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

12. Chapter 10 : The Dead City

Gleeman Bob writes : this chapter took (expletive deleted) AGES! not so much writing it out, I had most of the plot and dialogue floating around inside whatever part of my demented mind it is that makes me write fiction... I also had lots of note-pads and Zebra ink refills! (buy Zebra pens! Zebra pens are the best pens! Zebra are not giving me free pens for saying this... it is just my honest opinion!) no, it was all that typing, editing and spell-checking... it seemed to go on forever. I have been fanfictioning for about seven years now and thought the process might speed up as I gained experience, but I almost seem to be slowing down... encroaching old-age? a severe lack of motivation? Wheel of Time ennui? who can say... oh, & a big 'thank-you' to everyone who did not trouble to point-out that I have been spelling 'Zomara' wrongly for some time now! all previous 'Zomeras' have been corrected, but I am still a bit embarrassed about it...

unfortunately, my commitment to writing shorter chapters in this sequel is turning out to be wishful-thinking... Chapter 10 : The Dead City is way too long, but after I moved the Fox-Daemon intro back to the beginning of Chapter 9 : The Battle, it then became the longest chapter ever, beating the previous record-holder, the interminable Chapter 9 : Below the Tomb from HSUtH... it is over 1,000 words longer even than this! (not particularly interesting, but TRUE!) with only three chapters to go until the end of ItLotM, I will try not to overdo it, but there is still a story-arc to complete, loose-ends to tie-up, resolutions to arrive at... and evil villains to kill-off! Death to the Shadow!

anyway, it remains only to say that this one is for the LADIES! guys can read it too, of course, but TDC is definitely a grrrl-oriented chapter in that every scene is described from the perspective of a female character... even the Gholam! (though only technically a murderous maiden...) I did not plan this, it just turned out that way. seemingly, I have neglected many of my Women of Time in recent chapters, so had to catch up on what all the Heroines of Light & Femme Fatales of the Shadow have been doing in the meantime. it might be an idea to skim through Chapter 7 : The Eagle if you cannot quite recall what Ellyth & friends were up to? it was all so long ago, after all!

as always, my greatest Respect & Admiration for the Master World-Builder RJ / JOR jnr.

& don't forget to...

...Walk in the Light!

---

Prelude : "You still have me…"

Outside of the large tent, the wind howled and wailed, fierce gusts causing the canvas walls to flap vigorously. Arachnae Kirikil sipped at her camomile tea and grimaced… it had gone unpleasantly cold. She turned, holding out the cup. "More-" she began to demand, but bit back the word 'tea' as the Zomara leant gracefully forward and, with a self-satisfied smirk, tilted the red and black striped pot it held. A stream of dark, steaming liquid refreshed and warmed the contents of Arachnae's cup, not so much as a drop spilling. The Zomara performed its every action with deft, inhuman poise, just one of the many things about the androgynous, Shadow-spawned servant that intensely irritated Arachnae. The ancient Friend of the Dark scowled. "Wipe that insolent expression from your soulless face!" she hissed at the Zomara, adding; "vile creature!" for good measure.

The Zomara adopted a solemn mien that did not fool Arachnae for an instant, then moved lithely back to hover attentively behind the folding camp-chair upon which she was seated. It stood silently, awaiting further commands. Commands that it could anticipate before they were even uttered, by the simple expedient of looking inside the mind of its Mistress.

Arachnae turned away from the Zomara with a disapproving sniff, blowing on her tea to cool it, brows knit with ire. The evident satisfaction that the disconcerting creature derived from provoking her with its ability to read thoughts was irksome in the extreme… but then, so was much else that currently troubled her.

Two pairs of eyes were watching Arachnae; one set completely black, lacking iris or whites, the others green and predatory. Silence reigned, excepting the all-pervasive noise of the gale. Arachnae fixed the Courier of the Shadow Library with an expectant gaze. "You were saying, Master Raven?" she prompted.

The lean, cadaverous man - if indeed he could still be termed human - straightened in his own camp-chair, fastidiously smoothing the folds of his dark robe about skinny legs. The Courier spoke softly; "I was merely observing, Dread Lady, that the opportunity to study so rare a spawning of the Shadow is not to be missed… are you quite certain that you shall decline to accompany us?" His habitually solemn features held a trace of what could only be enthusiasm.

Arachnae felt a certain affinity with the Courier in this regard, if little else… the pursuit of esoteric knowledge had always motivated her to much the same extent. She shook her head slowly. "I must remain here, 'pon this desolate shore, Master Raven. Without my standing attendance at the Portal Stone, the way back for you and the others might remain closed, since there is no guarantee that the link may be re-established from the other side."

The Courier shrugged his bony shoulders. "True enough," he allowed, before avidly returning to his theme; "why, to think that one of these rumoured Constructs may have actually survived the War with the Light and the Breaking of the World! There is mention of them in ancient fragments of lost texts, but most of my peers at the Library of the Shadow thought them merely a myth."

"Legends are most oft based upon a modicum of fact," Arachnae pointed-out, beginning to find Master Raven's fascination with the subject more than a little tedious. The Courier blinked his jet-black eyes slowly, then opened his thin-lipped mouth to respond, but was forestalled.

"What is a gowlem?" The voice was clear, differently-accented than their own, and emerged somewhat muffled from behind the red veil covering the mouth of Zaradin, once of the Taardad Aiel. The tall Samma N'Sei squatted easily on the threadbare rug that floored the tent, leaning upon one of his spears. He seemed comfortable enough down there, Arachnae considered, knowing that even had there been a third chair to offer the leader of the Eye Blinders, Zaradin would most likely have refused it. His savage people tended to spurn civilised comforts, furniture being no exception…

The Courier of the Shadow Library frowned at the interruption. "Gholam!" he corrected, pedantically.

Zaradin made a contemptuous snorting sound behind his veil. "Gholam, then," he qualified uncaringly, before demanding; "so what is it, Raven Man? I have not seen it… and I hold no faith in that which has yet to appear before my eyes." He continued in musing tones; "Shadow-wrought, you say, like the Eyeless there…" he gestured disparagingly at the Myrddraal looming in the corner of the tent, arms crossed before its scale-armoured chest, "…though of greater skill in the Dance, and with abilities that these lesser Spawnings do not possess?"

The Myrddraal turned its head at this offhand mention of its kind and regarded Zaradin with blind, brooding menace… but if this concerned the Samma N'Sei, he gave no sign. The Courier blinked his disturbing eyes slowly. "Was all of that an actual question?" he wondered, scathingly. Zaradin nodded curtly. Master Raven took a deep breath, then launched into an impatient exposition concerning the Gholam; its provenance and powers.

Arachnae, already cognisant of this information, felt her attention stray somewhat. She could have commanded that the Courier hold his tongue - or lose it! - but was content to delay what, for her, boded as something of an ordeal. The fourth time that she would have used the Portal Stone inside of a week… and on this occasion, as on the first, activating the ancient device by herself without recourse to a Circle of channelers. An unpleasant task, but a necessary. Arachnae let her implacable mind drift, considering the events of the previous eve; the unlooked-for communication from her trusted assassin, Ranim, and his new-found, altogether unexpected ally…

"Whatever it was, it went this way, Mistress Kirikil," the compact, muscular man was explaining to Arachnae, as he held aloft a burning torch to partially banish the night shadows. He wore a curved sword at his belt and was clad in the same rough furs and drab woollens as the rest of the Darkfriends, had long, lank hair the hue of sun-bleached wheat and watery blue eyes. His rustic accents were unmistakeably those of rural Andor.

With little interest, Arachnae Kirikil glanced in the indicated direction; flattened bushes, trampled blades of grass and deep, clawed tracks in the sandy soil. The trail led directly back into the foetid forests of the Blight, from which the unknowable monster had earlier emerged to kill. And feed.

"You don't say?" Arachnae commented witheringly, not troubling to conceal her boredom. The Andoran Darkfriend blinked his pale eyes, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it. "How many?" she enquired, uncaringly.

The Andorman hesitated. "How many did the monster kill?" he asked nervously, seeking clarification.

Arachnae pinned the Shadowsworn swordsman with her terrifying gaze and he visibly quailed. "No, how many of your fellows did the monster invite to its Nameday celebration!" she snarled, "of course how many did it kill, fool!"

The object of her sarcasm licked his lips nervously. "Four, Dread Lady," he answered hastily, "one as was standing watch and then another three… the terrible creature just came out of the night and slashed 'em to pieces with its claws whilst they yet lay abed in their blankets…" He considered for a moment, then added; "oh, in actual fact it were five, counting Doyle. The horror snatched 'im up and run off with the poor beggar… I would suppose he's dead too."

Arachnae took a couple of stiff steps over to the nearest paw-print, regretting Ranim's absence, both in supplying a steady arm to lean upon and a valued subordinate who could intercede with these brigand scum on her behalf, so that she would not be required to. The roaring and screaming erupting from the vicinity of the Darkfriend's campfires had awakened her, true, but given the far more important matters that currently occupied her, having to investigate an attack by one of the Blight's numerous monstrosities was onerous. Even so… the warped fauna and flora of the Great Blight had always interested her…

Arachnae peered down at the clawed imprint pressed deep into the ground, the Andoran Darkfriend helpfully moving the flaming brand closer, illuminating the monster's trail. She tried to estimate the size of the unknown creature from its large tracks, coming to the conclusion that it must have been huge. "What did the monster look like?" Arachnae wondered idly.

"Horrible!" answered the Andorman promptly, belatedly adding; "uh… Dread Lady…"

"Mistress Kirikil will do." Arachnae leaned closer. "I have not seen spoor like this before. Something new, no doubt, spawned by the Great Blight. Ever does the twisted realm of the Shadow produce fresh abominations…" She sighed regretfully. "I would that I had viewed the creature personally, been afforded the opportunity to study its behaviour…" Noting that the Shadowsworn Andoran was dubiously shaking his head back and forth in response to this desire, Arachnae shifted her musing tones to something more threatening. "Stop doing that!" The Darkfriend blanched, but Arachnae noted a hint of curiosity in his watery eyes, which flicked toward the dank darkness of the Blight speculatively. "What is it?" she demanded.

"I... which I were just wondering, Mistress Kirikil? Doyle… the monster carried him off with it… think you that he may still be alive?"

Arachnae smiled coldly. "Only if he is extremely unlucky!"

