolish, I merely meet my toh, as you should also, Gerom. Come, my brother, put on the black robe and join me in back-breaking, worthless toil… we shall be Despised Ones together, our honour restored!"

Gerom shook his large head. "Always do you take things too far, Cohradin," he observed, chidingly, "I would that old Sadora were here, to beat some sense into you with her heaviest stick."

Cohradin winced at the thought of the terrifying ancient Wise One of their Hold, then sneered. "Do you not have some water to carry, Gai'shain?" he asked rudely, adding; "leave me be, I have a Da'tsang's work to do…" Cohradin inexpertly shoved the spade into the pile of sand at his side, then blinked in surprise as Gerom snatched the implement from him, breaking the haft over his knee and hurling the pieces into the waves. "That was the only spade, Gerom!" Cohradin protested, "I mean; that was the only spade, Gai'shain! I shall have to dig with my hands now!" Well, he was, or had been, Sovin Nai… but could a former Knife Hand also be a Spade Hand? Was there such a thing, even? He did not think so…

Gerom ignored Cohradin's ire. "Someone has come who wishes to speak with you."

"Whom?"

"Her." Gerom turned his large head, nodding toward the camp.

Cohradin looked. Two people were walking down the beach towards them, taking the path left by Gerom's deep footprints in the sand. One was clearly the brother of the missing Aes Sedai, Ellythia Desiama, he who had absconded and been sought by the Nightwatcher. Cohradin could not remember what the fellow's exact name was, he had always been bad at recalling such things. And the other person… was no person at all! Cohradin's mouth fell open. He gasped, eyes wide, even the red one.

The blonde Lord Whitecloak and the tall young woman with the mane of russet hair skirted the pit and stood before Cohradin and Gerom, expectantly.

"So, this is the other Da'shain?" enquired the female stranger in a high, clear voice. Lord Whitecloak crossed his arms and stood still, watching.

"This is he," confirmed Gerom, gesturing at Cohradin helpfully.

"Hello there, Cohradin," greeted Lord… Thaeus! That was it…

Cohradin did not respond, continuing to gape at the woman. She frowned slightly. "Is he alright?" she wondered, "can't he talk?" She waved a pale, long-nailed hand back and forth in front of Cohradin's blue and red eyes. "Hello? Anyone in there?"

"Foxwoman!" Cohradin croaked.

The red-headed woman with the large, almost colourless eyes was frowning less slightly now. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean… Foxwife!"

"Fox what?"

It all came flooding back to Cohradin in a torrent of bizarre memory, something he but rarely thought of… his oosquai-fuelled trespassing into the Forbidden City of Rhuidean to seek the Jenn Aiel, his passing through the twisty red door-thing… and within, the place that did not make sense, inhabited by… Foxpeople! And here was one of them, right there, looking at him as though he were mad! Well, perhaps he was… this was the Land of the Madmen, after all…

"What did you call me?" the Foxwoman was demanding.

"Foxperson!" Cohradin managed to say, then pointed at the Foxwoman to illustrate that he meant her.

"Cohradin, this is Feir, the Nightwatcher's sister," Gerom explained, patiently. He turned to the Foxwoman. "Forgive him, he is not quite himself…"

"Vron'cor has no sister!" Cohradin refuted, then declared; "this red-maned Foxwoman is an impostor if she claims to be his kin! I have seen her kind before, in… in…" He trailed-off, eyeing Gerom cautiously.

"In where, Cohradin?" Gerom asked, in his deep tones.

"Rh… dnn…"

"I did not hear that, my brother. Speak louder."

"Rhuidean…" Cohradin muttered, extremely reluctantly.

Gerom raised his eyebrows. "Rhuidean? You went there? But you are no Sept Chief! You did not have a Wise One's permission!" He shook his head slowly back and forth, disapprovingly.

"Well, I went there anyway!" Cohradin snapped, "I did not intend to, it just sort of happened… I was very drunk, and in much pain!"

Gerom's accusatory expression cleared. "Of course… the notorious night at Chaendaer when you wore a borrowed dress and angered Sulin of the Taardad with your ill-conceived bridal-wreath jest and she then beat you into a whimpering pulp!"

"Yes, that night, my brother, and I would ask that you not speak of it again!"

"Which, the entire night or just the part about Sulin?"

"Sulin, of course! I sincerely hope that she is one day made Gai'shain to a whole Fist of Shadow-twisted and they then force her to do their vile and stinking laundry! Pray do not mention her name to me ever again!"

"I will not…" Gerom frowned thoughtfully. "So, you went to Rhuidean, which is forbidden-"

"I know this! This is something that I know!"

"-and there you claim to have encountered more people who resemble the Nightwatcher's sister, who now stands here glaring at you?"

"No! That is wrong! The Foxpeople were not in Rhuidean itself, but dwelling inside of the red door made out of stone that stood close by to Avendesora!"

Gerom gaped. "The Tree of Life? You saw it? Why, that is-"

"Excuse me." Cohradin and Gerom glanced at Feir. Her large eyes were cold and she was baring her sharp teeth slightly. Thaeus Desiama made to put a restraining hand on her slim arm, but then thought better of it. "Much as I hate to interrupt the fascinating reminisces, good Da'shain, I wish to make one or two points…" She directed a warning stare at Cohradin. "Firstly, I am the Sister of Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, and if you call me an impostor again, witless Brother of the Erotic Dance, then I shall punch and kick you until I grow weary, then tip you into this grave that you have so thoughtfully dug for such a purpose and proceed to fill it in, whether or not you are still breathing!" Feir made a soft, growling sound, then continued; "secondly; I am not a foxwoman or a foxwife nor a foxperson or whatever other strange thing your addled mind thinks I am, I happen to be the War-Construct Feir, Fourthborn in the Light, and… and I…" Feir blinked her large, pale eyes, clearly recalling something. "Hold! Did you say something about a red door, lack-witted Da'shain? Fashioned of stone?"

"Why, yes!" Cohradin replied promptly, not wishing to be buried alive.

"The Eelfinn Doorway!" Feir exclaimed, excitedly, "it must be! Where is this 'Rhuidean' place of which you speak?"

"It is in the Three-fold Land," Cohradin and Gerom answered, more-or-less at the same time.

"Oh. I don't know where that is. Can you be more specific?"

"It is where we Aiel live," Gerom explained.

"Our place of testing and punishment," Cohradin added. He was starting to think that this rather severe female named 'Feir' might be the Nightwatcher's sister after all, she certainly spoke and behaved as he did… and though she definitely resembled a Foxperson, the hair and ears in particular, her skin was not so pale as theirs nor her teeth quite so sharp. She seemed much less inhuman than they, in fact. Though, like Vron'cor, she certainly was not human, that much was clear.

"So… you have been to Sindhol?" Feir enquired of Cohradin, giving him an appraising look.

"If that is the name of the confusing place with the many round windows and doors, then yes, I have visited there," Cohradin stated.

"And they let you leave?" Feir demanded, in tones of disbelief.

"Yes indeed! They greatly wished for me to go, in fact… I had drunk much oosquai and behaved poorly, upsetting the Foxpeople in many ways…"

Feir shook her head slowly. "You must be unbelievably lucky, Erotic Dancing Da'shain… either that, or the Creator must quite like you!" Cohradin was not sure how to respond to this, so said nothing. "And they are not called 'Foxpeople,' they are named 'Eelfinn,' or just 'the Foxes' if you prefer brevity."

"Foxes… like in Bili beneath the Hill!" Thaeus Desiama chimed-in.

Feir eyed him neutrally. "Gwili," she corrected.

Cohradin blinked, recalling the odd fellow who had interceded with the Foxpeople on his behalf. "Gwili… that is what the man in the fox-mask called himself, I remember now."

Feir's pale eyes snapped back to Cohradin. "You met Uncle Gwili?"

Cohradin nodded. "He is your father-brother? Well yes, I certainly met him, though I do not recall much that we spoke of… I think that it was he who did all of the talking, in fact, for I was feeling enormously unwell by this point. But it was this strange masked fellow and none other who made the Fox- I mean, the Eelfinns, grant me my three wishes!"

Feir blinked slowly. "You confuse me, peculiar Da'shain," she muttered, "and I am not oft confused! Are you perhaps from my time? You have a seia'dor optical-implant, which I presume are no longer to be found in this primitive Age, and you claim to have met Gwilimin Leafwright, Aes Sedai, who walked in the world more than three millennia gone… did you too sleep in a Stasis Box? Despite appearances and behaviour to the contrary, are you a Da'shain of the Age of Legends, as they now call it?"

Cohradin shook his head firmly. "The magickal red eye was in the Nightwatcher's Father-Hold, your brother gave it me to replace the one I lost when the big… yes, well, never mind that… as for this box fashioned of heartstone which you mention, I should say that such an enchanted sleep is not for a lowly algai'd'siswai… that is to say, not for a lowly Da'tsang such as me, only a Hero of Legend might endure it…" Feir's eyes narrowed. "Or a Heroine of Legend, such as the sister of Vron'cor!" Cohradin added, hastily and ingratiatingly. Feir nodded, looking pleased.

"What were these wishes of yours, my brother?" Gerom rumbled, curiously.

Cohradin shrugged. "Oh, I asked the Foxfolk for three special spears with which you, Chassin and myself might kill the Dark One!"

Feir stared. "Are you insane?" she demanded, incredulous, "you're not supposed to request anything to do with the Shadow! That's incredibly dangerous! And why do you refer to yourself as a 'despised one?' That seems odd…"

"Light! What is going on?" Thaeus unexpectedly shouted. They all looked at him. "Foxes, boxes, red eyes and special spears… and bloody Bili beneath the flaming Hill, let us not forget! I don't understand any of this! I am confused!"

Feir smiled and patted Lord Whitecloak affectionately on the cheek. "There, there, milord, such esoteric subjects may not be for you to concern yourself with. Perhaps you had better go back to the camp and arrange some accommodation for us? It's getting late and I expect that we shall be staying the night…"

"With pleasure!" Thaeus agreed, exasperated. He turned and stomped away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

"Remember," Feir called after him, "I want a room without a fire!" She returned to Cohradin. "What did you do with those spears that the Foxes gave you?" she asked, quietly.

Cohradin frowned. "If I show them to you, Nightwatcher's sister, then you must promise not to laugh at me!" he entreated. Feir nodded solemnly. Cohradin then reached beneath his black robe, taking something out of the belt-pouch he wore beneath. He extended his hand silently. Feir and Gerom peered at the three miniature metallic spears that lay upon Cohradin's palm. The finger-length weapons appeared to be made out of some unknown, shiny metal, engraved with miniscule script, which had always been too small for him to attempt to read.

"See?" Cohradin growled, incensed, "the mischievous Foxfolk tricked me! How can one possibly slay Sightblinder with these… these… children's toys!"

"Who is Sightblinder?" Feir wondered.

"That is an Aiel name for the Dark One," Gerom explained, whilst shaking his head disappointedly over the absurdly small spears. "We also call him Leafblighter."

"And Wormlover!" Cohradin added, spitefully.

"Only you call him that, Cohradin. No other Aiel does."

"Well, Shai'tan does love worms! Not the small, innocuous Wetlander worms, I mean the enormous, purple kind, that live in the Blight and devour people whole!"

"Sounds a bit like an immature jumara to me," Feir muttered absently, looking closer, her lips moving soundlessly as she deciphered the tiny ancient writing scribed onto the diminutive weapons. Then, she looked up at Cohradin, smiling mysteriously, her sharp teeth flashing in the waning sunlight. "Toy spears, Cohra-dancer?" she commented. All Feir would further say on the matter was; "you might be surprised!"

---

Rashiel Tamor, Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah, lay on a dirt floor in the darkness, sobbing quietly to herself. It was not so much the agony she currently endured that made her weep, mere pain was something that she could ignore with the same equanimity as heat or cold, an act of mental discipline that had come easily to her in the later training she had received at the White Tower. No, it was what was to come next that froze her soul with horror, that made Rashiel lose her grip on the powerful self-control that had been a key facet of her character since long before she had been delivered to Tar Valon against her will, when first she began to channel. Even as a young child growing up in the slums of the Rahad, she had never cried and rarely expressed fear or sadness, no matter the harsh exigencies that the hard life of the poorest strata of Ebou Dari society laboured under. Perhaps it was the added factor of keeping her father's terrible secret that had made her so guarded against evincing emotion?

But now, covered in welts from head to toe, clad only in the tattered remnants of a bloody silk shift, Rashiel gave vent to her feelings of pain, remorse and abject terror at the fate which her captors and tormentors had in mind for her. Though she did so quietly; uttering only muted moans of anguish, mental as well as physical, whilst straining her ears to attempt to hear what was being said in the upper room. Even at her most vulnerable, Rashiel yet retained the self-possession to concentrate on the voices on the other side of the thin skirting of wooden panels above, separating her place of captivity from the much larger main hall of the hunting-lodge.

There were Aes Sedai of the Black Ajah up there, thirteen of them. And after stripping and whipping Rashiel with lashes channeled of Air, using the One Power to torture their victim, the leader of these vile Darkfriends, a hateful woman named Gyldan, had taken great pleasure in telling her prisoner that a like number of Myrddraal had been sent for and that they would soon arrive. Thirteen Black Sisters, thirteen Lurks… it could mean only one thing. Rashiel was to be Turned to the Shadow. Her screams on being told this had eclipsed any sounds of pain she had uttered whilst being cruelly whipped, and the foul Black Ajah women had laughed uproariously, taking dark pleasure in her terror, Gyldan loudest of all…

Rashiel's pale eyes narrowed. Gyldan Navorov, a Red – no, Black – Sister from Saldaea, strong in the Power… and one of Elaida's cronies, part of her inner-circle. Was Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan of the Black Ajah too? Rashiel would not be surprised to learn that this was the case. And what of the sadistic Galina Casban, who had beaten her Block out of her as a Novice? The Head of the Red Ajah seemed a likely Black candidate also… why, every Black Sister up there, awaiting the Myrddraal, was ostensibly a Red. Was her Ajah riddled with Friends of the Dark, as the snobbish Ellythia Desiama had always suspected?

Distantly, Rashiel wondered if Ellyth and Atual Gaidin had found whatever it was that they were looking for, yet another ter'angreal presumably, out to the west… how she wished that she had gone with them, instead of journeying to Maradon with the others, taking the captive False Dragon Mazrim Taim on the first stage of his long journey to Tar Valon and the White Tower, where he would be Gentled, rendered harmless. As harmless as such a murderous, manipulative man could ever be, at least. Gentled… as Rashiel's father had never been, the Red Ajah came for him too late… too late for her mother and younger brothers, also.

Recalling the worst, most painful event of her life seemed to lessen the anguish Rashiel was currently immersed in… groaning, she rose to her hands and knees and crawled over to the wood-panelled wall. Leaning against it, using it as a support, she dragged herself to her feet. Rashiel pressed her ear to the base of the skirting, but though the low drone of voices from above rose a little, she still could not make out what was being said. Nothing good, presumably. The Halfmen were on their way; when they came, a horrific ceremony would be enacted and Rashiel would be Turned to the Shadow. She would cease to exist, in any meaningful sense, there would just be an evil thing, looking out at the world through her eyes. Her soul would be lost forever, and any hope of rebirth into some new existence gone too.

Rashiel's jaw firmed with resolve, her eyes narrowing decisively. Not if she could help it… she would kill herself first! Her vision had gradually adjusted to the gloom of the small root-cellar that was being used for her cell, dim shafts of light filtering in through cracks in the ill-made panels. Had Rashiel been able to channel, she might have summoned a saidar-light, but she had been comprehensively Shielded from the Source. The weave was not being actively maintained and had been carelessly left tied-off… but she was too weak to attempt to unravel it and in any case, the Black Ajah would only have sensed her doing so and used this as an excuse to punish her further. Not that they particularly seemed to need an excuse… they tortured their victims because they enjoyed it, not for any actual reason.

By the low light, Rashiel examined the contents of the cellar… in addition to several sacks of potatoes, turnips and parsnips, there seemed to be something else there, over in the corner. A wadded pile of torn clothing… what remained of her gown, stockings and cloak. Yet unable to walk, Rashiel slid down the wall to her knees, then crawled over to the rags, which had been ripped from her with flows of Air… she doubted that she would be able to actually wear any of them. Rashiel did not give a fig for modesty, but despite the mental effort of blocking out the chill, it was nonetheless accursed cold in the cellar. So presumably, the forest hunting-lodge that she had been taken to was still in Saldaea…

The last thing Rashiel had any clear recollection of was, after that final heated argument with the roving-eyed little lecher Lord Wakime, going out onto the night-time streets of Maradon to walk and clear her head. The avenues had been misty and silent, largely empty of people. But then; rapid footsteps behind her, Rashiel beginning to turn, the sensation of someone channeling… and she had known no more. She had awoken with a sore head in this lodge in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Sisters whom she had once considered comrades, who now stood revealed as her worst enemy. They had tormented her in mind, body and spirit, then thrown her into this musty cellar to await her dark fate.

Feverishly, Rashiel dug through the rags, formerly her clothing; the shreds of maroon silk that had been her favourite, low-cut dress, the ragged ribbons of satin and tufts of fur that had comprised her fine new cape… wondering… was it still there? Her fingers connected with something firm, made of tooled leather. It was! The fools! The Black Ajah had taken her long knife, naturally, as well as the smaller dagger hidden in her boot, but had neglected to confiscate her belt-pouch, doubtless thinking it contained nothing that could do them harm, or hurt their prisoner either. Well, they were wrong on both counts…

Swiftly, Rashiel searched through the contents of the pouch; tinder, flint, whetstone, Ellyth's letter to Renn, rouge, string… ah, there it was. Rashiel's trembling hand closed around a thick, glass vial. She now had the means to cheat the Shadow of its intended purpose… too bad it all had to end like this. But then, Rashiel scowled ferociously. She was a native of Ebou Dar, and the women of her City were not in the habit of letting an insult from another woman stand… kill herself? No, those Black traitors had kidnapped and humiliated her… that would not go unanswered. Instead of suicide, she had a better idea…

Rising unsteadily, Rashiel staggered over to the iron-bound door, fresh pain from the angry stripes across her back and buttocks, thighs and calves, making itself felt. She ignored the discomfort, her mind focused on but one thing; revenge. At first, nothing happened when she rapped loudly upon the door, but after a while, the conversing voices from above ceased and Rashiel heard heavy footsteps approaching, descending toward her. A bolt was pulled back and the small door swung slowly open.

Rashiel winced as bright light from the candles and open fire above pierced the fog of her gloom-attuned eyesight. Jakomin Thorness stood there, yet wearing the red-fringed shawl to which she had absolutely no right, given that she was of the Black Ajah. A stolid, plain woman with heavy black eyebrows, she frowned at Rashiel. Her habitual expression.

"What do you want, harlot?" Jakomin demanded, in a pronounced Andoran accent.

Rashiel overlooked the pejorative term… for now… "I wish to speak to Gyldan Sedai… to all of you," she murmured, keeping her pale eyes demurely lowered, so that the Black Ajah hag would not see the hatred in them.

Jakomin's frown became a scowl. "Do you seek another whipping?" she growled.

Rashiel forced her expression to remain neutral, for all that it was difficult. Jakomin Thorness had been one of the other three Reds whom she had hunted Mazrim Taim with, alongside the arrogant Lady Ellyth as well as the redoubtable and disconcerting legendary Green Sister, Cadsuane Melaidhrin. Rashiel and Jakomin had been comrades then; suffering the same privations, embarking on the same important mission… just knowing that there had been a Black Sister at her side all along made her want to shudder. Rashiel did not, however, forcing herself to smile. Jakomin smiled also, the closest she could manage at least; a cruel baring of the teeth.

"Go back inside those luxurious quarters and wait for your suitors to arrive, slut!" Jakomin hissed, "the Myrddraal shall be here to entertain you presently, though you'll not enjoy their company so much as you usually do that of menfolk, I'll warrant!"

Just because no man has ever looked at you with anything other than fear and repugnance! Rashiel thought to herself, rather cattily. Well, it was not exactly the first time that she had been called a 'slut.' She sincerely hoped that it would not be the last…

"What does the girl want, Jakomin?" enquired a loud voice from above, which Rashiel recognised as Gyldan's.

Keeping a suspicious eye on Rashiel, Jakomin turned her head slightly. "The silly little bitch wants to talk to you, Gyldan," she answered, truculently.

"Well, march her on up here, then… I could use some amusement!"

Muttering angrily under her breath, Jakomin grabbed Rashiel's bare arm and propelled her up the few stone steps that led to the main hall. A dozen pairs of unfriendly eyes stared at Rashiel as she entered the large room. She self-consciously attempted to smooth her tattered shift further down over her thighs, with little success.

"Bring her to me," ordered Gyldan, and Jakomin and another Black Sister, a bony, skinny woman from Illian named Lydra, each took an arm and hustled Rashiel over to where their Leader sat by the fire. A fierce blaze burned in a wide, brick hearth; the long, oak-panelled hall was decorated with faded banners and the disapproving-looking stuffed heads of various horned and antlered beasts. Rashiel wondered if her head would join them?

Gyldan Navorov occupied a wooden armchair, her booted feet stretched out toward the flames in the grate, a large wineglass held in one hand, half-empty or half-full depending upon one's perspective. Gyldan turned her head, deep-set, dark eyes to either side of a bold nose fixed on Rashiel as she was dragged forward.

"Well?" Gyldan enquired in somewhat slurred tones, "what is it, Rashiel? Do you require further punishment?" The other Black Ajah had gathered around to watch, some smiled eagerly at the prospect.

Though it was one of the hardest acts that she had ever performed, Rashiel forced herself to kneel, hands clasped together in supplication. "I wish to apologise, Gyldan Sedai, for the harsh words I spoke earlier," she murmured. Whilst the Black Ajah had used the One Power to whip her, in between the screams of agony, Rashiel had managed to shout several choice insults concerning those who betrayed humanity and served the Shadow… for which defiance, she was yet rather proud of herself.

"Is that it?" Gyldan muttered, swirling the red wine reflectively around in her glass. She had a reputation in the Tower for being something of a sot, and her speech was certainly indicative of inebriation. "Where in the Pit are those Shadow-cursed Myrddraal?" Gyldan wondered to herself, "the bloody Halfmen should have got here by now…"

Rashiel could see that it would be something of a chore to gain and hold Gyldan's wandering attention. "No, that is not all!" she cried, "I have been thinking on it, reflecting upon my situation, and I have decided… I wish to swear my Oaths to the Dark One!" A mutter of disbelief and discontent arose about Rashiel as the dozen Black Ajah women considered her surprising words. Rashiel blinked. "I mean; the Great Lord of the Dark," she corrected herself, "not the Dark One… it is to Shai'tan that I would pledge allegiance!"

Gyldan drained her wineglass in one gulp, set it aside, then leaned forward in her chair and slapped Rashiel hard across the face. "The first rule you should learn is this; that name is never to be used of the Great Lord," she explained laboriously, "why, tis blasphemy!" Gyldan leant back in her armchair and laughed nastily, before composing herself. She steepled her fingers, regarding Rashiel over them. "So… you would avoid being Turned and take service with the Shadow of your own volition, little Sister?" Rashiel nodded fervently, whilst thinking of several interesting ways in which she would like to repay Gyldan for the slap.

"I don't believe a burning word of it!" Jakomin muttered.

"Nor I," added Lydra, "she's do be no Friend…"

"When I want your opinion, I'll bloody ask for it!" Gyldan snapped, then eyed the other Black Sisters blearily. "That goes for all of you." Her dark-eyed gaze, somewhat unfocused, returned to Rashiel as she considered the request, then she shook her head. "Sorry, but I do not trust you. I think me that you would say or do anything to avoid your appointed tryst with the thirteen Fades I have summoned…" Gyldan frowned, muttering in an aside; "if they ever get here!" She then shrugged, allowing; "self-preservation is perfectly understandable, of course…"

"But Gyldan Sedai, I cannot tell a lie!" Rashiel promptly lied, "not like you Black Sisters do… I swore on the Oath Rod to speak no word that was not true… I do wish to serve the Great Lord of the Dark, with all my heart!" This, in and of itself, was pure falsehood.

Rashiel did not trouble to mention her secret, particular ability… an extremely rare Talent… at least, that was what she thought it must be. When Raised to Aes Sedai, Rashiel had been surprised to discover that the ancient ter'angreal that compelled those who swore upon it to keep to their pledges, had absolutely no effect on her, that the three Oaths she took whilst holding the Rod were somehow nullified by some inner immunity. Presumably, she could also use the One Power to harm others, outside of the bounds of the oath, as well as to make weapons forged with saidar… but had never put either theory to the test. The only person who knew of her Talent was Renn, whom Rashiel had sworn to secrecy. Her Brown Ajah friend had searched the archives extensively on her behalf, but had not found any mention of such an ability in the long history of the White Tower, and could not explain it.

Gyldan Navorov considered Rashiel's statement. "You make an excellent point, little one…" but then, she shook her head again, more decisively this time. "Howbeit, I have my orders; you are to be Turned to the Shadow this very night. I may not disobey." She then glanced at Jakomin and Lydra. "Put her back in the root-cellar and if she causes any more trouble, whip her soundly some more. Just don't kill her, she's needed."

Rashiel was roughly hauled to her feet. "Please don't lock me in there, I am much afeared of the dark!" she wailed, worrying that she might be overdoing it. "Let me remain and serve you, Gyldan Sedai, allow me to serve you all!"

Harsh laughter greeted this outburst, Gyldan smiled thinly. "And how exactly would you serve the Black Ajah, girl?"

"Put her up on the table, have her sing us a nice song!" suggested a Black Sister. "Let's just flog her some more, I find her screams pleasing," added another.

Rashiel focused desperately on Gyldan's empty glass. "I could pour you more wine, Gyldan Sedai?" she offered, "as a maiden, I often served in the taverns of Ebou Dar…" Rashiel did not add that she had only taken the lowly work when her father was gripped by one of his bouts of illness, during which strange events would occurr, and could not provide for his family.

Gyldan considered, then shrugged carelessly. "Alright then… the jug is over there…"

Kneeling and begging to these Shadow-sworn harridans had been hard enough for Rashiel, but not smiling triumphantly at this opportunity was far harder. After she had poured a deal of adulterated wine for every Black Sister from the large, clay jug, waiting until they had all drunk their fill, Rashiel set the receptacle aside and did indeed get up on the table, as had been suggested… though not to sing any songs.

Some of the women, those who had no interest in men, eyed Rashiel salaciously, the brief shift displaying her long legs and fine bust to advantage, but she ignored their ogling regard with the same disdain that she had avoided their caressing hands whilst she served them wine. Really, apart from having better personal hygiene, they were little different from the drunken louts who had attempted to fondle her in some of the low taverns of the Rahad!

"What are you doing up there, wench?" Gyldan slurred, blinking at Rashiel, "are you going to give us a speech?" Further cruel laughter erupted within the hall.

"Yes!" Rashiel answered proudly, "I now wish to make certain remarks concerning the sort of Light-cursed scum who serve Shai'tan!" Rashiel did not get much further than that, vicious blows began to strike her from every angle, a weave of Air tore her shift from her and she fell from the table with a shriek. Soon, she was reduced to a sobbing mass of welts and bruises, lying curled upon the floorboards.

"Enough!" Gyldan eventually commanded, and motioned for Jakomin and Lydra to pick Rashiel up and take her back to her rude cell. Rashiel was dragged down the steps and thrown to the dirt floor. She lay there, quivering and moaning with agony.

"That'll learn you, slut!" Jakomin rasped.

"Where in the Blight are those bloody Myrddraal?" Rashiel overheard Gyldan shout angrily, then the door was slammed shut and she was plunged into darkness. The bolt slid into the hasps with a loud click and heavy footsteps moved away, ascending the stone steps.

Rashiel promptly spat out the small, glass vial that she had been concealing in her cheek; it had been full before, now it was all but empty of the potent substance it had contained. She had saved the last of the contents for herself, just in case the desperate plan failed. She lay on the dirt floor awhile, nude and shivering, listening intently. Then; distantly from above came the muted sound of violent coughing, rising to a crescendo, punctuated by choked screams. Abruptly, the Shield that prevented her from touching the One Power vanished entirely, as if it had never existed.

Rashiel smiled coldly and rose slowly to her feet, her head spinning, flinching and wincing as the movement engendered fresh pain. She opened herself to the True Source, feeling saidar fill her, bringing strength to her exhausted body, but also heightened awareness of her many hurts. How she wished that it was possible to Heal herself with the Power, but it was not, so that was all there was to it. She required another Aes Sedai to mend her injuries.

"Renn," Rashiel muttered to herself, reflectively, "I need Renn…" She stared at the bolted, iron-bound door to the root-cellar, narrowed her pale eyes, and struck with powerful flows of Air. The heavy wooden portal abruptly exploded outwards in a cloud of splinters. Still holding saidar, she stepped through the doorway and made her slow, painful way up the steps to the main hall. There, everything was much as she had expected it to be.

Rashiel smiled a predatory smile. "That is how a woman of Ebou Dar answers an egregious insult and deals with filthy Darkfriends!" she told the thirteen Black Ajah Sisters, but they were in no fit condition to attend to her words. Thirteen… Rashiel's smile slipped. There were thirteen Myrddraal coming, were there not? In her present condition, she was in no fit state to face such a dread enemy… Fear arose anew within her, and she did something that she very rarely did… she panicked. Escaping out into the night, Rashiel fled naked through the dark forest with nothing to her name but for her belt-pouch, clutched in a serpent-ringed hand. The shadows beneath the trees swallowed her up, as though she had never been.