The Andorman blinked once more, then shrugged. "I guess he's dead, then." Clearly, he did not much care, either way.

Arachnae summoned a vague image of the unfortunate Doyle in her mind's eye… a thickset, bearded brute from Katar, the erstwhile leader of the Darkfriend contingent in Ranim's absence… "Who commands your squalid fraternity now?" she enquired, with little actual interest.

The Andoran swordsman jerked a dirty thumb at his broad chest. "Which I do, Mistress Kirikil, since I were Doyle's second."

"Oh? And do you have a name?"

"I does, Mistress. Ferd Hopwil, at your service." Ferd bobbed in servile fashion, then added confidingly; "which they calls me; 'Four Kings Ferd' on account of how I were born and raised in-"

"Four Kings?" Arachnae drawled with a measure of irony, raising a wispy, silver eyebrow. Ferd nodded hesitantly. "Tell me, Four Kings Ferd; do you know how your hometown came by its distinctive name?"

Ferd Hopwil nodded again, with greater confidence. "Aye, Mistress Kirikil… 'twas where an old Queen of Andor defeated four foreign rulers in some long-ago battle… she took their surrender on the site of Four Kings."

"Very good!" Arachnae encouraged the new leader of the Darkfriends, and he grinned and ducked his head bashfully. Her eyes glazed a little as she recalled events from her distant youth. She adopted a lecturing tone; "Queen Maragaine, as was… in the one-thousandth and sixty-third Free Year, she humbled Kings Roalde of Murandy, Shaffier of Caralain, Telamanes of Cairhein and…" Arachnae frowned, attempting to remember, "…and… yes, of course… the fourth was King Atoth of Kintara, which no longer exists, anymore than Caralain does." Arachnae eyed Ferd neutrally, he had clasped his hands before him, was doing his best to appear respectfully interested in her recollections. "Naturally, this is all recorded in the various histories of Andor, but I was personally told the tale by someone who was actually there, at the Battle of the Crossroads, in the latter days of the War of a Hundred Years. One of my tutors in the White Tower, Sarenda Sedai. She was somewhat senescent by then, but yet recalled a time when she served as advisor to Queen Maragaine of House Casalain. An arrogant, headstrong woman apparently, even in comparison with the lamentable standards of most Royalty…"

Four Kings Ferd was gaping at Arachnae… she did not require the odious talent possessed by her mind-reading Zomara to guess that he was clearly wondering how old she was. Arachnae smiled thinly, exposing her full set of teeth, about to say something cutting… but then, Ferd's gaze moved beyond her warily and he touched the hilt of the long, curved blade sheathed at his side.

Arachnae glanced over her shoulder. A Myrddraal was emerging from the night with serpentine grace, flanked by a dozen hulking, lumbering Trollocs. The Lurk regarded the two Friends of the Dark with the usual loathing. "Yes?" Arachnae enquired, contemptuously.

The Myrddraal's voice gusted from its grim mouth like foul air escaping an accursed sepulchre. "We tracked the creature back into the Blight."

"Make your report then, Halfman."

The Myrddraal obeyed, albeit with evident reluctance. "There was no sign of the beast which slew the humans… the trail led into a swamp. I sent two of my scouts in to search… they did not return. We heard them screaming. Briefly. That is all."

Arachnae shrugged, unconcerned. It seemed that this mysterious monster of the Blight relished Trolloc flesh as much as it did human. Well, Shadowspawn scouts or Darkfriend brigands were equally expendable in Arachnae's opinion, which in her estimation, was the only opinion that remotely mattered.

"Did you find any trace of Doyle?" Ferd asked the Myrddraal, keeping his hand on his hilt.

The Myrddraal stared at the Darkfriend silently, and Arachnae noted that the compact Andoran swordsman evinced little trace of fear at its forbidding, eyeless gaze. Instead of troubling to answer, the Nightrider gestured impatiently with a gauntlet-swathed hand. One of its Trollocs, a towering, eagle-beaked aberration with a stiff crest of feathers arising from its large, misshapen skull, promptly held aloft a torn, blood-soaked boot, traces of gold-threaded embroidery worked into the besmirched leather. Part of a dismembered foot appeared to still be inside.

Four Kings Ferd nodded sagely. "Aye, that's Doyle's boot, alright… used to polish 'em up nice every eve, he did." There was little regret in his voice.

Arachnae smiled faintly. Well, the untimely demise of Captain Doyle had engendered something of a promotion for Ferd who, like all Friends of the Dark, was presumably ambitious. Amongst the ranks of the Shadow, advancement invariably required the removal of those who stood higher, whether by accident or intention. Still… Arachnae had always held the firm belief that before one assumed a position of power and responsibility, one must first prove oneself capable. A test was in order.

"Master Hopwil, you are a proficient killer, I take it?"

Ferd's brow furrowed. "Profish..?" he muttered, confusedly.

"Proficient. It means; to be good at something!" Arachnae snapped.

Ferd's expression cleared. "Oh, aye, I've slain more than my fair share in service to the Great Lord, Mistress Kirikil."

"Nonetheless, I shall require a demonstration of your skills." Arachnae turned to the Myrddraal. "Command your best fighter to stand forth, Halfman."

The Myrddraal continued to frown, but beneath the Dread Lady's unwavering, gimlet gaze, it had little choice but to obey. The Fade turned to the Trolloc looming to its right, a massive, wolf-muzzled Beastman, standing poised on scaly, spurred feet. The Myrddraal jerked its head curtly and the wolfish Trolloc stepped obediently forward, grinning savagely, running a long tongue over sharp teeth and flexing powerful, hairy arms.

Ferd eyed the Trolloc flatly, seemingly unconcerned that his opponent stood near twice as tall as he. "You want me to kill that wolf thing?" he asked quietly, with soft menace.

Arachnae nodded. "I want you to try." Ferd shrugged, planted the fire-brand upright in the sandy soil, then unbuckled his sheathed sword and laid it on the ground beside the burning torch. Arachnae raised her eyebrows. "You do not intend to use your blade?" she enquired, noting that there was a tarnished Heron-mark set into the hilt.

Ferd shook his head, not taking his pale blue eyes from the Trolloc he was to duel. "Tis too fine a sword for such quick work, Mistress Kirikil. Took it off a Whitecloak Lordling, I did, after I knifed 'im. I'll not besmirch my best blade with mere beast blood…" While speaking, he drew a pair of heavy, studded gauntlets from his belt and pulled them on, opening and closing his fingers. He eyed the Myrddraal coldly. "I stand ready, Lurk. Say the word."

The Myrddraal turned to the towering, wolf-like Trolloc and hissed; "kill the human worm," in the Shadow-tongue. The Trolloc's grin widened, then its horribly human, bloodshot eyes narrowed menacingly and it loped forward, drawing a cruel, barbed blade from the scabbard at its broad back, whirling the weapon above its hairy head. The fearsome sword was almost as long as Ferd was tall, but he showed no concern, stepping purposefully up to meet his enormous assailant.

The wolf-Trolloc was deceptively fast for its size, swiftly sweeping its lethal blade at Ferd's neck, but the Darkfriend proved faster, ducking deftly beneath the whirling sword. The Trolloc snarled, shifted to a two-handed grip and chopped downwards – Ferd slipped swiftly to one side and the weapon struck the ground where he had stood. Growling angrily, the Trolloc drew back the heavy blade for a further stroke… and Ferd promptly kicked it hard in the stomach, his booted foot sinking into the creature's fur-swathed midriff. A gush of rank air erupted from the wolfish muzzle and the Trolloc doubled over, uttering a wheezing howl of distress. Ferd took the opportunity to viciously backhand his adversary across its hairy face, the studs on his gauntlet breaking skin and leaving blood-trails. The Trolloc roared wrathfully as it got its breath back, violently swiping at the human with its barbed weapon, but Ferd rolled away from the powerful blow and sprang to his feet beyond the deadly range of the sword, standing calmly, watching his opponent closely. Waiting.

The furious Trolloc lunged forward, blade raised... but then staggered, coming to an unsteady halt. Its eyes widened and it made a low, whining sound. Then, black froth erupted from its toothy maw and the lupine monstrosity dropped its sword, clutching at its throat, then collapsed face-down like a felled tree. It thrashed briefly, clawed feet scraping at the sandy soil, hairy hands clenching convulsively, then lay still.

Ferd stood over his dead foe, expressing satisfaction. Arachnae joined him. "Poison?" Ferd nodded, raising a gauntlet for her inspection. Arachnae noted that a clear, glistening substance coated the sharp studs that lined the knuckles.

"Tis called 'Wormwood' Dread Lady," Four Kings Ferd explained, "hard to come by, flaming expensive too, but well worth the cost." Ferd grinned broadly, revealing a gap between his front teeth. "I'm just a little fellow next to one of these great brutes…" he gave the corpse a kick for emphasis, "…so it pays to even the odds a little."

Arachnae nodded thoughtfully. "It would seem that there is more to you than meets the eye, Four Kings Ferd." Ferd blushed at the perceived praise. "Now, retrieve your sword and return to the camp… tell your men to make ready." Arachnae smiled icily. "They may be going on a long journey, soon enough."

Ferd slipped off the deadly gauntlets and touched a knuckle to his brow, then stooped to grab his blade and the flaming torch. Before departing, he glanced at the Myrddraal and grinned insolently. The Fade was staring at him spitefully whilst two of its Trollocs approached their fallen comrade, drawing wicked knives from their belts, preparing to butcher the dead meat for consumption. "I wouldn't eat that one, if I were you," Ferd cautioned them, cheerfully, "the poison's in his blood… you'll get gut-ache at the very least!" Chuckling, Ferd hurried away into the night.

Arachnae watched him go, the light of his fire-brand diminishing into the darkness. Strange for a man to use poison, given that it was more usually considered a woman's weapon. Her old tutor, Sarenda Napaline, had been fond of utilising a variety of deadly substances in the course of her duties… ostensibly of the Grey Ajah, she had secretly belonged to the Black. The long-ago invasion of the nascent nation of Andor by combined armies of the quartet of foreign Kings had been the result of a plot of the Shadow, overseen by Sarenda in her position as Aes Sedai advisor at the Royal Court of Caemlyn. Yet somehow, the redoubtable Queen Maragaine had led her forces to victory on the then western borders of her land, over what should have been insurmountable odds. This unexpected triumph had upset Black Ajah plans considerably, and Sarenda Sedai had received a painful penance for her failure to properly curtail the Andoran Ruler.