When the Myrddraal finally arrived at the hunting-lodge, which had been used for such dark ceremonies before, they stood in a loose group at the centre of the hall, examining with eyeless gazes the thirteen Black Ajah witches who had commanded their presence. The Darkfriend hags were all dead, every one. Most lay on the floor, curled corpses that had clawed at their throats as they died. One was slumped back in a chair by the fire, staring up at the roof-beams with dark, sightless eyes, drying blood trickling from her nostrils and lips.

The thirteen Myrddraal glanced at one another, expressing something that might almost have been satisfaction. It had irked them to have to answer the summons of the loathed Black Sisters, and the process of being utilised as a dark lens through which flows of saidar were weaved to Turn a victim to the Shadow was an uncomfortable one for them. It would now seem that their services were no longer required…

The spilled wineglasses and cups close to the dead Darkfriend's cold hands told full well what had killed them… to confirm this suspicion, one of the Myrddraal stepped sinuously over to the large, clay jug on the table and lifted the vessel, sniffing what little was left of the contents. It turned to its Brothers… "Poisoned," it hissed in the Shadow-tongue, its voice sounding like sloughed snakeskin crumbling underfoot.

The other Myrddraal turned their blind, pallid faces to each other as they considered this development. They had not wished to come to this place, but it was scarcely their fault that they would now not be able to fulfil their dread function, their onerous duty. The witches of the Black Ajah were extremely dead, and that was all there was to it. Myrddraal were, of course, entirely unable to look pleased, but standing amongst the dozen-and-one corpses of the hated Shadow-sworn Firewomen, ageless faces twisted in agonised death, stiff fingers clutched desperately at their swollen throats… well, for once, these Halfmen did not look as though they loathed life quite so much as they usually did.

The Myrddraal holding the clay jug abruptly tipped it up and drank the deadly dregs carelessly so that spilled wine slopped over its pale jaw and serpent-scaled breastplate. It tossed the empty jug into the fireplace, where it smashed loudly, and swallowed the tainted wine without any apparent ill-effects. It wiped its mouth with the back of its gauntlet, belched slightly, then smiled cruelly at its Brothers. The dozen Myrddraal smiled cruelly back.

Borderlanders hold that whilst Trollocs have a vile and base sense of humour amongst themselves, Myrddraal have none at all, which is perfectly true. Even so, in unconcernedly draining the remnants of the lethal wine, this particular Myrddraal had just come the closest that one of its foul kind could to actually telling a joke. A well-received jest, at that. After a final eyeless examination of the expired Darkfriends, the thirteen Myrddraal filed silently outside and, without troubling to bid each other farewell, promptly rode the shadows to various faraway places that were, presumably, less dead.

The Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois rode slowly down the ancient road on his seemingly equally ancient horse, brooding upon the events of the morning. After swearing his Oath to Hunt the Horn in Illian, his quest had taken him far north, to the Borderlands. He had overheard a rumour in Ghealdan that the latest Madman to raise the Dragon's Banner had an extensive collection of arcane artefacts, and might even be in possession of the fabled Horn of Valere. Though it seemed unlikely, it was all Dagnon had to go on…

Sitting alone at a table in the mostly-deserted common room of Wheylan's Wolf, the largest Inn that the Saldaean border-town of Gahaur could boast, Dagnon had been glumly inspecting his thin purse, wondering whether he could justify the expense of a room for the night. Even this far north, everything had become so prodigious expensive of late! Then, he had heard Murandian accents for the first time since leaving the nation of his birth… albeit, harsh Mindean tones, which set his teeth on edge. He did not care for Mindeans… no-one did, as far as he was aware, they even seemed to hate each other…

"Where's me ale?" demanded an ugly voice, shouting loudly.

"And me wine!" bellowed further unattractive tones.

Dagnon turned to look, and his hawkish blue eyes narrowed, since he did not like what he saw. Two red-faced swordsmen with curled moustaches not unlike his own were expansively occupying the best table, by the hearth. They wore long Murandian coats, like Dagnon's, though theirs were finely tailored of silk, whereas his was spun from simple cloth, and rather shabby cloth at that. Indeed, as the only son of an old but impoverished House, the sole possession of his that had any value was the Family Sword, a fine Heron-mark blade, Power-wrought. It had belonged to Dagnon's House for uncounted generations and was rumoured to have once been the personal weapon of Raolin Darksbane himself, though this provenance was kept fairly quiet, considering the notorious False Dragon's dark reputation.

A harried-looking barmaid hurried over to the Mindean's table with a tray, setting a glass down before the loud brute in the yellow coat, a mug in front of the other noisy oaf, whose coat was red. The two looked at each other, then at the maid, who began to turn away. The Mindean in the yellow coat seized her arm roughly.

"This be wine!" he complained, "I wanted ale!"

"Sorry, milord," the barmaid gasped, struggling to free herself from his grip, "I got them the wrong way around…"

The Mindean in the red coat rose and tipped the contents of his mug over the maid's head. "Wine!" he roared, "and that right quick!"

Yellow-coat laughed harshly and released the maid, her hair and face sodden with ale, then gave her a casual slap with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling to the floorboards. The landlord of the Inn came out from behind the bar to remonstrate, but when the Mindeans touched their hilts and stared at him belligerently, he thought better of it and helped the barmaid to her feet, leading her quickly away from them.

By this, Dagnon had risen and was striding across the otherwise empty common room toward the two bullying Mindeans. They took note of his approach with a certain amount of caution, but little in the way of actual wariness… but then, they had never met Dagnon, and had no idea what he was capable of. He intended that they should find this out, but there were formalities to be observed first.

"May I know your names, my Lords?" Dagnon enquired smoothly, halting before them. The Mindeans exchanged amused glances.

"A Murandian, methinks," commented yellow-coat.

"From the Stornlands, by the sound of it," mused red-coat.

"You have the right of it, sir. And you are both Mindeans, I believe," Dagnon observed, adding; "we are all a long way from home."

"I am Lord Paers, if you must know, fellow," revealed the yellow-coated Mindean.

"And me name is Lord Culen," added the red-coated Mindean.

"We hunt the Horn," Lord Paers explained, grandly.

"Took our oaths in Illian and everything!" Lord Culen boasted.

Dagnon smiled patiently. "I too seek the Horn of Valere," he stated proudly, "though I do not recall seeing either of you in the Square of Tammaz, during the ceremony…"

"Do you doubt our word, stranger?" demanded Lord Paers, angrily.

Dagnon's smile did not slip an inch. "Not at all. There were a great many newly-sworn Hunters there, I recall. Presumably, we missed each other in the crowd."

"So what be your name, inquisitive fellow?" Lord Culen demanded.

"I am gratified that you ask. I have the honour to be the Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois," Dagnon answered, introducing himself at last.

The two Mindeans grinned insolently.

"You, also a Lord?" Paers queried, with open disbelief.

"Why, even me servant Padry be better dressed than thee!" Culen added, jerking a thumb at a skinny creature lingering nearby, clad in a Murandian coat of dark wool that Dagnon had to admit, was significantly smarter than his own. Padry bobbed his head nervously, scrubbing his pale hands together. There was something rather insubstantial about him, Dagnon had not actually noticed that he was there until he moved.

"Be that as it may, I am the scion of an ancient and noble House, while I have certainly never heard of either of you…" Dagnon drew himself up, his tone becoming serious as he moved on to the business at hand, the reason why he had come over to talk to this pair of loudly-dressed thugs in the first place. "I take issue with your treatment of the maidservant and intend to punish you for your ill behaviour." Dagnon shrugged. "If I can also teach you some manners at the same time, then that will be an added boon, but I misdoubt you are capable of learning the etiquette required of your station. In point of fact, I rather doubt that you have been Lords for long, presumably you bought your titles!" Whoever was temporarily occupying the uncertain throne of Murandy often supplemented their treasury with the sale of Lordships to ambitious commoners with coin to spare…

Lords Paers and Culen scowled furiously, touching their ornate sword-hilts. Padry made a moaning sound, retreating to the wall. Dagnon simply swept back his travel-worn cloak, revealing his ancient blade. Lord Paers' eyes widened as he took note of the Heron-mark, but Lord Culen sneered, unimpressed.

"Where did you find that sword, shabby fellow? Tell you what, sell it me and I'll let you live, give or take a scar or two… else I'll take it from your corpse!"

"Please, my Lords!" protested the rotund landlord, from his place of safety behind the bar, "no swordplay in here! I beg of you, take your quarrel out into the courtyard…"

Dagnon nodded, then strode out of the back door of the common room, leaving the Mindeans to exchange angry looks, before hurrying after him. In the courtyard outside, Dagnon promptly went to a stack of firewood by the wall and selected a solid oak stave, the length of his arm. His opponents stumbled out into the open, watching him warily.

"What be you doing?" Lord Paers demanded.

"Draw your blade!" challenged Lord Culen.

Dagon shook his head. "I have no intent to besmirch the sword of my House with your ignoble blood," he explained laboriously, as to those of slow intellect, "you are patently unworthy of the honour!" He raised the stout length of oak. "So, I shall use this. Ready?"

The two Mindean Hunters exchanged confused, scornful glances, then promptly drew their gaudy blades and attacked, clearly not caring that two-against-one went against all accepted duelling practice, as did the concept of swords versus sticks…

After deftly disarming the Mindean idiots and beating them both severely, Dagnon fetched his skinny old horse from the stables, an ailing, yellowish creature named 'Buttercup' that, like his House, had seen better days. Dagnon had no desire to spend any longer beneath the same roof as the two brutal cowards he had chastised; Lords Paers and Culen were currently languishing in their rooms, nursing sore heads and broken bones, loudly attended by their hand-wringing, unctuous servant, Padry.

As Dagnon heeled Buttercup to a gentle amble, the best the aged beast could manage, passing beneath the stableyard archway of Wheylan's Wolf and out onto the dirt road that led north from Gahaur, a shrill voice cried; "wait, milord!"

Dagnon tugged on the reins and swivelled in the saddle… the abused barmaid, a bruise on her cheek, was trotting awkwardly after him, a large, flat basket held in both hands.

"Thank you for standing up for me, milord," the maid gasped, "tis more than Master Bishar would do, those two Murandian pigs have much coin and he won't turn them away, however bad they treat the help!" She extended the basket. "Here!"

Dagnon glanced at the heap of game pies and spiced sausages within, and his stomach growled. It had been long since he had dined so well… but it could not be. "I thank you, Mistress, but I cannot accept your charity, however well-intentioned."

"T'aint charity, milord… tis a reward for your bravery!"

Dagnon smiled patiently. "Mercenaries are more usually paid in silver than in pies, I do believe… but even so, since I am no sell-sword, I must refuse."

The barmaid looked crestfallen, but lowered the basket, seeing that Dagnon would not change his mind. "It did my heart good to see you thwack those brutes with your stick," she muttered with vengeful relish, "I were watching from the privy window, and saw it all!"

Dagnon nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I would not exactly say that it was a dissatisfying experience," he murmured, twirling the points of his large, reddish moustache.

"Murandians!" the maid spat, "bunch of animals!"

"I also hail from Murandy," Dagnon mentioned, "but fortunately, I am no Mindean."

The barmaid's mouth dropped open and she blushed furiously. "Forgive me, Lord!" she wailed, "I noticed that you had the big moustache and long coat and talked funny, but I thought you could not possibly be from Murandy… why, you are so polite and thoughtful!"

Dagnon sighed; it was far from the first time that he had encountered such prejudicial attitudes from outlanders, for all that they were somewhat based on fact… his were a quarrelsome people, on the whole. "Which way is it to Maradon?" he enquired. He was fairly certain that he knew already, but wished to change the subject. The barmaid nodded in a north-easterly direction and then provided a long list of confused directions.

Now, some time later, Dagnon was quite thoroughly lost, and night was drawing on. He had no idea where the ancient road he followed was leading as it wound through the dark forest, but he did not think it could be Maradon. The capital city of Saldaea had doubtless not existed when this dilapidated thoroughfare was built, mayhap these antiquated, cracked paving-stones led to the ruins of Barsine or Nashebar, or somewhere even older than that?

The last person Dagnon had met, a lone, thickly-bearded fur-trapper, his decorative leather jerkin much bedecked with Trolloc scalps, had gruffly told him that there was a stedding in the vicinity, but apart from muttering something about being 'drawn' there, would not be more specific than that. Quite a taciturn fellow, really… and what had he meant by that last remark? Was 'drawn' perhaps Saldaean slang for feeling hungry, or tired? In any case, the idea of guesting with the Ogier for the night appealed to Dagnon, primarily because some sort of comfortable bed might be involved, but also since it was something that he had never done before. The gaining of new experiences was one of the main reasons Dagnon had chosen to swear his Oath in the Square of Tammaz and become a Hunter of the Horn. That, and his fervent desire to do something important with his life…

It was then that the bush to Dagnon's right unexpectedly spoke to him in a decidedly feminine voice, with the unmistakeable exotic accents of southern Altara; "hey, you with the big moustache… do you have any spare clothes? I'm bloody freezing!" With these words, it transpired that, for better or for worse, the important something had finally found him.

Soorla daughter of Unalla daughter of Laffa sat in her customary place beneath her favourite willow, on the mossy bank of the gentle stream that flowed through the heart of Stedding Saishen. The young Ogier maiden, who had recently celebrated her ninety-third name-day with family and friends, was leafing slowly through some of her more recent charcoal sketches, trying to find the one that she had drawn that very morning. It was now evening, and she had sketched several more subjects in the intervening time, but they had all been her fellow Ogier, posing at her request or drawn unknowingly whilst engaged in various tasks. The sketch she sought was different, in that it was a rendering of a human, a lone woodsman whom Soorla had encountered shortly after dawn in the forest just beyond the eastern border of the stedding.

Soorla had gone there, as she often did, to look at the Waygate. The ancient artefact fascinated her, it always had, ever since as a girl she had asked her grandfather, Elder Sandu, what it was. The Elder had answered reluctantly, but since his calling was that of a teacher, he had also answered in extensive detail. Soorla had later supplemented this knowledge from every book she could find that described the use of Waygates and the methods of navigation through the Ways. Soorla had kept her frequent visits to the Waygate a secret, for she knew that the Elders of Stedding Saishen and worse, her mother Unalla, would frown upon such an interest. The Ways were now considered dangerous, and had been declared off-limits to all, though no-one would say why. Soorla had overheard dark rumours, however, and then there was the much-regretted loss of old Timbal, who had mysteriously disappeared within the Ways when he went to visit his sister at Stedding Tsofu. He had been a fine Tree-Singer…

Ah, there it was… finally! Soorla held up the charcoal sketch of the human whom she had met that morning, examining it critically with her large eyes. It wasn't bad, she had to admit, she was definitely getting better at portraiture. Drawing her fellow Ogier was easy enough, but humans were more difficult, much more. They seemed so disparate, with such a greater range of expression and appearance. This particular human, a Saldaean trapper, had been curiously examining the Waygate also, when Soorla discovered him. Her request to draw his likeness had clearly surprised the man, but he had acceded politely enough, doing his best to stand still beside the arcane stone slab carved with leaves and vines, whilst Soorla's deft hand had moved the charcoal stub across the page with rapid, skilful strokes.

Soorla had shown him the sketch when it was completed and he had seemed pleased with the image of himself, though it was hard to tell since a dense, black beard covered most of his face. And he had the scalps of Trollocs sewn all over his jerkin! Why would he wish to be minded of their existence in such a fashion? Humans certainly were strange creatures! For all that she lived in a Borderlands stedding, Soorla had never seen a Trolloc, and had no wish to. There were few incursions this far south of the Blight, and in any case, no Shadowspawn dared venture into a stedding. The peaceful aura of the Ogier realm would cause terrible anguish to any minion of the Dark One, Soorla was certain of it.

Soorla lowered the sketch with a gusty sigh. Portraits of Ogier and humans were all very well, and upon occasion even remunerative, but they did not compare with her true passion, for painting trees. She had sketched all of the Great Trees of the stedding from every angle, as well as several other notable oaks, yews and birches, her favourite willow also, of course… she had even painted the Stump, which was not even a living tree anymore!

Something within Soorla compelled her to do so, something more powerful than the simple love of trees that all Ogier shared. Her mother thought her strange, for indulging so fully in her art, and Soorla supposed that she was right. A particular talent or obsession often seemed to skip a generation amongst Ogier and humans alike, but in Soorla's case it had skipped two. Neither her mother, Unalla, nor her lamented grandmother, Laffa, had ever had any interest in art for art's sake, though both had been skilled weavers in their day, producing fine tapestries, carpets and rugs that had fetched high prices in Maradon, and also in other human cities even further away than that.

But Laffa's mother and Soorla's great grand-dam, Elora daughter of Amar daughter of Coura, had been famous in her times, some one-thousand years ago. A noted Historian, but also a talented Sculptress who had been much in demand throughout the Westlands for her exquisite, life-like renderings in marble. It was unfortunate that so few of her masterpieces had survived the War of a Hundred Years, and even more unfortunate that she had not either. Though no-one in Soorla's family was entirely sure what had become of Elora, it was whispered that she had vanished in unexplained circumstances after executing her final commission… a life-size statue of the notorious human Warlord, Guaire Amalasan. It was said that Elora had only agreed to sculpt the False Dragon on the condition that he provide her with valuable information for a book that she was close to completing, on the subject of male and female channelers. 'Men of Fire and Women of Air' was published posthumously, few copies of it survived to present days, but there was one in Stedding Saishen's Library.

Soorla sighed again. Whatever had moved her ancestor Elora to sculpt people moved her also, to paint trees. What she would not give, to visit the fabled Grove at Tar Valon, and sketch the beautiful woodland there… but it was considered too dangerous to travel abroad at the moment, with the forces of the latest Dragon Pretender, Mazrim Taim, very much on the rampage. Soorla raised a silky eyebrow thoughtfully, as something occurred to her that had not previously. For of course, there was always the Waygate…

As her brusque words faded into the silence beneath the trees, Rashiel Tamor yet crouched behind the holly bush, shivering. She examined the tall fellow on the decrepit horse cautiously… he did not look like a Darkfriend, as such, but one could never be sure. After her recent nightmarish experiences, she was a little short on trust. Rashiel peered closer at the young man… he was quite handsome, really, in an unostentatious sort of way, though she was not so sure about that hairy thing on his upper lip, she much preferred her men clean-shaven, one of the very few points on which she saw eye-to-eye with Shrina… but she was getting side-tracked. Receiving a punishing whipping and then wandering all night through an ominous forest, bare as a babe, where every tree-trunk and boulder might well conceal a murderous Myrddraal… well, it was the sort of unenviable experience that could only serve to disorder the mind.

Rashiel had spent much of the following day sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted, concealed within a pile of dead leaves into which she had occasionally channeled slender flows of Fire, carefully warming her environs without actually setting the dry vegetation alight, to ward herself from death by exposure. Now; she was cold, hungry and in considerable pain… but mostly, just cold. The mental technique of blotting out such sensations seemed to work much better when you were actually wearing something…

The tall horseman was staring at the holly bush with some suspicion, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Rashiel sighed, decided that he was not sworn to the Shadow, for he would doubtless have been better dressed in that wise, and rose from her place of concealment, hands arranged decorously over her breasts. The holly bush shielded her lower-half from his vision, but even so, the young man gasped, colouring, and averted his eyes in a somewhat old-fashioned way. "Clothes?" Rashiel prompted impatiently, reminding him of her request.

"Of course, my Lady, but one moment…" The Murandian – for he could be nothing else with that pointed moustache, long coat and antiquated mode of speech – dismounted hastily and began to root through his saddlebags. Rashiel watched him warily, though not quite so cautiously as to not take approving notice of his wide shoulders and broad back… he was rather beautiful actually, despite the shabby appearance and bristly moustache. She yet held saidar, even so, fully prepared to defend herself with potent weaves should it prove necessary. She did not think it would, though… the handsome fellow seemed well-disposed toward her, but then, she was naked! In Rashiel's considerable experience, the less clothes a woman wore, the more tractable a man became.

"That's a rather old-looking horse you have there," Rashiel commented, eyeing the weary, yellowish animal curiously. It stood still, reins hanging loose, cropping the grass that sprouted between the ancient paves at its feet in a desultory way. Its iron-shod hooves clopping upon the stones had been what alerted Rashiel to the approach of a rider.

"Buttercup is older than me," the young man answered, not turning away from the saddlebags, "he has been in the family for long years… why, in my grandfather's day, my House had a stud-farm to its name, we bred and trained warhorses for the White Tower stables, but those times are long gone… Buttercup is all that is left." He sounded regretful, but Rashiel was focused on but one part of his explanation, that concerning the Tower. So his House was a friend to Aes Sedai, it seemed… that was well to know.

The Murandian turned, holding up a long coat, linen shirt and britches. "Forgive me, my Lady, but these are the smallest, cleanest garments that I can claim ownership of…" he hesitated, then suggested; "I could leave them draped upon yon bush and then turn my back?"

"I don't have time for your prudishness, fellow!" Rashiel snapped, "these are the bloody Borderlands and tis cold enough to freeze the teats off a Sailmistress!" With that choice epithet, garnered from Shrina when they were novices, Rashiel lowered her hands immodestly, marched around the bush and snatched the grubby apparel from the young man's grasp. He gaped at her, blushing furiously. Rashiel sniffed. "What is the matter, moustache-face, never seen a nude woman before?" she enquired, with a slow smile.

"Of a certainty I have, my Lady, though ne'er one so lovely!"

Rashiel raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, thank you, handsome… I suppose…" To spare him further blushes, she turned her back, fiddling with the laces on the overlarge shirt.

He gasped again, louder if anything this time. "Good my Lady! By the Hand of the Creator, you have been ill-used… your back, your legs, your… your…"

Rashiel glanced over her shoulder, noting that the young man was yet red-faced, though more with anger now. She smiled slyly. "My bottom?" she prompted.

"Yes, that… you would appear to have been flogged, and that right cruelly!"

Rashiel shrugged into the shirt, which came down to well below her hips, wincing as the rough linen rubbed against the sore weals in her skin. She turned, looking up at the provider of her garments. He was indeed tall, she had a penchant for men of impressive height, which made her dalliance with the diminutive Lord Wakime all the more confusing… though just about everything concerning that preening little popinjay had confused her!

"Who has molested you?" the youthful Murandian demanded, "give to me the blaggard's name and location and I swear on my Hunter's Oath that I shall soon avenge you!"

Rashiel blinked. "Blaggard?" she repeated, "did you just say; 'blaggard?'"

The young swordsman looked uncomfortable. "Tis a common enough expression in Murandy," he muttered, self-consciously.

Rashiel grinned, amused. "Well, tis a word I don't believe I have ever encountered outside of an adventure story…" Rashiel had little time for Romances or Poetry, but enjoyed reading tales of warriors, battles, entire wars, the Hunt for the… hold, had not the attractive fellow mentioned a certain oath? "You are a Hunter of the Horn?" Rashiel enquired.

"Certes I am." The youthful Murandian bowed gracefully. "The Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois, at your service my Lady, most particularly with a view to punishing those who tormented you so viciously and vilely!"

"You are a single-minded individual, Lord Dagnon. Well, I thank you for the offer, but I have already taken care of those traitors, they'll not trouble anyone ever again." Dagnon merely nodded, and seemed satisfied with this course of events. Rashiel drew herself up straighter, making the plain linen shirt that comprised her sole garment seem like the resplendent gown of a Queen, seated upon the Throne of Winds. Not that she wished to do any sitting down for quite some time… "I am Rashiel Tamor, a woman of Ebou Dar and Aes Sedai of the White Tower," she revealed, not choosing to name her Ajah, because she was no longer entirely sure what it was...

Dagnon's blue eyes widened only slightly, illustrating that he held greater self-possession than had seemed to be the case, and he bowed again, lower this time, flourishing his worn cloak. Rashiel noted that the long, curved blade buckled to his belt bore the Heron-mark, the weapon of a Swordmaster, and her interest in the young Lord increased.

"I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Rashiel Sedai," Dagnon murmured, "pray tell, might I offer you further assistance?"

"You might," Rashiel allowed, wobbling on one leg whilst struggling into the awkward britches, "but are you sure you do not have a dress in those saddlebags?" Dagnon shook his head gravely. "No, I do not suppose that you would… you don't seem like the type…" Rashiel sighed. "Got any food?"

"I am afraid not, honoured Aes Sedai."

Rashiel sighed again.

A time later, as they plodded along on the wheezing horse, Rashiel pressed to Dagnon's broad back, arms about his waist, relishing the welcome warmth of his body, she considered her good fortune in having met the young Murandian Lord… whilst doing her best to ignore the painful sensations in her posterior. His saddle was rather old, and the hard, cracked leather was unkind to her bruised behind. The men's clothing was uncomfortable also, but kept out the cold to her satisfaction, his spare pair of boots protecting her toes from frostbite… and his sword at her service, should she require it. He had repeatedly made that clear. So what to do now? Rashiel meant to return to Tar Valon as soon as possible, for all that the Island City was quite some distance away… she urgently wished to speak with Renn about the Black Ajah, and other developments besides. Healing would be nice too. But if anyone would know what to do, it would be Renn Faltrey… and besides, she had a letter from Ellyth to deliver to her Brown Ajah friend. Rashiel had promised to place it in Renn's hand, and took such duties seriously.

"You said something about a stedding, Lord Dagnon?" Rashiel reminded him.

"Indeed, Rashiel Sedai. The trapper told me of it, but he was a little difficult to comprehend, and seemed to find mine own accents passing hard to understand also. He kept saying; 'huh?' or 'what?' every time I spoke." Rashiel giggled. "Incidentally, you need not name me 'Lord' whenever you address me, Rashiel Sedai, just 'Dagnon' will be fine."

"Well in that case, Just Dagnon, it is 'Rashiel' without the 'Sedai.' That particular honorific I can do without quite happily."

They rode on companionably for a time, seeking what the fur-trapper had called 'Stedding Saishen.' As evening became night, and Rashiel and Dagnon were beginning to give up hope of finding the stedding and had begun to look for a likely camp-site, two events occurred in rapid succession…

The first event was that their horse abruptly died, laying down in the road rather suddenly and expiring with a sad sigh, barely giving them time to scramble from the saddle.

The second event to occur, a few scant moments later, was that they both fell hopelessly in love with each other.

---

The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar lay back in the lumpy-mattressed bed salvaged from the wreck of the Queen Mab, the sole such item of furniture within the camp, listening as the Aes Sedai Rashiel Tamor, lying beside her, completed her tale.

"So anyway, I knelt there and wept a little over poor old Buttercup; I have always been fond of animals as you know, Ysmet darling, and-"

"Yes, I recall that in the Tarasin Palace, you would not let the cooks put traps out for the rats," Ysmet drawled scathingly, "why, you even left little bits of cheese on the floor for them!"

"Don't interrupt! Anyhow, then I heard this sniffling sound and looked… and my dearest Dagnon was kneeling beside me, weeping also! I put my arm about him in commiseration, he gazed at me, I gazed back at him… and before we knew it, we were kissing! He was an excellent kisser, and though the moustache tickled a little, I soon got used to it… now, I rather like it."

"How lovely!" Ysmet remarked snidely, "and I am sure that ere long, the pair of you did more than just kiss!"

Rashiel elbowed her oldest friend in the ribs, and took a pillow to the face for her trouble. "What of you and your Gleeman?" she demanded, "did you bed him the very moment you met, or did you wait an entire hour to observe the decencies?!"

Ysmet smirked, leaning up on one elbow. With their menfolk away, rescuing the prisoners from the Isle of the Spire, the two close friends were sharing a bed for companionship, for pleasure also. It was a comfortable arrangement that they had fallen back into with the ease of long familiarity, continuing from where they had left off in their time together at the Palace in Ebou Dar, before Rashiel was spirited off to the White Tower and Ysmet ran away from home to avoid a detestable arranged-marriage.

"I'll tell you about meeting Roth on another occasion," Ysmet promised, "but it was my asking you to relate how you met Dagnon which engendered that entire story…" she rolled her eyes, "…and an accursed long story it was, too!"

Rashiel shrugged, and pouted.

"You know that I encountered Lord Dagnon before you did, in Illian, when he was there to take his Hunter's Oath?" Ysmet grinned. "He barged into me on a bridge whilst I was distracted by a vomiting Master Gleeman, and I near enough stuck my sword in him!"

"You never told me that!" Rashiel exclaimed.

"You never asked!" Ysmet considered a moment, then added; "though to be fair, I suppose that I walked into him as much as he into me… he apologised profusely… your Gaidin really is enormously polite for a Murandian!"

Rashiel nodded impatiently. "People are always telling him that. He's a bit of an aberration, really." She scowled. "And as for my tale that you find so tedious, I was about to say that I only told you the short version! I did not even mention our time at Stedding Saishen, where the Ogier treated my wounds with a vile-smelling salve and Dagnon and I made love for the first time… I Bonded him as my Warder directly afterwards, at his request and my express desire. Of course, we had to go without the stedding to do it, since the weaves don't work in there…"

"What of the Red Ajah rules about not taking a Gaidin?"

"What of them? Red traditions be cursed, I knew that I wanted Dagnon for my Warder the moment I set eyes upon him!"

"For a Warder… and more besides!" Ysmet commented, with a lewd grin. This time, it was she who was struck with a pillow.

"Then, we travelled through the Ways to Tar Valon, where good old Renn Healed me, and made me promise to look after her strange pet whilst she was away."

"The Ways?" Ysmet spluttered, "but they are a myth, are they not?"

Rashiel touched the ivory-hilted marriage-knife hung about her neck, the only item that she was currently wearing. "The Ways are real, I swear it upon my mother's spousal blade!"

Ysmet sniffed. "You really don't have the right to wear that," she pointed-out, then complacently touched her own bejewelled marriage-knife, hanging betwixt her breasts. Again, the only item she was wearing. "Whereas, I do," Ysmet added, thinking with satisfaction of her romantic ship-board wedding, her handsome husband… and not dwelling upon the fact that she had angrily sent him into danger simply because he possessed a ter'angreal that rendered him invisible, and had not troubled to tell her of it!