Of course, Maragaine Casalain had inevitably paid a heavy price for her success. A decade later, Sarenda Sedai exacted her revenge upon the Queen she had so falsely served, poisoning her at a Royal banquet. Not with Wormwood though, but something far more difficult to detect or guard against. An exotic toxin with many names, though Arachnae's preferred term was 'Breyan's Evil.' She yet possessed some of this lethal substance, hidden away in her private supplies. Arachnae had used it on various of her enemies over the years… though her first victim had been the aged Sarenda herself.

The ancient and secretive Friend of the Dark had sent the young novice – whom she had been grooming to join the Black Ajah – for punishment over a minor infraction, and Arachnae had reacted to this unfair treatment by slipping some of her tutor's favourite deadly substance into the tea they were both drinking in the Grey Sister's study. Arachnae had taken the precaution of administering herself with the antidote first; Sarenda Sedai, of course, had not. Since Breyan's Evil left no trace of foul play upon a corpse, even when Delved with the One Power, it was assumed by all within the White Tower that the extremely elderly Aes Sedai had succumbed to death by natural causes. Arachnae knew better. Yes, poison was most definitely a weapon of subtlety…

While the Trollocs dragged their dead comrade away, the Myrddraal stood in silence, watching Arachnae coldly, though no eyes to watch with. It watched anyway. Arachnae scowled at the Fade. "Is there some reason why you are still here, Halfman?" she asked, brusquely. She was weary, and wished to return to her bed, uncomfortable though it was..

The Myrddraal opened its grimly-set mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a large raven, which flapped out of the darkness to perch upon its broad shoulder. The carrion bird cocked its head to one side as some wordless communication passed between it and the Fade. Then, with a loud caw, the raven launched itself up into the night sky, disappearing from sight.

"What did it say?" Arachnae demanded.

The Myrddraal turned to her, pallid face hanging above its black garb and armour, disembodied by the darkness. "A message from the Library Courier," it reported, voice hollow and deathly, "the Tool of the Shadow requires that you join him on the shoreline, beside the arcane Stone. A matter of some import."

Arachnae sighed. It seemed that she would get no sleep this night… She drew a long, silver whistle from her belt-pouch and blew it hard. No discernible sound emerged, but after an impatiently-endured delay, a chorus of beating wings approached in the night sky above, and eight Draghkar descended on leathery pinions, a large wicker basket lowered upon the long chains they held in their clawed hands, ultimately linked to iron collars locked about their skinny necks. The basket thumped to the ground and the Draghkar landed also, radiating about it, abasing themselves before Arachnae. She glared at them as she clambered awkwardly into her peculiar conveyance, addressing her bat-winged minions in the Shadow-tongue. "About time too!" Arachnae seated herself in the wooden armchair secured within the basket, grumbling under her breath as she rearranged the cushions, which were in their usual disarray.

The Myrddraal observed silently, then turned and paced sinuously away, following its Trollocs back to their watch-post. Arachnae impulsively made an obscene gesture at it, well-aware that even with its back turned to her, the Halfman would notice…

"To the beach!" Arachnae commanded the Draghkar who customarily bore her aloft, adding; "and don't shake me about, or I shall feed your worthless carcasses to that ravening monster of the Blight… clearly, whatever it is, it possesses a large appetite!"

As one, the Draghkar leapt into the air, wings beating hard, and the wicker basket lifted slowly from the ground, rising into the darkness. Arachnae gripped the arms of her chair tightly, wondering what Master Raven could possibly want with her at this inconvenient hour. The Courier rarely seemed to sleep, another result of his alteration into a living implement of the Shadow's will, as were his strange, completely black eyes…

It was then that Arachnae noticed something of import. The ancient, platinum ter'angreal that she wore on one gnarled finger, the rare Call Ring of the Age of Legends… it was shining brightly. Glancing down at the approaching beach below, Arachnae further noted that the Portal Stone was glowing too, pulsing with a modicum of the arcane energy it employed to transfer one to distant places. And it was then that Arachnae heard a familiar disembodied voice, greeting her and relaying news. Entirely welcome news, at that. This had become something of a rarity...

The Courier of the Shadow Library, having concluded his laborious lecture concerning what constituted a Gholam, had moved on to a more immediate topic. Arachnae blinked, focusing on his thin-lipped mouth, framed by a dark, neatly-trimmed beard. "Although I have obviously never performed this procedure with a Gholam, it should be within my abilities to restore its conditioning." The Courier's disturbing gaze moved to Arachnae. "This very morn, I practiced my craft upon your Zomara," he confided.

Arachnae scowled. "It is not my Zomara!" she snapped, "I did not ask for the accursed thing!"

"What have you been practicing, Raven Man?" Zaradin enquired, eyeing the pale, androgynous Shadowspawn suspiciously. From its place behind Arachnae's chair, the Zomara smiled at him in a goading manner.

"The power of suggestion," the Courier stated, by way of brief explanation. He pointed a leisurely, manicured finger at the Myrddraal, stood in the corner, then raised his voice, commanding the servile yet insolent creature; "Zomara… kill!"

At this order, the Zomara promptly dropped the teapot and streaked across the tent, its slender, black-clad form a blur as it closed upon its indicated target with lethal intent. The Myrddraal was serpent-swift as all of its dread kind and managed to jerk its dark, Thakan'dar-forged sword from the scabbard as the Zomara made its sudden, unexpected attack… a lightning-fast strike should have decapitated its opponent and dealt with the threat there and then, but the Shadow-spawned servitor slipped lithely beneath the sweeping blade, before leaping and spinning, a pointed boot lashing out to kick the Fade in the side of the head. Snarling with rage, the Myrddraal fell back a step, momentarily off-balance. The Zomara landed lightly and crouched, preparing to continue its unanticipated assault.

By this; Arachnae had half-risen from her camp-chair, staring with astonishment, while Zaradin sprang to his feet, tugging his red veil down to reveal pointed, filed teeth, bared in a gape of savage surprise. "The Shadow-twisted Gai'shain Dances with the Eyeless!" the Samma N'Sei declared, truthfully if rather unnecessarily, since all present could clearly see what was transpiring within the tent. The Courier of the Shadow Library remained seated, watching the altercation with jet-black eyes, a small and satisfied smile twitching upon his thin lips.

Uttering a vile curse in the Trolloc-tongue, the Myrddraal rapidly lunged at the Zomara with its dark blade… but again, the slim, androgyne creature avoided the counter-attack with ease, dropping to all fours below the sword-point with cat-like grace, before swinging its legs around, entangling them with the Halfman's booted feet and wrenching, sending its opponent crashing to the floor. The Zomara arose fluidly, poised over the fallen Myrddraal, pale fingers clawed, preparing to pounce.

"Stop this nonsense!" Arachnae commanded, finally finding her voice amidst the extreme confusion over her irritating servant's odd behaviour.

In response, the Courier rose from his chair. "Zomara… cease!" Immediately, the Zomara abandoned its feral posture, turning its back on the prone Myrddraal and stepping smoothly over to stand behind Arachnae's chair once more. She craned her wrinkly neck, watching it warily. The Myrddraal scrambled to its feet, the knuckles of the hand gripping its sword-hilt even paler than the rest of its corpse-pallid skin. It scowled venomously at the Zomara, but said nothing.

Arachnae did the talking instead. "What in the bloody, burning Pit is going on?" she demanded of the Courier, her dark, bird-like gaze fixed upon the Zomara, positioned placidly behind her. Its soulless eyes were somewhat glazed, its features slack. "It's a flaming Zomara! The craven creatures aren't supposed to attack people!"

"The Eyeless is not 'people,'" Zaradin muttered, earning a cold stare from the Myrddraal, but otherwise being ignored.

The Shadow Library Courier shrugged bony shoulders as he approached the ancient Friend of the Dark and her errant servant. "Indeed, Dread Lady. The Zomaran were never intended for battle, that is not their purpose, but with the correct stimulus, they can be taught to access certain martial techniques… and with the suggestion I earlier alluded to, these creatures may be coerced into acting against their ingrained natures and employing such dormant skills in earnest." The Courier directed a thin smile at the scowling Myrddraal, adding; "with deadly consequences for their victims."

"The Zomara would not have succeeded in slaying me," the Myrddraal hissed in sepulchral tones, "their kind are weak, useless, little better than humans… had you not called it off, I should have taken its head."

If Arachnae did not know better, she might have imagined that the Halfman almost sounded… petulant. Sulky, even. She returned her regard to the Zomara, noting that it was not smirking for once. Indeed, it conveyed no expression at all…

The Courier cleared his throat pointedly, attracting Arachnae's attention once more. "I surmised that if I could alter the behaviour of a Zomara, I might do likewise with the Gholam, restoring its original behavioural conditioning."

"I take your point, Master Raven," Arachnae reluctantly concurred, "it would seem that you have a talent for emplacing emphatic commands within Shadowspawn." She squinted at the Zomara suspiciously. "What is wrong with the accursed thing? It is just standing there, staring into space, as though entranced."

"Oh, it is in a trance," the Courier smugly confirmed.

"Well, restore the Zomara to what meagre semblance of normality it can manage, then!"

The Courier nodded, then snapped his fingers before the Zomara's blank face. "Zomara… resume!"

Immediately, the Zomara made a quivering motion, an expression of confusion flickering briefly over its usually impassive features. It glanced down around its pointed boots, taking note of the damp puddle of spilled tea, the scattered shards of striped crockery. "Did I do that?" it mumbled.

"Yes!" Arachnae spat, "clumsy oaf! You owe me a new teapot… now clean up the mess and get out!"

The Zomara blinked slowly, and muttered; "at once, Mistress," before obeying.

Arachnae then addressed the Myrddraal; "tell the men to make ready, Halfman." The Fade glowered, nodded curtly, then stalked out of the tent, promptly fading into the encroaching evening shadows. The wind continued to gust outside, though appeared to have died down a little.

After the Zomara had slipped outside, damp rags and china fragments cradled in its pale hands, Zaradin eyed the Courier of the Shadow Library curiously. "How did you do that, Raven Man?" the Samma N'Sei wondered, "making the effete, Shadow-wrought Gai'shain join the Dance as though born to it? What skill can this be? It is not a thing of the Power, I sense no such ability in you…" He tugged his veil back up into place, continuing to stare questioningly at the Courier.