"Oh, I'll make an honest man of Dagnon eventually," Rashiel muttered, with little in the way of conviction. She returned to her theme; "I never mentioned the Ways to Renn, since she planned to do likewise… she imagined that she would be the first Aes Sedai in many generations to travel the hidden paths of the Ogier, and I did not want to spoil it for her…"

"But how did you know which direction to take, to get to Tar Valon?"

"Oh, there was a particular Alantin ti Avende maiden at Stedding Saishen, she was artistically inclined and drew a wonderful sketch of Dagnon and I in a delightful, arboreal setting…"

Ysmet snorted rudely.

"Huh! Anyway, she far preferred painting pictures of trees than people for some reason, and told us that she very much wished to visit the Tar Valon Grove in order to pursue her inclination… she defied the edicts of her Elders and agreed to lead us to the Island City Waygate. We should have become hopelessly lost without her." Rashiel smiled. "Dearest Soorla! A kind and sweet-natured girl, if one can use such a term of a female Ogier… I do hope that she enjoyed painting her precious trees in the Grove."

Ysmet shook her head slowly. "You always seem to meet the strangest folk on your travels… so what were the Ways like?"

"Gloomy and depressing, almost as bad as this place…" Rashiel gestured disparagingly, her serpent-ringed hand indicating the entirety of the Land of the Madmen.

Ysmet sighed, thinking with regret of her foundered ship. "I shall get us all home, somehow," she promised, then blinked, recollecting something. "Hold a moment… your interminable tale! The bit about the Black Ajah you experienced yourself, and I would assume that Dagnon told you of his own exploits prior to meeting you..?"

"He did. So did Soorla, sketching the woodsman and such."

"But what of the Myrddraal? How could you possibly know what the Lurks got up to when they arrived at the hunting-lodge to find the Darkfriends all dead?"

"Oh, I made that bit up."

"What?"

"Artistic license, darling… your pretty husband is always doing it!"

"Roth is a Gleeman, he's allowed to invent dramatic situations. You're an Aes Sedai, so you aren't."

"Am too! Besides, I was only indulging in a little harmless speculation… unlike the imaginative Master Blucha, I never claimed to see a bloody enormous great sea-monster!"

Ysmet sat up in bed, frowning. "Not this again… Roth said he witnessed the creature rising from the deep, then sounding again, and that is good enough for me!"

"And me! Tis true! Which I did see the dread sea-monster also!" Ysmet scowled at Gen, who stood in the open doorway of her hut, unabashedly ogling them both. "I durst not tell of it afore," he continued, in his strange, Illian-flavoured accents, "for I were much afeared that you would all think me mad!" Rashiel sniggered.

"Gen!" Ysmet shouted angrily, "how many times do I have to tell you to knock, you wind-cursed half-wit!" She hastily drew the sheet up to cover her nudity, though it was a little late for that.

Rashiel did not bother, but smiled at the leering intruder warmly. "Hello, Gen! What is afoot?"

Gen blinked, then looked down at his feet, mumbling; "it be that which I do stand upon."

Rashiel sighed. "Tis an expression," she explained.

"Tisn't!" Gen argued, "it do be my foot! What of it, buxom Aes Sedai?"

"What do you want, Gen?" Ysmet demanded.

Gen jerked a dirty thumb over his shoulder. "There do be some visitors here, asking to see thee Captain, the voluptuous Sister of the Tower in addition…" Gen's addled gaze drifted back toward Rashiel's breasts. She chuckled, and made no move to cover them.

"Rashiel!" Ysmet hissed, disapprovingly, "do not encourage him!"

"Oh, I don't mind being admired," Rashiel remarked airily, sitting up in bed and swinging her legs over the side. "Especially since Gen is so refreshingly honest about his lechery! Most men try to pretend they're not staring when they quite obviously are!" She yawned, then reached for her robe. "Visitors…" Rashiel's muffled voice speculated as she pulled the loose garment down over her head, "now I wonder who they might be... more Aielmen, perhaps?"

Ysmet opened her mouth to say that she hoped not, but another voice interjected, softly spoken with a melodic accent; "nay, Windfinder. Five they are; two Warders, mayhap three, a dangerous Sharaman and in addition, a-"

"Raab!" Ysmet shouted, glaring at the Sea Folk outcast who now stood beside Gen in the doorway, "you too?" Raab opened his mouth but Ysmet over-rode him with ease; "Gen never knocks because he is a lunatic and cannot remember what he had for breakfast-"

"Unless it was cheese!" Rashiel jested. Gen raised his eyes eagerly from his feet, then looked disappointed when there was no sign of his favourite food.

"Shut-up, Rashiel! Gen doesn't know to knock upon a door for the aforementioned reasons, but what is your excuse, Atha'an Miere?"

"The door stood open," Raab pointed-out sulkily, "tis Gen's fault and none of mine, Sailmistress…" He then raised a tattooed hand to shade his dark and shifty vision.

"Stop calling me that! I am a Captain, not a… a…" Ysmet trailed-off. "What are you doing, Raab, covering your eyes up like that?"

"I avert my gaze, Sailcaptain, for you are undressed!"

Ysmet realised that in her ire, she had let the sheet slip downwards somewhat. "Well, given your provenance, Sea Folk voyeur, I would presume that you have seen a pair of these before," she grumbled, then raised her voice to an authoritarian quarterdeck bellow; "now get out, you pair of fools, both of you! Tell our visitors that I shall receive them presently…" Chastened, Raab and Gen hastily turned to leave, managing to wedge themselves together in the narrow doorway. Rashiel laughed at the sight, waving sardonically at their struggling backs. Ysmet glowered at them; "and shut that bloody door, if you ever manage to get through it! These are my private quarters, not flaming Mol Hara Square!" Rashiel grinned. Ysmet tried to glare at her, but could not help but grin herself. There was little enough amusement to be found in this savage place, after all… one might as well appreciate these little moments of absurdity.

After Ysmet had put on her shift and stockings, Rashiel helping her with the buttons on her green silk gown with its divided skirts, the two Ebou Dari females ventured outside; the Noblewoman stamping her feet to settle her calf-boots and buckling on her rapier, the Aes Sedai smoothing her maroon robe a little, but otherwise not troubling overly with her appearance. Whilst Ysmet continued to dress much as she had back in the Westlands, Rashiel had told her friend that she found the weather uncomfortably humid, even when compared with the heat of southern Altara… the thin, silken robe was her sole item of clothing, she had even started to go barefoot, as did the sailors.

Raab stood to one side, arms crossed, evidently sulking. Gen was capering nearby, performing a bizarre shuffling dance on the sand whilst whistling a sea-shanty. A handsome youth with very dark skin and almost black eyes, his face covered in swirling tattoos, was watching Gen curiously. Abruptly, he grinned, and began to clap his hands together in time with the tempo, urging Gen to greater efforts.

Ysmet blinked at this strange sight, then her gaze moved to the two brown-haired and unshaven, shabbily dressed young swordsmen who stood beside an ornate gold chest, chased with silver. She seen these identical lads before, in Illian… what were their names?

"Aebel!" Rashiel said to one, and "Blaek!" to the other.

The twins exchanged a mute glance, then he who had been addressed first muttered; "forgiveness, Rashiel Sedai, but I am actually Blaek…"

"And I, Aebel," added his brother, whose left arm was supported by a grubby cloth sling.

"Sorry, boys!" Rashiel apologised, then narrowed her pale eyes. "You two pretty Oilfishers appear to be growing beards again… Shrina won't like that!" The Twins rolled their eyes at each other, then rubbed their stubbled jaws self-consciously.

"I remember you now!" Ysmet exclaimed, "Shrina Sedai's matching Warders! We met at Easing the Badger in the Perfumed Quarter of Illian, during the Feast of Teven… I recall that you tied Raab up and left him in the hayloft!" The Gaidin brothers nodded in the affirmative, then shifted their dark, unfriendly stares to the Sea Folk outcast, smiling coldly. Raab swallowed nervously. Ysmet's light brown eyes moved back to the dark, clapping youth. "Who is-?" she began to ask, then frowned. "Quit that bloody nonsense, Gen, it is giving me a headache!"

Gen obediently ceased his dancing and whistling, standing still, hands at his sides, projecting an air of innocence. The facially tattooed young man stopped clapping also and turned to Ysmet, smiling and performing a graceful and exotic bow that involved sweeping a hand forward from his brow as he bent forward. He straightened and announced something in a foreign, liquid speech. Ysmet's brow furrowed, she glanced at Rashiel, who shrugged and shook her head.

"What did he say?" Ysmet enquired of the twin Warders.

"We know not, Lady Ysmet…"

"…Hamadi speaks the language of Shara…"

"…which is unknown to us…"

"…but we think that-"

"He greets you, Sailmistress," Raab interrupted, "and calls down the blessings of the Spirits upon the Barbarian Chief, as he names you."

Ysmet blinked, assimilating this. She was not sure what to make of being called a 'barbarian' but she was the chief around here, so that at least was accurate. Meanwhile, the Gaidin brothers were glaring at Raab, who smiled insolently back at them, like a cat that has just successfully stolen some cream from another cat, its sworn enemy…

"I did not know that you spoke the Sharan tongue, Raab," Rashiel commented.

Raab shrugged. "They call it Co'dansin, not-"

"Co'dansin, yes!" agreed the youth, Hamadi, nodding vigorously.

"Not Shara," Raab continued, raising his voice, "they refuse to speak the Vulgar, nor even the Old Tongue… you have to learn their lingo if you want to trade, Windfinder."

"Don't call me that!" Rashiel glanced at Aebel. "Is your arm broken, Aebel Gaidin?"

"It is, Rashiel Sedai."

"Well, I'll see what I can do, but I've never been very good at Healing… I can mend the bone, but it may hurt a bit…" Rashiel sashayed over to the Warders.

Raab sidled closer to Ysmet, lowering his voice conspiratorially; "have a care, your Ladyship… the Sharan fellow is Ayyad, that's what those face-tattoos mean… he can almost certainly channel!"

Ysmet frowned. "Wonderful!" she growled, then her eyes moved to the gaudily decorated chest sitting on the sand. "What's in the box?" she wondered.

Blaek answered, turning away from his brother, Aebel, who was reluctantly presenting his injured arm for Rashiel's attention. "The Horn of T'oph, Lady Ysmet. Shrina found it in a ruined palace beside Lake Somal." His handsome features darkened with concern at mention of his captive Aes Sedai.

"The Horn of what?"

"T'oph."

"Never heard of it… I thought your Aes Sedai was hunting for the Horn of Valere?"

Blaek shook his head sadly. "Misfortunately, a gambling Andorman found it first, him who we then named; 'Hornsneaker.' Shrina was very angry about it, she-"

"Aaargh!"

Everyone stared at Aebel, who was now writhing upon the ground, Rashiel standing over him, wringing her hands. "I'm so sorry!" she cried.

The paroxysms that gripped Aebel faded swiftly and he rose unsteadily to his feet, assisted by his brother. He flexed his mended arm experimentally, then nodded, satisfied. "Thank you for the Healing, Rashiel Sedai."

"Oh dear… was it very painful?"

"Yes, Aes Sedai…"

Aebel glanced at Blaek, a private communication passing between them, then they spoke simultaneously; "but we have had worse!"

Ysmet's eyes moved back to the golden chest. "So what does it do, this other Horn?"

"It summons Sages, yes?" The voice spoke in the clipped, precise accents of Amadicia, and issued from a handsome, blue-eyed, blonde fellow in dusty garb, a Heron-mark blade sheathed at his back. He entered the rest of the way through the gate and bowed formally to Ysmet and Rashiel, who both eyed him appreciatively. "I have seen it!" he went on, "marvellous to behold! When Shrina sounds the Horn, Ghoetam and a host of the wise from every Age appear to advise her!" He shrugged. "Of course, she does not tend to take that advice…" He glanced at the twin Warders. "No offence meant, Gaidin."

"None taken," Aebel and Blaek responded, at the same time, clearly having no illusions about the impulsive young Green Sister whom they served.

"Who are you?" Ysmet enquired of the newcomer. The young Amadici Blademaster bowed again, he seemed to have a penchant for it, declaring; "I have the honour to be the Lord Thaeus of House Desiama."

"Desiama?" Rashiel muttered, then her eyes widened. "Of course, you must be Ellyth's brother!" She then scowled. "The Whitecloak," she added, pointedly.

Thaeus smiled, and Ysmet felt her heart flutter a little in response. It was not fair, that a man should have a smile like that! She was a respectable, married woman now, if with a less-than-respectable Gleeman for a husband, and did not appreciate having her monogamy thus tested!

"I foreswore my Oaths to the Children of Light," Thaeus explained to Rashiel, "since after all, the Dragon has been reborn. 'He breaks all bonds, he unbinds all ties…' I am no longer a Lord-Lieutenant in the Legions…" he glanced at Rashiel's serpent-ring and raised an eyebrow. "May I know your name, Aes Sedai?"

"Rashiel Tamor," the former Red Sister responded, coldly.

This time, Lord Thaeus raised both eyebrows. "Trollop!" he declared, "my sister has oft spoken of you in her letters… she thought you a Darkfriend at first, but later revised her opinion, since she claimed that one sworn to the Shadow would have better manners!"

Rashiel frowned darkly, but then her full lips twitched and she threw back her head, laughing loudly. "Oh Ellyth…" she wheezed, "there really is no-one quite like you!"

Thaeus nodded. "Indeed there is not. As you must have heard, your fellow Sisters of the White Tower are in peril, Rashiel Sedai… tis imperative that we release them from the bondage of this Laughing God-"

"Praise him!" Gen abruptly and surprisingly shouted, then put a guilty hand over his mouth while everyone stared at him curiously.

"That is Gen," Ysmet explained to Lord Thaeus, "ignore him, he isn't quite right in the head…"

"Is anyone, in this insane land?" Thaeus wondered, "why, the first natives I encountered here, prior to making an attempt on my life, were about to eat somebody's leg!"

"Eww!" exclaimed Rashiel, pulling a disgusted face.

Ysmet nodded grimly. She had seen worse than that, since being shipwrecked here. Recalling that the handsome former Whitecloak had introduced himself, after all, she raised her divided skirts slightly, performing a graceful curtsy, somewhat hampered by the rapier sheathed at her belt. "I am the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, and Captain of the Queen Mab," she stated smoothly, "though I scarcely may lay claim to that second title, given that my fine ship lies wrecked upon that wind-cursed reef over there…"

"His back may not be broken," Raab muttered, "and his hull seems intact…"

Ysmet scowled at Raab, they had argued this point before… "Why then do you not swim out there and take a look, Sea Folk know-it-all?" she snapped, "I am sure that the lionfish will leave you be if you but explain to them that you are a skilled shipwright, and an ill-tasting one at that!" Raab blanched. "And cease calling my poor foundered ship 'he!' Tis named after a bloody Queen, albeit a mythical one, so therefore tis a 'she,' irregardless of your quaint Atha'an Miere customs!"

"Am I interrupting something?"