The Courier shook his head patiently. "It is accomplished by a technique termed; hypnosis," he revealed.

Zaradin blinked. "Hip-what?"

"Never mind that!" Arachnae snarled, "I tire of this constant exposition. Our time grows short. The tide will be coming back in soon, the Portal Stone covered by the waves before we can use it." Or I can use it, Arachnae considered privately, by no means anticipating the coming test of her Power. But it had to be done. There was opportunity enough yet… and besides, Zaradin asked too many questions, she did not wish him to glean details of Master Raven's abilities, most especially if the Samma N'Sei was indeed a spy for Ishamael. Well, she would discover the truth of that soon enough...

As for the Gholam, Arachnae strongly doubted that the Betrayer of Hope would approve of the use she meant to put the deadly creature to, or of her even utilising it in the first place. But in its current reconditioned state, the Gholam was certainly of little good to her, or her plans. That much had been explained on the previous night, when brief communication with her minions beyond the Portal Stone had been established. And this was where Master Raven entered the picture. It seemed that he could practice methodology whereby the Gholam might be restored to its previous, lethal persona, to once more make of it a deadly agent and assassin of the Shadow.

The man in question - if he still counted as a man - chose this moment to intrude on Arachnae's considerations, a querulous tone to the Courier's precise speech. "Whilst I value the opportunity to study the Gholam, to attempt alteration of these new behavioural patterns imposed by this traitor Aes Sedai of the Last Age, I greatly fear for the safety of the research tomes placed in my charge…"

You should fear more than just that, Friend, Arachnae thought to herself, eyeing the gaunt, patronising fellow with distaste.

The Courier did not notice, but continued; "several of these reference volumes are irreplaceable, and since they were entrusted to me, the responsibility-"

"Is mine," Arachnae interrupted impatiently, "do not trouble yourself over the Portal Stone books, Master Raven, I have arranged that my Draghkar return them to the Shadow Library forthwith." Oddly enough, Arachnae meant every word, a rare occurrence for one so long schooled in falsehood and treachery. She held great respect for such valuable scholarly works, though very little regard for he who had so reluctantly brought them to her.

The Courier frowned. "Draghkar? Those moronic creatures had best not drop my books into the Blight," he grumbled.

"They most certainly shall not," Arachnae assured him, "for terror of the dire consequences that would befall them should they fail me." Seeing that the Courier required further reassurance, she added; "be not concerned, the Draghkar well-know the way to the Library of the Shadow… they have been there before, at my behest."

The Courier's frown did not waver, he clearly held little faith in the ability of bat-winged, mentally-challenged Shadowspawn to properly return library books…

Arachnae repressed a sigh, smiling sweetly. "Had you not best go and prepare for your journey, Master Raven?" she suggested, though both knew that it was no mere suggestion.

"As you say, Dread Lady," the Courier murmured, sketching a faint bow and turning toward the exit of the tent, his dark robes swirling about stork-like legs.

Fly away, my squawking raven, Arachnae silently commented, you shall likely never see your precious Library again… not in this life, at least.

Zaradin began to pace out after the Courier, but Arachnae placed a restraining hand on his arm, causing him to flinch warily. As Master Raven departed, murderous green eyes above a red veil turned to Arachnae with cautious curiosity. "One moment, good Zaradin," Arachnae said quietly, "I have something for you…" She yet held saidar and swiftly cast a privacy weave about the tent, tying-off the flows. Zaradin shivered slightly in reaction to the channeling. Arachnae glanced at the various clutter scattered about her canvas-walled quarters. "It is in here somewhere, methinks… now, where did I-?"

"Here, Mistress."

Arachnae jumped, whirling to glare at the returned Zomara, standing just inside the tent, smirking. It held a small, sandalwood box in its delicate hands.

"Curse you!" Arachnae hissed, "always sneaking up on me… I should have let the Halfman slice you into little bits!" The Zomara ceased smirking, soulless eyes blinking confusedly. Clearly, it retained no memory of the encounter with the Myrddraal, triggered by the Courier's conditioning. Arachnae sighed. "I thought I told you to get out?" she added.

The Zomara shrugged. "You did not specify for how long I should get out, Mistress," it reminded Arachnae, raising its carved, wooden burden. "You wanted this, I believe?"

"You know perfectly well that I do!" Arachnae snapped, snatching the box, "by rudely peering inside of my head and discerning my intentions! Insolent creature!"

"As you say, Mistress," the Zomara responded smoothly, before enquiring; "do you require anything else?"

Arachnae thought about it, then smiled nastily. "Yes… I require you to go down to the shore and stick your empty head into the Dead Sea!"

"At once, Mistress." A graceful bow, then the Zomara departed the tent silently, moving with its habitual disturbing, inhuman grace.

Arachnae sneered. "Hopefully, it will drown," she muttered spitefully, well-knowing that the Zomara almost certainly would not. Despite their outwardly frail appearance, the Zomaran were notoriously difficult to kill. But she would find a way, ere long…

"You said that you had something for me, Dread One?" Zaradin reminded Arachnae, his curious gaze fixed on the box that she now held.

"I do indeed," Arachnae confirmed, flipping back the lid. Inside; encased in purple velvet padding, rested a length of some dark, glass-like substance, fashioned into the shape of a twisted blade. "This is an angreal," Arachnae explained, "an artefact attuned to saidin that will greatly magnify the strength of your channeling." She smiled coldly. "Use it well, Zaradin of the Samma N'Sei, in service to my goals."

Zaradin's green eyes widened a little. "You give this to me?" he wondered.

Arachnae shrugged. "Well, yes… why not? It's intended for a male-channeler, so it isn't as though it is much use to myself, after all…"

"A Princely gift!" Zaradin observed.

"Well, I am nothing if not generous," Arachnae responded modestly, anecdotally adding; "tis said this angreal once belonged to Yurian Stonebow himself, he who lived long before even my times, in the final years of the Trolloc Wars. The False Dragon reportedly used this device as an aid in slaying numerous enemies, including several of those Aes Sedai fools of the Red Ajah, sent from the White Tower to take him captive…"

"I shall make attempt to do likewise!" Zaradin replied, with deadly enthusiasm. He reached out to take the dark, twisted angreal as Arachnae prized it from the box. It was much heavier than an object of its small size should have been, and as Arachnae passed it to Zaradin, her fingers fumbled and she dropped the ancient device to the tent floor.

"Oops! Silly me…" Arachnae made to stoop and retrieve the fallen angreal, but then groaned, straightening and rubbing the small of her back.

"Let me, Dread One," Zaradin offered, crouching to pick up the knife-angreal from where it lay, glistening dully on the threadbare rug.

Arachnae had not released saidar, the Power that filled her augmented considerably by the potent sa'angreal concealed in her belt-pouch. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the back of Zaradin's lowered head, and in the Shadowrunning Aielman's moment of distraction, she struck. Arachnae Kirikil had been using the dark arts of Compulsion for a very long time and was extremely adept at forcing others to comply with her devious designs… though to his credit, Zaradin put up a respectable fight, managing to seize saidin in his defence before he was violently Shielded from the Source. After which, it was but the work of a few short moments for the ancient Darkfriend channeler to bend the ensorcelled Samma N'Sei to her malevolent will. When it was done, Zaradin stood before Arachnae, arms hanging limply at his sides, eyes staring yet unseeing. Arachnae reached up and tugged the Eye Blinder's red veil down, revealing slack, expressionless features.

"Can you hear me, Zaradin?" Arachnae enquired, employing the raised tones most usually utilised with the slow of intellect or hard of hearing.

"Yes, I hear you... Wise One." Zaradin's voice was flat, emotionless… well, it usually was, to be honest. Only now, even more so.

"Good. So, tell me; why were you and the other Samma N'Sei assigned to my command?"

"To assist you in your duties."

"Indeed? Did not Ishamael wish for you to observe me, to report back to him?"

Zaradin shook his head slowly. "No."

Arachnae's brow furrowed. "You mean, you are not a spy for Ishamael?"

"The group of Samma N'Sei with whom I am associated do not serve Ishamael, though the three of us sent here were commanded to say that we did. Our allegiance is to another of the Chosen."

Arachnae's confusion increased. "Oh? Whom?"

"Our Shadow Chief is he who took the name 'Demandred.'"

Arachnae stared at Zaradin, held fast in the grip of Compulsion. "Demandred? Why would he take an interest in my search for the Dragonspawn, my revenge upon those White Tower strumpets?! Tell me!"

After a brief pause, Zaradin answered in a hollow, toneless voice; "the Chosen Demandred does not concern himself with your petty retribution… his preoccupation lies with this faraway land to which your enemy escaped."

Arachnae blinked. "But why?"

"The Chieftain of the Samma N'Sei is concerned with distant territories where he might recruit allies to swell the Shadow's ranks, and fight for the Great Lord in the coming Final Dance, at Tarmon Gai'don. This 'Land of Madmen' is one of Demandred's lesser areas for the exploration of such possibilities, which is why he sent so few of us to you, Wise One." Zaradin closed his mouth, and Arachnae was about to ask a further question, but then the Samma N'Sei abruptly spoke again; "our Chief's key goal exists to the east, I am told, though I know not where. Shara, mayhap?"

"Shara?"

"Where the silk comes from."

"I know where the flaming silk comes from, thank you very much!" Arachnae considered this information frenetically, whilst Zaradin stood silent, swaying slightly. So, Ishamael had not sent the Shadowsworn Aielmen to watch her, hadn't despatched them at all, it would seem. It had been Demandred, all along… Barid Bel Medar, as was. There were few alive in these times familiar with that name, but Arachnae was one of them. This was about all that she knew, however. But for his reputed hatred of the Dragon, Arachnae possessed little lore concerning this particular member of the Great Lord's Chosen… no-one did. Demandred had always been something of an enigma.

Abandoning the fruitless interrogation, Arachnae stooped to retrieve the dark angreal from the rug, not troubling to feign back-ache this time, for all that she experienced a very real twinge in her spine even so. She tucked the glassy, blade-shaped device through Zaradin's belt, and for good measure, picked up the spear that the Samma N'Sei had dropped when she struck him with the complex weaves of Compulsion. She placed the weapon in one limp hand, firmly closing the Aielman's fingers about the haft.

Arachnae took a deep breath. "Now, listen to me carefully, young Zaradin. You are to forget this entire incident, neglecting to recall that I compelled you to speak… put it from your brutish mind. But there is one instruction that I do wish you to remember, when the time is right. This task concerns our Friend from the Shadow Library…" Zaradin attended to Arachnae's ensuing words intently and obediently. In his current Compulsed state, he had little choice but to do so…

A time later, Arachnae Kirikil stood at the edge of the Dead Sea, gazing moodily upon the ancient, crumbling column of the Portal Stone. A zephyr whipped her shawl about her bony shoulders, but she ignored the wind, preoccupied with something else… the Stone. She was beginning to seriously detest this arcane artefact, which had bulked so large in her life of late. Advancing waves, churned white by the strong winds coming in off the sea, were beginning to lap around its base… though the double row of weathered symbols carved into the circumference remained fully visible, if not entirely legible. Arachnae frowned. It would have better suited her had the Portal Stone been entirely covered by these turgid waters, a welcome respite until the column was again revealed to sight, but it was not to be. It was now or never. The game was begun in earnest and she yet had further stones to set upon the board...

With this factor in mind, Arachnae glanced away from the Portal Stone to where two-score Darkfriend armsmen stood assembled, further up the beach. In addition to their assortment of weaponry, the roughly-garbed men had rolled blankets and other paraphernalia stowed upon their backs. Well, they did not quite total forty now, there were not so many as there had been when these levies, mostly from Katar and Bandar Eban, had first arrived. The perilous proximity of the Great Blight had taken its toll on their numbers, not just in the previous night's attack by the ravening monstrosity, but in other, similarly lethal incidents. These Friends were mostly city-dwellers, unused to the wilder places of the world, ill-equipped to deal with the many dangers of the Blight. Still, there were surely enough of them left to suit her purposes… Ranim required additional men, and she would see to it that he got them.

When Arachnae had turned her attention to these Shadowsworn individuals, several pairs of furtive eyes that had been watching her cautiously were hastily lowered, but the compact, muscular swordsman who led this company continued to meet her gaze, with polite expectancy. Arachnae beckoned with a gnarled finger. "Master Hopwil. Come here, if you please…"

Ferd Hopwil hurried over to his Mistress, touching a respectful knuckle to his forelock. "Yes, Dread Lady?"

Arachnae took a sealed, folded parchment from her belt-pouch and passed it to the Darkfriend Captain; he took it and tucked it into his woollen coat without looking at it. "Give that to Ranim, when you see him." Arachnae shrugged her stooped shoulders. "If you see him. Nothing is certain with these accursed Stones, after all."

Ferd blinked, then nodded hesitantly. "Aye, Mistress Kirikil. Anything more you want relayed, by word of mouth?"

Arachnae considered, then smiled a brittle smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "Yes. Tell my Bonded assassin that I am most gratified at his having located the Gholam, he has excelled himself, as ever... and with or without my aid, I do hope that he soon finds the Song."

Ferd nodded again, mild confusion reigning over his homely, deceptively placid features. In the long years of her existence, Arachnae had known many servants of the Shadow akin to this Andoran killer, men and women with an air of detachment disguising their true, atavistic natures… the wildness beneath the mildness, so to speak. Such individuals always proved to be the more capable of operatives, but also made for the most troublesome opponents. Arachnae reached into the embroidered knitting-bag hanging over her shoulder and half-pulled a dark, velvet sack from it, causing a muted clinking sound as heavy, metallic links shifted inside. She paused, considering.

Ferd eyed the sack curiously. "Something else to deliver to the Tin- to Ranim, Mistress Kirikil?"

Arachnae came to the decision to not play all of her cards just yet and stuffed the velvet sack back into the bag. She shook her head decisively. "No… no, the Gholam alone should be enough to counter the Dragonspawn. That and the aid of my enigmatic new ally…" Arachnae realised that she was musing aloud and narrowed her eyes at Ferd, who flinched. "Never you mind, nosey! Tell your men to assemble around the stone column. It is time. Be off with you, Four Kings Ferd!"

Again, Ferd touched a hasty knuckle to his forelock, before hurrying back to his command, shouting orders at the Darkfriends. As one, they began to make their reluctant way down to the Portal Stone, giving their Dread Mistress a wide berth.

Along a low rise beyond; a half-dozen Myrddraal stood in line, watching. The forceful gusts of wind did not move their cloaks by so much as an inch, the dark cloth draped about them remaining eerily still. A double-Fist of Trollocs crouched behind the Fades in an untidy mob, waiting. Arachnae ignored her Shadowspawn minions for the time being… they would not be going with the others, she required them to stay behind and ensure her protection, much as it irked her to admit it, even if only to herself. The Myrddraal and their Trollocs would guard the camp from intruders, including any further monstrosities of the Blight that might venture forth from the dank forest beyond the beach. Arachnae could accomplish these defensive tasks very well herself, of course, but while she had left her humanity behind long ago, she was not entirely immune to the frailties of mortality… even she needed to sleep, from time to time. The Great Blight, on the other hand, never slept.

Movement in the corner of her eye and Arachnae turned, watching as the Courier of the Shadow Library paced down the beach toward her, arms crossed before him, hands tucked into the capacious sleeves of his dark robe. The Zomara stepped lithely just behind, something wrapped in a silk scarf cradled between its pale fingers. As they stopped before her, Arachnae frowned at the Courier, who inclined his head slightly; then scowled at the Zomara, which gracefully bowed low. Her bird-like eyes moved to the wrapped package that the Shadowspawn servant held. "What-?" she began to ask.

The Zomara naturally knew what Arachnae was going to say before she had finished saying it, and answered presumptively; "a teapot, Mistress." It smiled slyly, whisked the silken scarf away, revealing a round container with handle, lid and spout.

Arachnae – albeit reluctantly – had to admit that it was a very fine teapot, beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl over the entirety of its delicately ornate surface. "That looks like Sea Folk porcelain," she muttered, peering closer, before exclaiming; "it is! Fancy! Wherever did you find it, Zomara?"

"Packed in an oaken chest, washed-up on the shore," the Zomara answered smoothly, with an ingratiating leer, before confiding; "there are many items of interest to be found hereabouts, lost from wrecked ships and presumably carried hither upon the Ocean currents…"

"Well, I am glad that you seem to have found yourself a hobby," Arachnae remarked to the beach-combing Zomara, somewhat mollified, before glaring anew at the irritating creature; "in addition to your favourite pastime of annoying me! And besides, you did-"

"Break your other teapot, Mistress."

"And I-"

"Said that you were owed a new one… and here it is, Mistress!" The Zomara raised the teapot and smirked, evidently pleased with itself.

Arachnae prodded a finger into the Zomara's narrow chest. "If you dare interrupt me again, I shall skin you alive… if you even are alive, you dead-eyed, soulless abomination!" The Zomara obediently pressed its lips together and fell silent, while still managing to look smug. Arachnae sighed. "Oh, just go and make some bloody tea, you aggravating abomination! I expect that I shall need some, ere long…"

The Zomara wisely did not choose to answer verbally, merely bowed smoothly again, before moving gracefully away to do as it was bid. Arachnae scowled at the creature's back as it departed, then shifted her attention to the Courier of the Shadow Library, who had ignored this ill-tempered exchange in favour of staring with his strange, black eyes at the waiting Portal Stone. The two-score Darkfriends now stood assembled around it, their boots immersed in the shallow surf, nervously eyeing the ancient artefact whilst shifting from foot to foot and fidgeting with their weaponry.

"Master Raven?" Arachnae murmured.

The Courier spoke softly, without removing his gaze from the crumbling column. "Even in the Age of Legends, it remained a mystery whence the Portal Stones originated, who constructed these arcane devices, and why…"

"I mislike conundrums," Arachnae muttered darkly, before enquiring; "your precious books… they are..?"

The Courier turned to Arachnae, nodding stiffly. "On their way back to the Shadow Library." He glanced up at the sky behind Arachnae and pointed a long finger. "Ah. There they go now."

Arachnae turned to look, beheld eight dark shapes rising over the forest in the distance, bat-wings beating steadily, a bulkier object suspended on long chains between them… the Draghkar, bearing the antique texts in her wicker basket. The flapping Shadowspawn turned north, a black speck that proved to be a raven flying before them, leading the way.

"I told your Draghkar to follow the flight of the Shadow-eye," the Courier explained, "they are notoriously stupid creatures, and might lose their way, else."

Arachnae frowned at the Courier, who failed to notice. Having the temerity to command her Draghkar? Insufferable man! She collected herself and spoke levelly; "well, if you are quite ready, Master Raven, perhaps you might be so good as to join the others?" The Courier indicated his assent and side-by-side, they walked down toward the Portal Stone. "Where in the Pit is Zaradin?" Arachnae wondered aloud as they did so.

"I am here, Dread One."

Arachnae jumped, turning and glaring up at the tall Samma N'Sei who had materialised at her side with his customary disturbing stealth. "Now that is something I shall certainly not miss when you are gone, Aielman," she growled, examining him closely. Zaradin did not evince any residual effects of the Compulsion she had earlier cast on him, as far as she could see, but it was hard to be sure. Well, time would tell.

Zaradin did not respond to Arachnae's jibe, merely fell-in beside her, pacing along with feral grace, predatory green eyes scanning his surroundings from above the red veil, taking in the Portal Stone and the Darkfriend brigands grouped around it. "We do not need these pitiful Wetlanders," he observed disparagingly, "you should just send the Raven Man and myself through the rock of journeying, Dread One."

"Ranim told me that he has lost several of his men to various dangers," Arachnae commented neutrally, "this Land of the Madmen is a perilous place, by all accounts." She concealed her anger at having her orders challenged, adding; "commensurately, he requires reinforcements." She sighed. "Besides, our supplies have dwindled considerably of late, I cannot feed these hungry mouths indefinitely, for all that hungrier mouths have fed upon them, so must send this rabble elsewhere. They may even prove of use." Arachnae did not sound as though she particularly believed this.

Zaradin made a doubtful, snorting sound behind his veil, which Arachnae chose to ignore. Four Kings Ferd took a step forward as they reached the Portal Stone, addressing Arachnae whilst his watery blue eyes watched the Samma N'Sei carefully. "My men stand ready, Mistress Kirikil, as do I."

"Good." Arachnae slipped a hand into her belt-pouch and withdrew the weighty bar of blackened crystal, her sa'angreal. "It is time. Everybody stand as close to the Portal Stone as possible."