With the exception of the newcomers, everyone stared in surprise at the tall, russet-haired woman who stood framed in the gateway of the palisade, flanked by the two Aielmen who had given up the spear in favour of, respectively, both useful and pointless menial tasks. Pale, almost colourless eyes fixed themselves on Ysmet, before moving to Rashiel, taking note of her golden, Eternal Serpent ring.

"Honour to serve, Aes Sedai," the slender woman commented, in her oddly accented voice, not particularly sounding as if she meant it, though she inclined her head slightly in a gesture of mild respect. Rashiel blinked, then nodded back to her, eyes wide. Ysmet noted with a sense of profound unreality that the stranger's ears rose to abbreviated points, lying flat against the sides of her skull. Like those of Mab, Queen of the Fair Folk! Had her lost ship's namesake come to visit them? That would make about as much sense as anything else that transpired in this mad place!

"What… who are you?" Ysmet managed to ask, touching the hilt of her rapier unconsciously. She had been in enough serious situations to know when someone was potentially dangerous, and this strange, fox-like female had the aspect of a killer.

The unearthly woman did not answer immediately, but stepped gracefully forward, the Aielmen – the big, quiet one and the red-eyed, boastful one – moving with her. Lord Thaeus walked over to join them, slipping an arm about the tall maiden's shoulders. She smiled up at him, then grinned at Ysmet, sharp teeth flashing in her pale face. "Introduce me, milord!" she commanded.

Thaeus complied. "Lady Ysmet, Rashiel Sedai; this is Feir-called-Fourthborn, sister to N-"

"Goddess!" shouted Gen, who had been staring at Feir raptly ever since she appeared, "Fox Queen!" He stumbled forward and threw himself to the sand at Feir's bare, long-nailed feet, arms stretched out, uttering a string of devotions in what sounded like the Old Tongue.

Ysmet sighed. Signing Gen on as her Guide had seemed like a good idea at the time, given that he was the only person in the entirety of the Westlands remotely familiar with their mysterious destination… but then, to those ancient, Age of Legends Aes Sedai, opening the Bore into the Dark One's prison had doubtless seemed like a good idea at the time, also.

Feir raised an auburn eyebrow, glancing down at the eccentric old castaway abasing himself before her. "Is that you, Gen?" she enquired.

Gen raised a tear-stained face from the sand, his wind-burned features expressing insane joy and awe. "Yes, Goddess, tis I!"

"You look terrible," Feir observed, adding; "where the bajad drovja have you been, Gen? I thought you dead."

"Oh, I was dead!" Gen agreed, cooperatively, "I did go out fishing one day, and did get blown off course by unseasonable gales for weeks and weeks… and then, I did die!"

"Why are you talking funny?" Feir wondered.

Gen ignored the question. "Some strange folk out looking for their oilfishes, whatever they be, did find me…" he pointed at the twin brothers from Mayene, "…they did look and speak like them, in fact… they took me to the lands of the dead, up in the cold north where there be this white thing called 'snow' and I did learn to speak as the Illianers do…"

"Is this going to take much longer?" Feir muttered, impatiently.

"…but then, the beauteous Captain Ysmet did take me with her, back to my home… where I did live again!" Having ended his story on a decidedly triumphant note, Gen then buried his face in the sand once more, muttering indistinctly in the Old Tongue.

"That is quite a tale!" Feir commented. Ysmet approached warily, Rashiel following. "What know you of Gen?" Feir asked them.

"Only that he is completely mad!" Ysmet answered brusquely.

Feir laughed, an odd, high-pitched yipping sound, that startled them both. "Well, he would be," she then observed, "after all, he is souvraniene, a male-channeler! Or at least, he was... Gen can't touch the Source anymore, he burnt the ability out of himself by doing something incredibly stupid!" Feir eyed Gen with affection. "Didn't you, Gen?"

Gen raised his sandy face. "Aye, that I did!" he confirmed.

"Tried to use the Portal Stone all on your own, you raving idiot!" Feir laughed, patting Gen on the head.

"Tis true! The witches from the darkling caves did tell me that the Everstone did lead to other worlds, and I did wish to see 'em…" Gen frowned. "Never did, though," he added, wistfully.

Feir shrugged. "Well, you're lucky to be alive, and at least you've had an adventure, going back to my old homeland and such…"

"Tis right good to see you again, my Queen!" Gen cried, continuing his benedictions.

Feir frowned and hauled Gen to his feet. "Stop that k'jasic grovelling, it looks silly… and cease calling me by those empty titles, you know that I don't care for them."

Gen ducked his head. "Forgive me, Fourthborn," he stammered.

Ysmet eyed Feir cautiously. "What are you, Feir? I mean you no insult, but you clearly aren't quite human..?"

Feir shook her head. "Indeed not… and I would not wish to be! I am a Construct, like my Brother, and his Brothers before him. We were created at the end of the Age of Legends, to make war on the Shadow. Which we did very well, or rather they did… I was never really afforded the opportunity… I mean to rectify that, and soon." She smiled a fierce, eager smile. "Tarmon Gai'don is coming..."

"Feir serves the Light as readily as do we all," Thaeus explained, "she has powers and abilities much akin to those of her sibling, Naythan Shieldman."

"N'aethan," Feir corrected, and Thaeus glanced at her apologetically. She smiled, and winked at him; he smiled back.

"Naythan… Shieldman?" Ysmet blinked, feeling as though she had been left quite far behind current events, with no hope of ever catching up. "Who is he?"

Thaeus shrugged. "My sister's new Warder," he revealed, then grinned. "Though I think me the relationship goes a little beyond that…"

"Hold!" Rashiel cried, "Ellyth's new Warder? What of Atual Gaidin?"

After an uncomfortable pause, the Twins spoke, regret in their voices, but pride also.

"Atual Aendwyn fell in battle with Shadowspawn…"

"…protecting his Aes Sedai to the last…"

"…he died a glorious death…"

"…and his name lives on in our memories."

The Gaidin brothers glanced at each other, then added; "no Warder of the White Tower could ask for more."

Rashiel's face fell. "Oh no… I liked Atual, I really did… what a terrible shame…" She sniffed, blinking back tears, and Ysmet put a comforting arm around her shoulders, her eyes still fixed on Feir with fascination. Gen had called her a Queen… could she be Mab..?

Feir grinned. "I see a question in your eyes!" she told Ysmet, in a strange, whispery voice, a little like that of a fussy old man…

Ysmet raised her eyebrows in surprise, but did not let Feir's odd manner put her off. This was most definitely a mystery to be solved, and she had always loved seeking solutions to such conundrums… "You come from the Age of Legends?" she asked, softly.

Feir shook her head, her russet mane of hair sweeping back and forth against her shoulders. "Not really. The Last Age ended with the War, and I was born in the Light some fifty years after it ended... but I'm not so old as I sound!" Feir grinned again, exposing sharp teeth briefly, but then her demeanour became serious. "Tell me… um..?"

"Ysmet."

"Ysmet… tell me, do you know what a Stasis Box is?"

"I do not."

"No, I don't suppose that you would… well, my Brother and I were both inured inside such devices, they're sort of like big ter'angreal that work but once… we were held in suspension whilst the World of the Wheel turned outside, for more than three millennia. Time had no hold upon us as we slept our long sleep, awaiting the approach of the Last Battle when we would arise from our dormant state to fulfil Father's plan."

Ysmet felt as though her head were spinning. First the Aielmen, then the tattooed Ayyad, Shrina's twin Warders, the former Whitecloak and now, this Feir person, this 'Fox Queen' as Gen named her… what further bizarre strangers would intrude upon her camp?

Rashiel glanced up, wiping at her pale eyes. "Does this have anything to do with that crystal object Ellyth was so secretive of? That might also have been a ter'angreal…"

"Possibly, Aes Sedai," Feir conjectured, adding; "please to describe it?"

"Well, I only got a few glimpses, Ellyth was very cagey about showing it to anyone, but I recall that it was a sort of flattened sphere with a dozen facets around the edges…"

Feir's eyes lit up. "The Locator-Key!" she exclaimed, "why, yes, that is exactly-"

"Feir!" cried a high-pitched and breathless voice, "is it really you?!"

Ysmet stared, wide-eyed, with a combination of consternation and resignation as yet another bizarre stranger intruded upon her unquiet camp! This time, it was a wild, pretty, ash-blonde maiden clad in a brief, doeskin tunic, stumbling through the gate in the palisade, a large, white wolf limping at her heels. She looked extremely weary and somewhat panic-stricken… and her eyes glowed in the evening gloom, shining with a bright golden hue! What now? Ysmet wondered, exasperated, speculating on whether anyone would notice if she absented herself from these chaotic proceedings and went straight back to bed, pulling the covers up over her head?! Certainly, it was a more than tempting prospect…

Feir turned to greet the new-arrival, delight and concern vying for possession of her foxy features. "Tamei!" she called, then frowned. "What is wrong, girl?" Tamei fell into Feir's arms, clearly prey to the exhaustion of someone who has run far and fast. Feir held the wild-looking maiden upright whilst Ysmet watched, wondering what new development this portended. Worrying about Roth, also, he and the others should have been back by now…

"The bad men!" Tamei managed to gasp, "the evil ones in the red masks… besieging the stedding… Stedding Dashai, it is called… the Ogier Elders sent me to fetch help, the wolves showed me the way…" Wolves? Ysmet wondered, staring at the snow-white wolf crouched at Tamei's feet. It appeared to be hurt, there was blood staining the pale fur on its left foreleg. Rashiel, ever one to aid injured beasts, moved towards it solicitously, but the wolf growled at her warningly, baring its sharp teeth. Tamei glanced at the lupine beast, muttering; "let her help you, Ice," and it subsided, allowing Rashiel to lay healing hands upon its injury. "Ice was bitten by one of those nasty dogs," Tamei explained to Feir, "we had to run like deer to escape them… Mitsu told me to look for her companions, we tracked you all the way along the beach from where the dead Hawx lay…" she smiled up at Feir exultantly, "but I did not think to find you in this camp, Feir! I thought you were yet in the Wastelands."

Feir shook her head. "I tired of that grim place." The she-wolf howled in protest as Rashiel's painful Healing weave settled into her leg, then subsided. Tamei patted her wolfish friend soothingly between the ears, her golden eyes still fixed on Feir, who added; "you know why."

"I do." Tamei looked about the watching, assembled Warders, Whitecloaks, Sea Folk and Sailors, seemingly searching for someone in particular. "Where is your nasty Gholam?"

"That is an excellent question…" Feir glanced apologetically at Thaeus, then eyed Ysmet. "I must leave you all awhile, duty calls. Though I have had little to do with them, Father made me promise to always aid the Alantin ti Avende in times of need. When my Brother returns, kindly inform him to seek me at Stedding Dashai, close by to the Collam Aman." Feir leaned up to kiss Lord Thaeus in fond farewell, though he did not accept this.

"If you are going to this stedding then I am coming with you, Feir!" Thaeus protested.

Feir shook her head resolutely. "You cannot, milord. I must needs move fast, faster than you can possibly keep pace with… and there is another reason why this particular fight is not for you…" she lowered her voice, directing a meaningful glance at the young Amadici Lord "…the Family Curse that you told me about, remember?"

"What of it?" Thaeus muttered, sulkily.

Feir sighed. "These men in the red masks…"

"Evil men," Tamei growled, correcting Feir.

"Evil men, then… I have encountered them before. They can channel, milord, and powerfully too. They are a far more dangerous enemy than those poor, confused Madmen whom I deal with on occasion… I was made to counter such a menace, you were not. And in any case, it would not be wise for you to face them, Thaeus, nor Hamadi either… they might well influence you, even gain control over you. They possess ways and means, and have been personally taught ancient skills by their Laughing God."

"Curse him!" muttered Tamei. Feir chuckled.

While Lord Thaeus frowned unhappily, seeming to reluctantly accept that he could not go with Feir, the tall, red-haired, fox-like woman ruffled Tamei's short, spiky hair. "Still the tiny termagant, eh?" she observed.

Tamei grinned up at Feir. "You and your long words, Feir!" she complained, "I'm not going to even agree with you about that one 'til I know what it bloody means!"

"Very wise of you, little wolf-sister… oh, and you can't come with me either."

Tamei looked scandalised. "What? How will you know how to find-"

"I can locate the stedding easily enough, that is hardly a problem."

"Then why-?"

"Because you're exhausted, girl, you've been running for a night and a day, haven't you? Ice too… how will you be able to keep up with me?"

Tamei scowled, then turned to Rashiel. "Aes Sedai?"

"Yes, Tomee?"

"Tamei!"

"Tamei. Indeed. What can I do for you?"

"You can channel strength into me! Ice too!" Tamei considered a moment, then grudgingly added the words; "if you please."

Rashiel blinked. "I've only ever done that with horses," she explained, "I've never tried a wolf… and I really don't think that it should be done to a human…" She took note of the unusual shade of Tamei's eyes… "you… you are human, are you not?"

"Yes, of course!" Tamei snapped impatiently, "and the witches of this land channel strength into their servants all the time… it's perfectly safe!"

"Well, I don't know…" Rashiel prevaricated, glancing at Ysmet, who shook her head doubtfully.

"Please?" Tamei whined, "there is a person at the stedding who is very special to me, I must see them again, and soon!"

"Would that be this 'Mitsu' you mentioned?" Feir enquired, with a sly smile.

"Yes! Even her!"

Feir sighed, then glanced at Rashiel. "Kindly do as the wolf-sister asks, Aes Sedai. Channel strength into them both. I shall take responsibility."

Rashiel hesitated, then nodded unwillingly. "The wolf first, I think," she muttered.

"Ice! Her name is Ice!" Tamei insisted.

"Shut-up, Tamei!" Feir snapped, "this woman is a real Servant of All, come from far away where they still have a Hall of sorts, I am told… she is not one of those addled, witchy impostors of yours… so show some respect!"

Tamei blushed. "Sorry, Feir. Sorry, Aes Sedai. Sorry, everyone else."

Feir smiled, and patted Tamei approvingly on the back. Tamei grinned at her. Feir then glanced at Lord Thaeus, who was watching her bleakly, and settled into his arms, leaning her head on his shoulder. He sighed mournfully.

Rashiel sniffed dismissively, then knelt gracefully beside the crouching she-wolf, who watched her suspiciously with cold, yellow eyes that were much akin to those of Tamei, Ysmet noted. "If you bite me, I shall turn you into a rug!" Rashiel hissed, then laid hands gingerly upon the lupine creature's furry back. The wolf shifted a little, but under Tamei's cautionary stare, remained compliant. Presumably, Rashiel yet held saidar from Healing the beast, she now cast the complex flows that had only ever been used on the denizens of the Tower stables before… as the strength weaves settled into the she-wolf, Ice made a surprised whuffing sound, her tongue lolling out, then rose to her paws, seeming to tremble with pent-up energy.