The Darkfriends shuffled nearer to the ancient, weathered column, pressing together, though a wider space was maintained around both Zaradin and the Shadow Library Courier; the one because he was a deadly, channeling Aielman, the other due to the fact that he had strange eyes and a stranger manner and was considered by the Shadowsworn brigands to be a harbinger of ill-luck. Arachnae took a deep breath, moving back a few paces and raising the sa'angreal. With the ease of long practice, saidar flowed into her, magnified ten-fold by the crystalline device she held, filling her with the One Power until she thought that she might burst asunder. Even so, Arachnae well-knew that in order to transport so many through the Portal Stone, this could still comprise barely enough of the True Source to accomplish the task at hand. She proved to be entirely correct in this estimation… what came next was punishing, even for an adept of the One Power with her great skill and strength.

After what seemed an eternity, Arachnae opened her dark eyes, which to aid her concentration she had kept tightly shut throughout the extended ordeal of channeling huge amounts of saidin-fuelled Power into the Portal Stone. A trickle of blood ran down her chin from where she had sunk her front teeth into her lower lip. Her head was spinning, and pounding painfully. Blinking away the double-vision that distorted her sight, she became aware that Zaradin, the Courier, Ferd and the rest of the Darkfriends were no longer assembled around the stone column, which pulsed with gradually fading light before becoming quiescent, its function complete. Her tools were gone, presumably sent to the faraway Stone whose symbol she had kept uppermost in her mind throughout the process. Arachnae's final pieces had been placed upon the game board, and it remained only to see if this had been winning move or futile gambit.

Drawing in a deep breath, Arachnae smiled with satisfaction… a smile that faded and became a grimace as a wave of dizzy blackness rose to inexorably engulf her mind and senses. She was distantly aware of swaying, staggering, then toppling forward in a dead faint. The sand and shingle beneath her feet swept up to meet her and for a timeless interval, Arachnae knew no more of the waking world…

Mere seconds or an eternity later, Arachnae Kirikil found herself floating within an infinite emptiness, void bereft of form. She knew instantly that her surroundings must be some aspect of Tel'aran'rhiod, since her familiarity with the Dream World was born from many centurie's worth of experience... but at the same time, this featureless environment seemed entirely unknown and unknowable. A staggering expanse of unrelieved blackness stretching out on all sides, not even punctuated by the bright points of light that were indicative of sleeping souls, those who visited the World of Dreams involuntarily.

Arachnae had barely begun to consider this phenomenon when awareness dawned that she herself lacked physicality and substance, presently existing only as a disembodied consciousness. "Unusual!" Arachnae declared, the echoing sound of her voice both comforting and disconcerting.

"Ah, there you are, Maigret," spake another voice in all-too familiar shrill tones, before enquiring; "what in particular do you find so unusual, might I ask?"

Arachnae truculently ignored the question, recognising the unseen speaker by both his cadences and the fact that she had been addressed in the dark tongue of the Shadow, knowing him as someone with whom she had conversed previously within Tel'aran'rhiod, if nowhere else. She kept silent, considering a variety of responses, or none at all.

"Maigret?" persisted the voice, seeming to emerge from all around Arachnae.

"Don't call me that!" Arachnae hissed angrily, in the same evil speech.

"Sorry!"

"How did you discover my true name anyway?" Arachnae demanded suspiciously, "and what is this dull place?"

A soft, chuckling sound echoed within the endless darkness, a hint of madness to the mirth, then the voice responded; "your birth-name? As opposed to that which you later chose at Shayol Ghul? Do you not recall? Why, I spied upon your dreams, Mistress Kirikil!"

"Inconceivable!" Arachnae snapped, "my sleeping visions are closely warded, by both potent weaves and powerful devices…"

"Oh, there are ways and means to get around those sorts of things." The voice sounded self-congratulatory, and well it might. It should have been impossible to break through the barriers that stood between Arachnae's dreams and the rest of existence, but somehow, this mysterious stranger had accomplished the feat.

"So where are we?" Arachnae reminded her interlocuter. She did not particularly care, but wished to change the uncomfortable subject.

"Oh… this is perhaps the most pure aspect of Tel'aran'rhiod… I come here occasionally, for relaxation and contemplation."

"What is it called?"

"This place does not have a name, as far as I know… for convenience, I refer to it as 'The Nothing.'"

"How imaginative." Arachnae considered this information, wondered whether it was worth asking how she had come to be here, and then decided that it really did not matter. Instead, she muttered; "I have been wondering something, since our last meeting…"

"Indeed? And what might that be?"

"How is it that events are proceeding in tandem for us both, when near one year separates your time from mine?"

The disembodied voice responded in bored tones; "ah, you refer to the temporal disparity betwixt the Portal Stones? Yes, they have never functioned quite as they should, not since poor old Ghenjei Sedai's failed experiment, at least… it is aggravating."

Silence reigned within the infinite void for a few moments before Arachnae impatiently prompted; "well? The time-differential, and by what means we overcome it… how do you explain this phenomenon?"

The voice answered vaguely. "I cannot… not really… it isn't exactly my sphere of expertise. Seneschal might know, there is very little that he does not comprehend, but with him the answers invariably give rise to further questions…"

"Seneschal?"

"Never mind." The voice that Arachnae anonymously communed with adopted a lecturing tone; "but I do know this; within the World of Dreams, both space and time have little meaning. When did we last speak, Mistress Kirikil?"

"Near to one week ago."

The voice attained a note of pedantry. "What manner of week? The proper ones that have seven days, or the new ones that claim ten?"

"Ten, of course!"

"Really? From my perspective, we most previously met in Tel'aran'rhiod last night. Or was it the night before? I forget. More recently than you determine this event, anyway. The Great Wheel moves strangely within the Dream World, and not always in the correct direction, either. Do you see?"

"Not particularly." Arachnae began to feel more substantial, and at the same time, less connected to this empty, featureless place. "I think that I might be waking up. Before this tiresome parlay ends, I would have you to know that my side of our bargain is fulfilled… your adversaries shall likely be neutralised, before they can interfere with your plans." Arachnae paused a moment, then snidely added; "whatever those are!"

"Excellent!" declared Arachnae's co-conspirator, "and I, for my part, shall deliver the Aes Sedai to you, as soon as I no longer have need of them."

"What possible assistance can those ignorant girls provide to your schemes?" Arachnae wondered.

A disturbing giggling sound erupted from the darkness. "I shan't tell you! Allow me at least some of my secrets, Mistress Kirikil…"

Arachnae could feel herself returning to full consciousness in earnest now, so hastily she demanded; "who are you, anyway? I know you not. This is our third encounter but you still have not troubled to tell me your name!"

"No, I haven't, have I? Most remiss of me… impolite, also…"

Arachnae became more impatient. "Well? Who is it that I make pact with? A Friend of the Dark, hailing from antiquity, clearly… but whom? Answer me!"

Maniacal laughter resounded at this, and as Arachnae slipped back into the waking world, she heard the voice loudly declare; "why, my dear Arachnae, I am now and have always been… the Laughing God!"

Arachnae Kirikil's eyes slowly opened… she winced at the light which painfully seared her blurred sight and groaned, raising a shaking hand to her temple. Her head was pounding fiercely. It had been an extremely long time since she had over-channeled, but she yet recalled the unpleasant sensations from her distant youth, when she had oft been eager to push the bounds of her Power further.

An indistinct, pale shape moved into Arachnae's field of vision and she blinked repeatedly to clear her distorted view. The presence resolved itself into the Zomara, gazing down at her with its blank, empty eyes, an expression of artificial concern arranged artlessly upon its androgyne features.

"Laughing… God…" Arachnae whispered, in the Shadow tongue. She had absolutely no idea what that second word portended.

"Mistress?" the Zomara enquired.

"Nothing…" Arachnae glanced to either side, causing her skull to ache even more, but she ignored the pain with a single-minded devotion to exploring her surroundings, gradually becoming aware that she was back in her tent, reclined upon the uncomfortable camp-bed, heaped pillows propping her up. How had she got here?

"I carried you hither after you fainted, Mistress," the Zomara promptly answered her unspoken question. Arachnae felt too weak and drained to chastise the irritating creature for scanning her thoughts yet again, and struggled to rise, despite the discomfort. "You should lie still," the Zomara cautioned, but Arachnae flapped an impatient hand at her Shadow-spawned servant, which duly proceeded to assist her in sitting upright.

Groaning again, Arachnae swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Fetch my-" she began to command, then glared at the Zomara, which was insouciantly proffering a twisted walking-stick. "I do wish that you would let me finish-"

"Your sentences, Mistress?" Arachnae snarled angrily and snatched the warped stick from the Zomara's grasp. The creature blinked its dead eyes slowly, then ventured a repentant expression. "Forgiveness, Mistress!" It shrugged its narrow shoulders. "But anticipating my superior's wishes is what I do, it is what I was made for." The Zomara smiled slyly. "Amongst other things…"

"The Chosen Aginor must have been in a particularly strange mood on the day he constructed your disturbing kind," Arachnae muttered scathingly, before struggling to get to her feet, leaning heavily on the walking-stick. "Assist me!" she commanded reluctantly, not liking the touch of the Zomara's cold hands on her arm and elbow as it helped her to rise from the bed. Before long, Arachnae stood unsteadily, swaying slightly, her head spinning. When the dizziness faded, she made her way slowly outside, utilising the twin aids of Zomara and stick. Blinking in the dawning light without the tent, Arachnae noted that the sun was rising slowly in the east, casting a dim and wavering light over the humid forests of the Great Blight. She must have been unconscious for much of the evening, all of the night.

Arachnae considered the disembodied interview with her strange ally who reigned in the distant Land of Madmen, the peculiar personage who had promised to deliver the hated Aes Sedai into her clutches when their use to him was over. This 'Laughing God' as he obscurely styled himself…

"You should have a care, Mistress," the Zomara softly warned, "your confederate to the far south is a dangerous man; a potent, insane Souvraniene and a traitor to boot!" The Shadowspawn servant's tones became primly disapproving; "why, he foreswore his Oaths to the Great Lord of the Dark long ago, treacherously turning his back upon the Shadow!" The Zomara sounded as though it could not conceive of any act worse than this betrayal. Most probably, it could not.

Arachnae stared at the Zomara coldly, jerking her arm free of its supportive grasp, almost falling over in the process. "Cease looking inside my mind!" she snarled, before demanding; "how know you this, Zomara? Your kind isn't meant to be cognisant of anything other than menial service… and I believe that you're not supposed to remember things for long, either!"