"That's amazing!" Tamei enthused, "much better than anything those crazy witches can do! Ice looks like she can run all the way south to the ice-mountains and back again!" Rashiel exchanged a wry glance with Ysmet as she rose. "Now do me!" Tamei demanded, stepping lithely forward. Feir made a warning, growling sound. Tamei blushed again. "I mean, if it's not too much trouble?" she mumbled, abashed.

Rashiel sighed, and placed her hands to either side of Tamei's ash-blonde, close-cropped locks. "I am really only supposed to channel this weave into my Warder-"

"Though you really aren't supposed to have a Warder!" Ysmet observed, gazing innocently up at the darkening sky.

Rashiel scowled. "My Warder, I say, and then only in times of great exigency!" She fixed Tamei with a serious, pale-eyed stare. "This could kill you, girl," she warned.

Tamei returned Rashiel's stare boldly. "I care not! What is life without risk? I must return to Stedding Dashai, I promised Mitsu that I would come back to her as soon as I could…" She smiled at Feir. "With reinforcements! What luck that you were here, Feir… why, I almost feel sorry for those red-masked madmen!"

Feir eyed Thaeus, who smiled also, though with a more melancholy aspect to the expression. "Well, there are madmen and there are madmen," she commented, "but I shall do my best to save the stedding… it is the last one left, after all."

"The Ogier told me that the others all fell long before you came to this Land," Tamei observed, then turned her golden-eyed gaze back on Rashiel. "I stand ready, Aes Sedai… kindly restore my strength, that I may run like a wolf!" Ice threw back her head and howled enthusiastically.

Rashiel sighed, then channeled.

Later, Ysmet and Lord Thaeus stood up on the parapet, watching as Feir loped away toward the forest, running swiftly, with graceful assurance. She had changed her clothes, shedding the ragged dress in favour of some dark britches and a darker shirt that had belonged to one of the slighter sailors, lost in the wreck. "Horrid things, lionfish," Feir had observed, whilst putting on the dead man's garb. She had about as much modesty as Rashiel, Ysmet considered, less even… had thought nothing of stripping to the skin in front of various male sailors, Warders and Gen, whatever he counted as… and that red tattoo etched into the pale skin over her heart… what was that? Ysmet hoped that she would soon meet this 'Naythan Shieldman' if only to have some point of comparison with his eldritch sister… was he as strange as her? Or stranger, even? Were the Fair Folk real?

Rashiel had gone to lay down, weary from her various channeling exertions. The others had dispersed also, but for the twin Warders and Hamadi, who were ensconced in Gen's noisome hut, making plans for the rescue of their womenfolk. Raab had been enlisted as a reluctant translator, so that they could attempt to understand each other. Some hope!

When she reached the tree-line, Feir turned and raised a long-nailed hand in farewell. Tamei and her four-legged friend, the she-wolf Ice, had already disappeared into the forest, scouting on ahead, the renewed strength coursing through their bodies giving them the wherewithal to do so. Thaeus lifted a hand in response, and after a moment's hesitation, Ysmet waved too. "What will you do when you get to the stedding?" Lord Thaeus called out to the inhuman entity who was clearly become his lover of late… they had kissed at some length before finally parting company. Lingering to one side, trying not to stare, Ysmet had felt like the veritable gooseberry!

"I shall do as I was created to do!" Feir answered.

"And what is that?" Ysmet shouted.

Even from a distance, they could see Feir's predatory grin flash in the gloom. She turned and slipped silently into the dark forest, her final response drifting down to them on the cold, night air.

"Why, I shall make attempt to kill the Laughing God!"

---

The Stormchaser wallowed upon the flat surface of the Great Southern Ocean, sails flapping impotently in the fitful breeze. Duadh din Retif Blue Ring stood in his preferred place up on the foredeck, leaning on the bowsprit, his colourful parrot perched upon his bare shoulder, onyx eyes fixed on an indistinct beige stripe that stretched the length of the southernmost horizon. Land. It had been long since they made landfall, their slow journey down to the far south had lasted near a full year. It would have been well to call at his home-port on Aile Shadar, one of the hidden harbours of the Clan Waketa community concealed within the watery maze of the Smoking Islands… the islet where Duadh had been born and was first taught the ways of the Shadow. But it could not be. He had a couple of Shorebound passengers aboard, outsiders, for all that they were Friends of the Dark like himself. It was death to reveal the sacrosanct docks of the Waketa to anyone not of this Shadow-sworn Clan... and a particularly horrible death at that.

Duadh well-knew that he was a fearsome fighter, who oft inspired terror in others… but then, few of his numerous victims had ever met his mother. He could not think of Nacheta din Retif Sea Serpent without shuddering slightly. The notorious Wavemistress of Clan Waketa tended to have that effect on people… and Duadh had no wish to dwell on what this horrifying Matriarch would do to her least-favourite son should he convey Shorebound strangers to one of their secret ports.

The Wavemistress Nacheta had birthed several children by differing sires, most of whom had not lived long enough to see them born, and she had personally murdered three of her offspring for various transgressions. Duadh did not much care about this, his were far from an affectionate people, but he had no wish to share the dread fate of these unfortunate siblings. Particularly his older brother Drinagh, who he had always hated… the fool had lost his ship and much of his crew in a needless battle with the storm-cursed Takana, then paid a heavy price for his failure. But at least the hungry sharks to whom the unfortunate Drinagh had been fed, piece by piece, had presumably been content with the way things turned out. One person's loss was nearly always someone else's gain, in Duadh's experience, which when it came to matters of mortality, was considerable.

A light footfall on the deck behind, the muted scrape of leather on wood, and Duadh's grip tightened on his deadly axe, though he did not trouble to turn around. Whoever it was clearly wore shoes of some kind, which meant that it could be only one person, since the crew all went barefoot and the other Shorebound aboard favoured the soft boots of an Aielman, moving soundlessly at all times.

"Come to greet the night, 'prentice?" Duadh enquired sardonically, his dark gaze yet fixed on the land ahead, which seemed close enough to touch, but in their current becalmed state, might as well have been on the far side of the world.

A sniff of disapproval came from behind Duadh, then Irmilla Nadona joined him at the rail, a fringed parasol propped on one smooth shoulder, shielding her from the sun's rays, which oft became more fierce in the eventide. The glamorous Darkfriend channeler stared hungrily at their destination… of all those aboard, she clearly wished to set foot ashore the most. Irmilla wore a garish silk skirt dyed with a myriad of swirling colours, in addition to the tooled leather sandals that had betrayed her identity. Her top half was quite bare, in keeping with the Atha'an Miere customs followed by the women of the crew, and Duadh noted that over the course of their long voyage, Irmilla's coppery, Domani complexion had tanned considerably, that she was now almost as dark as a Tairen, if not quite so dark as himself.

"Squaaa!" Duadh's parrot squawked, cocking its head to one side and peering at the Shorebound female insolently. "Harlot!" it added, rudely.

Irmilla glared at the brightly-plumed talking bird with loathing. "You taught the beastly creature to say that, Duadh!" she accused.

"I did not," Duadh lied smoothly, "he must have overheard it, somewhere…"

"Strumpet!" screeched the parrot. "Squaaa! Trull!"

Irmilla snarled and took a vengeful swipe at the offending bird with her furled parasol, but it was familiar with her violent ways and ducked its colourful head, avoiding the blow. The parrot then launched itself into the air and flapped up to perch on the safety of the foremast, beyond reach of retribution. Irmilla glared up at it, then shook her head angrily. The bright southern sunset reflected off something on her cheek that flashed, something golden. Duadh peered closer at it, and scowled, disapprovingly. Seemingly, in addition to her earrings, the foolish Shorebound Apprentice had added a nose-ring and had also acquired a thin gold chain that linked them, bedecked with the tiny medallions that had caught the fading light.

"You have not the right to wear that," Duadh grumbled.

Irmilla sneered at him. "I do! Am I not Windfinder of this ship?" She had once disliked that term, but had developed a yen for it in consequence of their long voyage.

"Of course you are not, Shorebound witch!" Duadh refuted, scathingly, "are you Atha'an Miere? What is your salt-name? Where are your Clan tattoos?" He tapped the virulent, eight-tentacled sea-creature inked into his chest emphatically. "May it please the Dark, you can ape our ways and fashions all you like, but you will never be one of us, one of the Sea Folk!" Duadh's eyes had strayed unbidden to Irmilla's firm, bare breasts whilst he conducted his rant, and now snapped back up to her face. The accursed flighty 'prentice had noticed this and was smiling slyly at him. Were it not for the fact that Irmilla could easily turn him inside-out with the One Power, Duadh might well have slapped her at this point… still, in a quiet moment, he would teach his parrot further insulting terms to call her. It amused him to do so, and there had been little-enough amusement on this ill-fated voyage, but for the fight with the strangers upon the Aryth Ocean, many months previously and half a world away…

The unknown enemy had been sailing in a big, broad-beamed ship with ribbed sails that was unfamiliar to Duadh and his Clan Waketa crew. The strange craft had altered course upon sighting them and attacked the Stormchaser without provocation, giving no quarter… and receiving none, either. The leashed woman on board the enemy ship, stationed up on the quarterdeck with another woman linked to her, had hurled several fireballs at them, ruining Duadh's best sails and much angering him, since quality canvass was expensive and probably hard to come by where they were going...

Proving her worth for a change, Irmilla Nadona had dealt with the enemy channeler extremely gruesomely… the Stormchaser had then closed with the foe amidst a hail of hurled ropes and grappling-hooks and Duadh had led his howling crew onto the decks of the enemy vessel. The oddly-armoured soldiers aboard had put up a respectable resistance, but a Clan Waketa boarding-party in the full spate of bloodlust was difficult to defeat, to put it mildly, and soon enough the decks were awash with the stranger's gore.

Duadh grinned at the pleasant memory, gold teeth flashing in his dark, brutal face. A fine engagement, though he had lost some good people to the unknown enemy… and in their enthusiasm for killing, his crew had neglected to take any prisoners to be used later, for recreational torture. After replenishing their supplies from the captured ship's stores, Duadh had ordered the craft burned down to the waterline; an offering to the Father of Storms.

"Why are you grinning like that, Duadh?" Irmilla wished to know, adding; "you're thinking about something horrid, aren't you?"

"I was recalling the fight with the strangers, Windfinder," Duadh answered absently.

"Yes, it was rather fun, I can now finally say that I have taken part in a nautical battle… I wonder who that drab woman in the silver collar was, some sort of foreign Aes Sedai?" Irmilla recollected, then smiled triumphantly; "and you just called me Windfinder!"

Duadh scowled. "I was being sarcastic!"

"You would not know sarcasm if it bit you upon the rump, Duadh! I am a bloody Windfinder!"

"If you are a Windfinder, then find me some accursed wind!" Duadh shouted angrily, waving his axe at the listless sails to illustrate his point.

Now, it was Irmilla's turn to scowl. "I explained it, you Atha'an Miere idiot, and I deliberately used short words! There isn't any wind, something happened to the weather yesterday, something big…"

"This again!" Duadh muttered, contemptuously.

"I tell you, an enormous quantity of saidar was being channeled, far to the north, affecting the climate… and that was when the trade-wind died, leaving us becalmed."

Duadh snorted disparagingly, then felt eyes on him and glanced over his broad shoulder. Various members of his crew, dark-skinned, bare-chested men and women, large tattoos of predatory sea-creatures decorating their torsos, had paused in their varied duties to stare curiously at the arguing pair up on the foredeck, their attention doubtless attracted by Duadh's raised voice. He did not often shout, he did not need to. But to finally be within sight of their destination and then to lose the wind… it was frustrating in the extreme.

Duadh narrowed his eyes slightly, and his people lowered their staring gazes, hurriedly resuming their tasks. Most of them were blood-relations of his, to one degree or another, but all knew that this would not prevent him from killing them, if need be. Discipline amongst the Waketa was harshly enforced, and there were no excuses for failure.

Up on the quarterdeck, Duadh's cousin, Cirla din Rieta Swordfish, stood at the wheel, her customary station, dark eyes fixed on the diminished horizon to the south. Abruptly, the hatch below swung open and a tall, red-veiled man clad in the cadin'sor stepped unsteadily out onto the main deck; soft, laced boots on his feet, a shoufa wrapped about his head.

Duadh's eyes narrowed further. Irmilla turned to look, and frowned.

"I thought you said the Aielman was bed-ridden?" Duadh muttered, accusingly.

"He was," Irmilla hissed, then lowered her voice as the other Shorebound passenger, the Shadow-Turned Samma N'Sei, approached them, feet unsure even on the gently rocking deck. "This voyage has really taken its toll, there were times when I thought he would actually die from sea-sickness, but…" Irmilla trailed-off.

"What do you suppose is wrong with him?" Duadh asked quietly, noting the way his crew assiduously avoided the Eye Blinder as he moved haltingly past them. There was little in life that made a Waketa nervous, but the Aielmen certainly managed it. Some said the Samma N'Sei was bad luck to have aboard, worse ill-fortune than killing an albatross or whistling for wind, and they would have thrown him overboard long since, had they dared.

Irmilla was shaking her head slowly back and forth. "I just don't know," she murmured, "I have Delved him several times, even tried Healing, though I'm not very good at it." Frustration filled Irmilla's voice; "if only the Mistress were here, she might know…"

"Could it be the Taint?" Duadh wondered, warily watching the Aielman approach.

"I do not think so… he should be protected from that, as the male Dreadlords were in the Trolloc Wars… not to mention the men amongst the Chosen…"

"Well, there is definitely something amiss with that storm-cursed savage," Duadh speculated, thinking out loud, "mayhap I should give him to the salt..?"

Irmilla rolled her eyes skywards, clearly exasperated. "My name is Duadh din Ratfish Octopus-Features and I just looove to drown people!" she growled mockingly, imitating his deep voice and Sea Folk accents. Duadh scowled darkly. Irmilla continued in more serious tones; "the Mistress sent the Samma N'Sei along because he might prove useful, unlikely as that now seems…" she shrugged, then continued tartly; "Duadh, She Who Summons the Gales will scarcely thank you for sacrificing her armsman to your precious Stormfather!"

"Perhaps she would not… but I do not have octopus-features, whatever they are!"

"No, you are right, octopuses tend to be handsomer…" Irmilla's large, dark eyes were on the Aielman, who had nearly reached the foredeck. Her brow furrowed with concern and she lowered her voice further; "his peculiar manner… it could perhaps be..?"

"What?" Duadh prompted impatiently, "it could be what?"

"I know little of such matters, but the Mistress once told me that sometimes, the process of being Turned to the Shadow does not always go so well as it should. That there are occasional side-effects… complications…"

Duadh frowned. The Samma N'Sei leader Zaradin had not come with them on this voyage, but had sent one of his people, the one that had not gone through the Portal Stone with the Tinker assassin and his scurvy band of brigands… both of these lesser Eye Blinders had been forcibly Turned to the Shadow, and as a result, Duadh did not entirely trust them. Ever since he had been old enough to speak, to think, he had pledged allegiance to the Father of Storms deep within his heart and soul. He did not need a score of Black Ajah and Myrddraal to compel him to his duty with some fell wreaking of the One Power, for he proudly served the Great Lord of the Dark by choice and tradition. His Clan, the Waketa, had remained loyal to the Shadow for more than two-thousand years, had kept faith that entire time, suffering at the hands of the other Atha'an Miere Clans as a result.