"My Lord Ishamael told me of the Laughing God," the Zomara promptly responded, adding with a cunning leer; "he commanded that I inform you of his low repute when the time was right, Mistress."

"When the time was right? What is that supposed to-?"

The Zomara interrupted, continuing airily; "as to my enhanced memory, I am a little different than most of my brethren… the Betrayer of Hope had me altered, to better recall his commands, as well as your own, Mistress."

Arachnae raised her wispy eyebrows in surprise, assimilating this untoward information, before looking around herself… and noting that the camp and its environs were completely deserted. "Where is everyone?" she wondered.

The Zomara blinked slowly. "The humans, you sent through the Portal Stone," it explained laboriously, "they are gone."

"I know that, imbecile! I refer to the Shadowspawn… they should be guarding the camp... where in the Pit are they?"

When it eventually answered, the Zomara's tone was careful, and Arachnae's heart sunk at its words. She well-knew when someone had bad news to impart, a state of affairs that had arisen all too frequently for her, of late. "As you are aware, Mistress, your Draghkar flew north to the Shadow Library… as for the Myrddraal and Trollocs…" the Zomara hesitated, then revealed; "they too departed, whilst you slumbered. A raven came, carrying a message recalling your remaining command to Shayol Ghul… a missive from one of the Chosen, though I know not which of them gave the order, nor why it was given…"

Arachnae frowned darkly. She knew why. Another admonishment from above, for her failure to kill or capture the Dragonspawn thus far… yet another slap on the wrist from some accursed, addled Chosen, lounging in their ivory tower, unable or unwilling to appreciate the problems she faced down on the ground. It really was too provoking!

Arachnae glanced about herself at the empty tents flapping fitfully in the breeze, the cold ashes of deserted camp-fires, the grim emptiness of her bleak surroundings… and suddenly, for the first time in an extremely long time, she felt entirely alone. Abandoned. It was not a pleasant feeling.

Gleaning Arachnae's desolate thoughts unbidden, as was its wont, the Zomara patted her on the arm in commiseration… then hastily withdrew the pale hand as its Mistress turned her head to stare silently upon the Shadow-spawned servant, cold murder in her deathly gaze. The Zomara ventured a reassuring smile that had quite the opposite effect. "Be not so dejected, Mistress," it enthused, "after all, you still have me!" The Zomara then slipped lithely back into the tent, presumably to make some tea…

Arachnae watched the Zomara depart speechlessly, before turning her ancient, weary eyes toward the emptiness of the Dead Sea, where nothing swam nor lived… a place where hope might come, to die. She considered the Zomara's words, and drew in a deep, shuddering breath, trying to control her emotions, for all that it was extremely difficult to do so under the depressing circumstances. It had been several hundred years since Arachnae Kirikil, Adept of the Shadow, had evinced the barest sign of human frailty… but here, now, in this place and time; she abruptly felt the strong urge to weep.

---

Much time has passed since the event, but I yet recall the inauspicious occasion of our long voyage down to the City of Midnight. We travelled, not via the potent method of spinning the Travelling webs, which in those terrible times of untrammelled war had become too perilous a mode of transportation to contemplate, but rather aboard the Tamyrlin's official aircraft. There were few enough sho-wings left then, and none at all now; a great amount fell from the skies during the horrific years of the Collapse into anarchy and evil, whilst many more were lost in the early months of conflict betwixt the forces of Light and Dark. But even in those latter days, we yet had access to a remnant of these impressive machines; the lost technology of a more advanced era.

The interior of Sho-One was luxurious indeed, but given the serious and onerous nature of our duties, the dire reports that compelled us to go to the Dragon College and judge one of our own for his transgressions, my fellow Senior Sitters of the Hall of Servants and I took little interest in admiring our select surroundings. In close formation with our sho-wing there flew an escort of additional craft; a squadron of long-range hoverflies armed with heavy shock-cannon, a trio of high-speed dirigible assault-ships and a dozen armoured hover-sho troop-transports, in which a reinforced contingent of the elite Dragon Legion had embarked. In those dread days, the enemy primarily held sway over the northern regions and upon the western continent, but our embassy to the far south still required such precautions and more… eight of the most powerful Companions journeyed with us also.

Lews Therin Telamon appeared to be in good spirits for the duration of the lengthy flight, conversing and jesting with his Right Hand, Culan Cuhan, as well as Haindar Javagd and Goaeur Rantoel; all old and valued comrades of his. The Tamyrlin's elegant wife, Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar, sat quietly apart from them, playing numerous matches of tcheran with the most recently recruited Companion, one Auldre Choal. This pleasant young man appeared so nervous and tongue-tied in the intoxicating presence of the Lady Sunhair, that despite holding a reputation as a prodigy of the game, lost every single contest!

And myself? I sat at the rear of the cabin with the eminently capable Spy-Mistress, Solinda Sedai and the redoubtable Vora Samm Raijan, Aes Sedai General of the War Ajah. With our voices pitched low, we discussed the limited options available to us. That the Defector had broken the strictures governing the genesis of Constructed life-forms was incontrovertible… though in fact, 'broken' did not come close to describing that which he had perpetrated. Chaime Sedai was clearly guilty of quite comprehensively shattering these laws… and of course, being who he was, did not remotely care that he had been discovered in so doing. I speculated that the Creator of the Lightborn – as he arrogantly and somewhat blasphemously styled himself – would doubtless argue that he had defied the Hall and ignored the gene-splicing edicts for the sake of the war-effort, to assist in enabling the Light to ultimately triumph over the Shadow. Unfortunately, Chaime Kufer yet enjoyed the patronage of many influential supporters in Paaran Disen, who concurred with this stark view of the situation… and I remained well aware that numbered amongst them was the pre-eminent Aes Sedai, Summoner of the Nine Rods of Dominion, whom the entire World had come to know as 'Dragon.'

Before we could arrive at any conclusion or an agreement upon a course of action concerning the crimes of the Defector and the fate of his most recent and morally-questionable Construct – ah, Chaime, how long has it been that we last saw eye-to-eye? how many centuries have passed since we remotely understood one another? – there was an interruption to our grim discussion. The ever-excitable Wassili Beidomon, nephew to the intemperate eccentric who perished in the Sharom disaster along with part of the populace of V'saine, shouted stridently to us all, calling his fellow passengers over to the starboard view-ports. Vora obstinately remained in her seat, but Solinda and I rose, then went over to look, alongside the Dragon and his trusted Companions. Beneath us, as our sho-wing swept in a majestic, descending curve toward the waiting Aerodrome, lay a great port city; immense glowing towers and domes rising up into the darkness, shining piers projecting out over an icebound bay beyond. This despite the fact that it was yet day, as the sun only rises in these far southern latitudes for six months in the year, giving the metropolis its alternate name.

Oselle Sedai already stood at the port, staring down upon the cityscape stretching out below. "I am surprised to see that it is even still there," she sourly observed. "M'Jinn is not," Solinda commented sadly, "and neither are Mar Ruois nor fabled N'Zoar…" The untimely deaths of people comprise a tragedy, but the violent demise of entire cities and the citizenry who gave them life… there exists no word to adequately describe the enormity of such loss. Or perhaps there is one… War. It was then that the familiar, compelling voice of the Dragon broke in upon my thoughts of private regret, his mellifluous tones commanding the attention of all present, as ever. Naturally, there was the deference due to the Tamyrlin and of course, he was Ta'veren… but it was more than that, went deeper than this, beyond mere rank or ability. Whatever his faults – and they were many – Lews Therin Telamon always saw to the heart of the matter.

"I would that the Collam Aman had in like fashion ceased to exist, been obliterated. Or indeed, that both the College and its creations had never been contemplated or conceived of, in fact." The Lord of the Morning smiled his customary melancholic smile. "I think me that this absence would have spared us all a series of difficult decisions… and the danger of acting in a manner little different than that of the Shadow." At these enigmatic words, Solinda and Oselle exchanged an unreadable glance, whilst the Lady Ilyena stepped gracefully over and lightly touched her husband's arm. He smiled down at her, his dark mood visibly lightening. I then turned back to gaze down upon the Midnight City. I shall never forget that sight. It was the first time – and also, the last – that I beheld Larcheen.

Latra Posae Decume, Tamyrlin

[extract taken from personal memoirs]

collated and edited by Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai

unauthorised edition published posthumously as;

'The Manifold Recollections of Shadar Nor'

Chapter Ten * The Dead City

Act One : Larcheen

The Lady Ellythia of House Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, stood at the end of a long gallery, gazing out over the ruins toward the lapping waters of the great bay beyond. The faded tiles beneath her riding boots were cracked and dusty, the balcony upon which she rested her pale hands betrayed traces of damage in several places, many of the abbreviated pillars supporting the stone balustrade snapped in twain. It was much the same everywhere in this derelict metropolis of the Age of Legends, which bore the accumulated, cataclysmic signs of more than three millennia of uncounted wars, storms and earthquakes. But still, the vestiges of dead Larcheen yet retained a measure of the resplendent grandeur of elder days, the looming architecture engendering an atmosphere of impressive antiquity that not even the venerable island-city of Tar Valon could equal.

Larcheen had been already ancient centuries before the foundation stones of the White Tower were even laid, Ellyth was reliably informed. Though Tar Valon was a place of Light, ostensibly at least… Larcheen quite the opposite. Not a city of the Shadow, necessarily, but certainly a nexus of the dark. It had not been known as 'The Midnight City' for nothing. This went beyond the fact that much of the crumbling masonry was formed from slabs of the local volcanic rock, polished black stones infused with angry veins of red. No, there was a darkness at the centre of this ruined city of the previous Age, Ellyth was convinced of it… a darkness that she had yet to encounter.

"A little like Aridhol," Ellyth murmured, then blinked, surprised to have involuntarily broken the brooding silence. She glanced down the long gallery; open to the still air on one side, lined with ornate, evenly-spaced doorways on the other, but saw no sign of anyone who might have overheard her words. She was seemingly quite alone. "I really must not make a habit of speaking to myself," Ellyth muttered softly. Speaking to herself again… she sighed, resuming her examination of Larcheen.