Duadh opened his mouth to demand of Irmilla what she meant by 'complications' but a shadow fell over them and a muffled voice intruded; "I see you, Wise One's Apprentice! I see you also, Boat-Chief!"

"Sailmaster!" Duadh snarled at the tall, cadaverous Aielman who loomed over him, unfocused blue eyes staring above a red veil, "and the Stormchaser is no boat, tis a ship!"

The Samma N'Sei did not seem to have heard, he tugged down his red veil, revealing a gaunt, bony face, a wide mouth full of pointed, filed teeth. He surveyed the distant landmass with satisfaction. "A fine evening," he commented, to no-one in particular.

"Have you finally found your sea-legs, Shadowrunner?" Duadh enquired brusquely, but the Eye Blinder was not attending, continuing to gaze vacantly upon the Land of the Madmen.

Duadh eyed Irmilla pointedly, she sighed, then cleared her throat loudly. "Medelin?" she said to the Samma N'Sei, carefully. He did not react. "Medelin…" she repeated. Still nothing. "Medelin!" Irmilla shouted. The tall Aielman turned to look down at her blankly.

Duadh imagined that Irmilla flinched slightly beneath that inhuman regard. He did not like meeting the gaze of one who had been Turned either, though it did not scare him. He was afeared of nothing… with the obvious exception of his mother, naturally. But those empty, green eyes of Medelin's; whatever he had once been was no longer there, and something else was looking out at the world from within him… something unimaginably wicked, evil beyond compare…

"Medelin, don't you think that you had better go back below, return to your cabin?" Irmilla was suggesting, "remember, you have not been well."

Duadh thought of some of the things the troublesome Aielman had got up to of late, almost setting his ship aflame to name but one, and decided that Irmilla must be erring on the extreme side of caution with her bland assessment. The Samma N'Sei smiled widely, further exposing his horrific, sharpened teeth. It troubled Duadh that Medelin oft removed his veil, since it had been explained to him by the humourless Tinker assassin that the Eye Blinders usually did this only when they were about to kill. But it seemed more the case that Medelin wished to speak in a discernible fashion, rather than indistinctly, through a layer of cloth.

"I am fine," Medelin stated, in his clear, oddly-accented voice, "and I should now tell you both that I am no longer called 'Medelin' but have taken another name." The tall Samma N'Sei abruptly made a bizarre finning motion with his hands, causing Duadh to grip the haft of his axe tighter, and judging from the intent look on her face, he presumed that Irmilla was holding saidar… "My new name is 'Mastri,'" the Eye Blinder revealed, "which in the Old Tongue means 'fish.' For do I not travel upon the seas, as do the fishes?" He laughed loudly, slapping his thigh and shaking his head back and forth, in appreciation of his own wit.

Duadh exchanged a meaningful glance with Irmilla. "That is a… fine new title for you, Med… Mastri," Irmilla commented, diplomatically, "but I really must insist that you return to your bunk for the time being, if only for the good of your health…"

"But I feel much better now," Medelin-become-Mastri insisted… and then promptly leant forward and vomited onto Irmilla's feet. She shrieked with disgust, hopping back, while the Samma N'Sei straightened and casually wiped his mouth clean with his red veil.

"Mother's milk in a bloody bucket!" Irmilla cursed, "look what you've done to my best sandals… it's all over my flaming feet, you sickening savage!"

Duadh was more concerned with the state of his deck… but for that, he might have quite enjoyed Irmilla's extreme discomfiture.

"Forgiveness," Mastri muttered, "I am a poor sailor and my habitual sickness must have been caused, as ever, by the untoward motion of the waves…"

"What burning waves, you cretin?!" Irmilla demanded furiously, "we're becalmed, in case you hadn't noticed!"

"Oh, I can do something about that," Mastri offered, glancing up at the listlessly flapping sails and narrowing his empty, green eyes… he gestured, and immediately, a strong gust sprang up from the north, swelling the canvas and providing impetus to the two-masted ship. Gradually, they gained headway and Duadh could almost imagine that the blur on the horizon indicating land was already perceptibly closer than it had been before Mastri's intervention. Duadh bellowed a few curt orders to his crew and immediately, dark-skinned, tattooed Atha'an Miere were scrambling aloft, ascending the rigging to set more sail.

"How in the seven seas did you do that?" Irmilla demanded of Mastri, whilst pouring a bucket of seawater over her soiled feet. Her sandals, she had gingerly removed and dropped regretfully into the Ocean. "You are an Aielman – and a bloody awful one at that! – what know you of weather channeling?"

Mastri shrugged his bony shoulders. He had been seasick for a long time on the voyage, had spurned food a great deal… and as a result, was somewhat skeletal. But a strange power, a formidable strength, seemed to burn within him.

Irmilla persisted; "how did you know how to do that, to raise the wind? Whenever I tried it, nothing happened... why did you succeed where I failed?"

"Oh, I am more powerful than you, Wise One's Apprentice," Mastri responded, in a far-away voice. "Much more. And as for the wind, the man in the mask showed me how to summon it." That was all the answer he seemed prepared to give. Irmilla glanced at Duadh with confusion; he tapped his finger against his shaven skull, meaningfully.

"What man would that be?" Irmilla asked carefully, "what mask?"

Mastri blinked, glancing at her. "Why, the short fellow who wears a metal face fashioned in the likeness of the Wetlands fox… he oft visits me of late… he walks in my unquiet dreams at will… and he tells me things…" Mastri pointed south, at the dark blur on the horizon that was gradually increasing in size as they approached. "That is his land we travel to, he rules there." Mastri belched. "I believe I am going to be sick again," he speculated.

"Do it over the side!" Duadh growled, "besmirch my clean decks again and I'll make fish stew of you!" Mastri obediently leant over the rail. Duadh fought the strong urge to bury the blade of his axe in the back of the Aielman's head, and just about succeeded.

"There is something floating there in the seawater," Mastri observed, after regurgitating at some length, "a bottle of green glass."

Taking care to avoid getting too close to the Samma N'Sei, in case he was not yet done with purging his guts, Duadh peered down into the foaming water. There was indeed an empty wine bottle bobbing near the hull… no, not quite empty, there appeared to be paper inside. A message? In a bottle? Did people actually do that, outside of the story books?

"Get that bottle for me, Fish," Duadh commanded. Mastri eyed him flatly, then extended a hand. The bottle flew up out of the ship's wake and slapped into his palm. Duadh took it, pulled the cork and teased out a rolled length of parchment. He pulled it open and scanned the florid scrawl within, but was left none the wiser. "I cannot read this," Duadh muttered.

Irmilla was sitting cross-legged on the deck, drying her feet, shooting occasional spiteful glances towards Mastri. At this, however, she eyed Duadh drolly. "I always suspected that you were illiterate, Duadh!" she commented, goadingly.

Duadh gave Irmilla a cold stare. "I know my letters!" he insisted, then waved the scroll under her nose, "but I think me this is writ in the Old Tongue, I do not comprehend it."

Irmilla took the parchment from Duadh and rose gracefully, examining the writing in a cursory way. "I believe that it's actually the High Chant," she speculated, "which is much the same as the Old Tongue, only more long-winded, if anything…"

"So what does it say, 'prentice?" Duadh demanded.

Irmilla glared at him. "How should I know? I don't read the Old Tongue either!"

Duadh blinked. "But you studied in the White Tower, did you not?"

"Not for very long… and I had to leave in rather a hurry after I killed that handsome youngling, or the miserable old witches would most likely have chopped my head off!" Irmilla shrugged, then smiled wickedly. "Besides, in my brief time at the Tower, I wasn't really interested in studying anything other than the Warder's practice-yard!"

"Trollop!" squawked the parrot, from its perch high above, "squaaa!"

While Irmilla shook her fist at the insulting bird, Duadh blinked, confused. He did not recall teaching his parrot that word… he turned to Mastri, who was sniffing the neck of the empty wine bottle curiously. "Do you..?" Duadh began to ask, but the Aielman shook his head.

"I know no Old Tongue words other than those for 'fish' and 'shadow,'" Mastri explained. He thought about it, then added; "oh, and 'Samma N'Sei' as well, I suppose…"

"Yes, I think I know what that means," Duadh told the Eye Blinder scathingly.

Unabashed, Mastri held up the wine bottle, enquiring; "this picture here… what manner of beast may this be?"

There was a damp label clinging to the side of the bottle, depicting a fierce, horned, reddish creature in profile… Duadh examined it and shrugged. "I know little of Shorebound fauna but I suspect that it is the 'cow' or some such other of their 'farm' animals," he speculated, humouring Mastri, not remotely interested in what the red thing was...

Irmilla glanced at the label and shook her head. "It's the Red Bull of Murandy, that pathetic patchwork Nation's silly symbol. It means that, in stead of being a fine, Domani vintage, the contents were doubtless the inferior swill that they produce in the vinlands along the River Storn… which further means that, like us, this bottle is a long way from home."

They considered this, then Mastri broke the silence, waving the empty bottle. "It is not popular in the Wetlands then, this red bull's drink?" he wondered.

Irmilla frowned, impatient. "It is called 'wine' you moron, not 'Red Bull!'"

"That would be an ill name for a beverage," Duadh observed.

"Never mind that!" Irmilla snapped, "we have larger concerns… clearly, others from the Westlands have come here, and our Mistresses' quarry may be amongst them… this message might contain clues as to their whereabouts. We need to decipher it, somehow…"

"Perhaps the fox-masked man will know what it means?" Mastri suggested, but was roundly ignored. He gave the empty bottle a last sniff, then tossed it back into the Ocean.

Duadh thought about it, then grinned, golden teeth flashing in his dark face. "Of course!" He turned and bellowed; "Kivan!"

At once, one of the crew ran to the foredeck, a stocky youth with a mop of black, curly hair and a blue-grey stingray tattooed upon his broad chest. He put a hand over his heart, the Waketa sigil etched into the web between thumb and forefinger in dark ink. "Yes, uncle?"

Duadh shoved the parchment toward him. "Make yourself useful for once, nephew… read this out to us!"

Kivan took the scroll and dug a pair of lenses held together with a wire frame out of the pocket of his striped trews, perching them atop his narrow nose. He swept his dark eyes over the inky scrawl, blubbery lips moving silently as he read.

"Well?" Duadh demanded impatiently, "you always have your pointy nose stuck in a book and call yourself a scholar, so what does it say, boy?"

"Not much, Sailmaster," Kivan answered apologetically, "the spelling is atrocious, the grammar worse, the content is vague at best and it… it rhymes!"

"Rhymes?" repeated Irmilla, doubtfully.

"Yes, Shorebound Windfinder… mayhap it was writ by a Bard?" Kivan's oily gaze slid away from Irmilla's bare bosom and back to the page. "No… no, I missed a bit at the end, it was apparently scribed by one 'Roth Blucha' who terms himself a Gleeman." Irmilla blinked in surprise, then scowled.

"Roth who?" growled Duadh.

"I know this Roth Blucha!" Mastri unexpectedly announced, "or at least, I did. The unusual Gleeman guested at my Hold after he was found up in the Blight by one-eyed Cohradin and the other foolish Sovin Nai." Mastri shrugged, confiding; "of course, this was all before I began to channel and was sent north to… to kill…" he paused, puzzled. "There was something that I was meant to do… but what? It is most confusing… I remember little... I know that there was a time before, when I did not serve the Shadow as I do now, but I cannot recall what it was like, it seems as the life of another person, who filled my skin and wore my face, but was not me… or mayhap I am not them…"

"Mastri…" Irmilla murmured softly.

The addled Samma N'Sei glanced at Irmilla Nadona, not noticing that Duadh and young Kivan were staring at him in a wary fashion. The Sailmaster of the Stormchaser had raised his deadly axe slightly, while his nephew was surreptitiously touching the hilt of the long, curved dagger tucked through his sash. "Yes, Wise One's Apprentice?"

"Shut-up!"

Mastri blinked, then lapsed into blessed silence.

Duadh snorted with disgust. "What is a storm-cursed Gleeman doing in the Land of the Madmen anyway?" he wondered aloud.

Kivan tore his cautious gaze away from Mastri and answered promptly, eyes scanning the page once more; "Sailmaster, it tells that this Gleeman Blucha came to here by ship, and was wrecked upon a reef… as was a woman he calls his 'Lady' and an unspecified amount of sailors… he even gives a location. And…" Kivan trailed-off, blinking.

"And what?" Irmilla demanded.

Kivan raised his dark eyes, disturbingly magnified by the lenses set before them. "The fool has certainly come to the wrong folk with regard to his request," the studious Waketa youth commented, smiling nastily.

"Request?" Duadh prompted, resisting the urge to maim his least-favourite nephew.

Kivan grinned viciously. "The Gleeman actually says that he wants to be rescued!"

Duadh stared, snorted, then began to laugh harshly. From the masthead above, his vile parrot Syed squawked loudly, before echoing his laughter, mimicking his mirth.

---

and now...

the Official Gleeman Bob Feast of Lights...

QUIZ

1. What Fantasy-fiction pseudonym is suggested by the title of HSUtH?

2. On their way to the White Tower to become novices, young Ellyth and Shrina almost have their luggage stolen in Tear… someone arrives just in time to help them, not giving his name, but dragging the thief off to the Stone. Who is he?

3. Oddly enough, Roth's tall story about encountering a Darkhound in the woods is actually true… except for one obvious exaggeration. What is it?

4. Whilst in the Ways, Jabal unwittingly alludes to a popular song of the First Age. Which one, and who performed it?

5. Although she has sworn on the Oath Rod to speak no word that is not true and is certainly no Darkfriend, on one occasion Shrina tells a lie. What is the false statement about?

6. How did Tro pay Kiam back for her satirical gift of a toy mouse for him to play with?

7. From which lost language does the Last Lightborn twice borrow a debased term, firstly back when he was Tro, and secondly, after he became N'aethan?

8. During his final visit to Forbidden Shara, Cohradin unknowingly eats hallucinogenic mushrooms and is tormented by bizarre visions of various strange creatures. What popular children's TV show is hinted at by them?

9. In the Tomb of the Firstborn, also known as the Cenotaph, N'aethan partially quotes a line from Shakespeare. Which play is it taken from?

10. In both books, a commonly-occurring word is often split into two words when used in dialogue, to make the language sound more archaic. Which word?

11. In itLotM, when does Father use an antique fencing term?

12. The character of the evil Arachnae Kirikil is based on an unpopular political figure from the past. There are clues as to her identity in the narrative. Who is she?

13. Kiam Lopiang hints that Chaime Kufer may not be N'aethan's true father, or seed-donor. If this is the case, who do you think his real progenitor might be?

* For an extra point, try & guess the identity of N'aethan's mother, or egg-donor!

there you go! if you would like to test your knowledge of HSUtH & itLotM by taking part, then please send your answers to my PM inbox at your own convenience! good luck!

WitL!

GB