Built upon a gradated slope; a cavalcade of dilapidated palaces, riven domes and crooked towers, descending to the remnants of the docks where splintered quays extended out into the bay, like so many grasping, broken fingers. Numerous galleys and smaller craft were moored to these splintered stone piers, including the large vessel with the double-bank of oars that had brought Ellyth and her companions here. And though she could not see it from her vantage, she recalled that further inland, an enormous volcano loomed over the city, away to the east…

Ellyth focused her attention on the bay, and that which lay beyond… in the distance, indistinct through the fog, she could make out the soaring span of the vast, impossible bridge that stretched from one bank of the great river to the other. It yet beggared belief that any structure so enormous could have been constructed by the hands of humanity, and not through the workings of the natural world, nor the will of the Creator. Doubtless, Naythan Gaidin would have been able to name at least a dozen edifices of the Age of Legends that might have eclipsed this immense bridge in size, for all that much of the architectural achievements of his times had reportedly been destroyed in the War against the Shadow… but her beloved, infuriating Warder was regrettably not present to do so.

Ellyth's feathery brows drew down as she frowned at the empty waves beyond the shattered city. Where was Naythan? And the other Gaidin, as well as her wayward brother, Thaeus? Those aggravating Shaido Aiel also… though given the dire straits in which she and her friends currently languished, Ellyth would have been only too glad to greet the arrival of the Aielmen, even that awful braggart Cohradin! Though of course, she would far rather await Naythan Shieldman hastening to her rescue, not unlike Mikel of the Pure Heart redeeming Princess Astorai from the cruel captivity of the Dusk Queen… as a girl, that had always been Ellyth's favourite tale from the Great Hunt Cycle, and she supposed that even in adulthood, it still was.

Ellyth then glanced glumly down at the bronze bracelet that encircled the slim wrist above her left hand. It was an ugly, chunky article, unrelieved and scarcely decorative but then, it was not intended to be. She, Shrina and Renn, as well as Dara the Sharan Ayyad… they all now wore one. These heavy bracelets had but one purpose; they prevented the female channelers from accessing saidar, acted as an effective barrier between the four young women and the True Source. A shield that they had tried to break through on numerous occasions, but to no avail. Their captors had required them to wear what could only be ter'angreal from the moment that they had docked in Larcheen, three days previous.

Since then, neither Renn nor Shrina had been able to sense the location or situation of their Warders through the Bond; Jabal and the Twins had disappeared from their awareness at the very moment that these bracelets had been placed about their wrists. Equally, Ellyth had not been visited in her dreams by Naythan since the ill-omened advent of her arrival in this dead city, the imposition of the shielding device upon her… the bracelet must also prevent his particular talent for finding his Aes Sedai in her sleeping state. Curse these Madmen, particularly the inventive fellow who somehow had the ability to make actual ter'angreal! For these bronze artefacts felt new and were almost certainly his work, whoever he was… the irritating (if comely) youth Piper had mentioned him, had he not? His name was 'Drummer' apparently, a friend of the young Sea Folk channeler, it would seem…

Despite knowing that it was a wasted effort, Ellyth moved her right hand near to the bracelet encircling her left wrist, held closed by a simple catch, bereft of any lock… but as always occurred when she tried this, her grasp froze of its own accord, a few inches away from the ter'angreal. Try as she might, Ellyth could not force her fingers any closer to the catch. Just thinking about removing the bracelet somehow rendered this simple action impossible. She was entirely unable to free herself of her own volition. Ellyth had no idea how this was accomplished, it just was. She and her friends had similarly discovered that it was an equally useless activity attempting to divest each other of the bracelets, though they had tried to do so often enough. Shrina, particularly. That fool girl gave a deeper meaning to the word; 'stubborn!' When the young Green was not planning various perilous escape attempts, she persisted in arguing with the Sharan maiden, Dara, on an almost constant basis. As for Renn… well, currently she was otherwise engaged.

It was to get away from her feuding companions that Ellyth had left the rooms that they all shared, going out onto the balcony for respite, to seek momentary peace and quiet. Though when alone, she had a propensity to brood, to dwell upon their grim situation. The depressing surroundings did little to improve her mood, the opportunity to think uninterrupted promoting the same, ever-present speculation; why were they even here? As hostages, or something more? What in the Wheel did this dangerously unstable and murderous Laughing God want with them?

In the near distance; the echoes of approaching footsteps. Ellyth turned, directing her cool gaze down the long, deserted gallery. This wing of the ancient, semi-ruined palace which they had unwillingly called home for the last few days was isolated from the rest of Larcheen's populace. Their quarters comprised one of the sole habitable areas within the tumbledown, rubble-bestrewn manse, and they were mostly left to their own devices here, but for the occasional silent servant who would visit briefly to bring them provisions and other necessities. A thwarted, night-time attempt to surreptitiously depart Larcheen had illustrated that their captors possessed ways and means of surveiling them from afar, negating the need for more immediate guards upon their persons. Not to mention that they risked becoming hopelessly lost within the maze of ruins that lay between them and the city perimeter.

Ellyth's brow furrowed… these steadily encroaching footfalls did not sound like those of a Souvraniene, one of the red-masked villains who channeled saidin in service to their Laughing God, nor one of the common armsmen who served them in turn, either. Such personages most generally wore sturdy boots when not aboard one of their galleys, and these stepping sounds seemed too light for such heavy footwear. Had it been one of the servants walking towards her, Ellyth would likely have heard nothing at all, since these lowly individuals tended to go barefoot.

The identity of the mystery visitor was abruptly revealed when a tall and elegant figure appeared around the corner at the far end of the gallery, paused a moment, striking something of a pose, then started down the long promenade toward Ellyth, moving with poise and grace. The young Noblewoman blinked in surprise. A most attractive maiden, if somewhat flat-chested, crowned with long tresses of luxuriant red hair. Dark eyes flashed in a fine-boned face, the aesthetically-pleasing features delineated by rouge, mascara and pastel-shaded powders. In addition to a choker of ebon lace set about her swan-neck, the statuesque female wore a long, crimson gown that left her smooth shoulders quite bare, as well as her slim arms, but for black, elbow-length gloves. As the youthful woman advanced down the gallery with a confident strut, Ellyth noted that not only was her tightly-cut dress fashioned of extremely thin silk, clinging to her slender figure every bit as scandalously as a Domani gown might, but also that the skirts were slit up one side so that a long, shapely leg sheathed in a sheer stocking was revealed with every other step. Finely-tooled dark leather shoes with raised heels completed the glamorous maiden's wardrobe, the footwear tightly-buckled about trim ankles.

Ellyth watched and waited as the redhead steadily approached her, noticing when she drew closer that she wore emerald ear-studs and a matching necklace, numerous jewelled rings adorning her fingers. "Hello there!" the stranger called out in shrill yet melodic tones, coming to a halt before Ellyth and surveying her with friendly curiosity, "might you be one of our Aes Sedai guests?"

Ellyth could well have pointed-out that guests more usually accepted an invitation to stay with their hosts, rather than being kidnapped, and that they were generally able to depart when they wished… but she did not trouble to. "Yes," she replied, curtly, her dark, perceptive gaze examining the features of her interlocutor shrewdly, neck craned back a little as the newcomer stood half a head taller than she.

"I am Laurelai," the red-haired woman revealed, "may I know your name?"

Ellyth scowled, in no mood for games. "You are well aware of who I am!" she snapped.

The damsel who had introduced herself with a frankly ridiculous name, arched her dark, plucked eyebrows. "Oh? Have we met before?"

"Of course we have!" Ellyth hissed, adding; "I know perfectly well that it is you, Piper, so you may as well cease this absurd pretence forthwith!"

At this, the rouged lips of 'Laurelai' fell open speechlessly and she gaped like a fish for a moment. Then, she collected herself, dark eyes narrowing. "Curses! How did you know it was me?" Piper demanded in a slightly deeper voice, placing gloved hands on narrow hips and glaring at Ellyth, incensed. "I took such care over my appearance!"

"Evidently," Ellyth drawled scathingly, "but even so, it was still tolerably obvious who you were." She smirked. "Laurelai!"

Piper scowled darkly. "Tis a nice name," he muttered, sulkily.

"It makes you sound like a swooning flipskirt from some witless romance!" Ellyth declared, before running a critical eye over Piper's garish costume, "though since that is what you currently resemble, I suppose that it is only appropriate, yes?"

Ellyth declined to mention that despite the bracelet-device blocking her from the True Source, her Talent for sensing ter'angreal remained unaffected and had informed her that beneath the lacy choker, Piper was still wearing the bronze torc that protected him from the Taint. This had rather given the game away, concerning his true identity. That and the long gloves, clearly worn to hide his Sea Folk tattoos. But it would seem that their captors were unaware of Ellyth's particular skill to sense ter'angreal, and she intended to ensure that this advantageous situation continued. They presumably did not know of Renn's singular Talent either… at least, Ellyth hoped so. The four captives fully intended to escape Larcheen ere long, and the young Brown Sister's ability to commune with and subsume animals to her will might well be the key to their success in this endeavour.

Piper was looking somewhat downcast, dejected even, at having his exotic guise so easily penetrated... Ellyth, who rather liked the flamboyant youth in spite of his being numbered amongst their enemy, resolved to mollify him. "You do look elegant, though," she complimented, adding; "most attractive, yes?"

Piper brightened at once. "Do you really think so?"

"Of course. That gown certainly suits you."

Piper beamed, even white teeth flashing in his painted face. "It does, doesn't it? This dress is actually one of my favourites…"

Ellyth touched a serpent-ringed finger to a red lock of hair twined about Piper's neck. "A wig, I take it?"

Piper nodded. "Mmm. I have a blonde one that is even finer, but…" he shrugged, "well, I just wasn't in the mood. I felt like being a redhead today!"

Ellyth nodded, venturing a patient smile. Men really are the strangest creatures! she thought to herself, however.

Piper's manner became brisk. "Well, in any case, let us away," he prompted, "I am but the errand-boy, after all, and on this occasion my assigned task consists of escorting you to meet an important personage."

"Whom?" Ellyth enquired.

Piper smiled slyly. "You'll see." Without elucidating further, the young Atha'an Miere channeler turned smartly on his heel and began to sashay back down the gallery, leaving Ellyth few options for satisfying her curiosity but to follow, hurrying a little to catch up with Piper's lengthy strides. She fell-in beside the exotically-garbed youth, envying him his graceful, swaying gait. Why, he had better legs than most females of her acquaintance! It simply was not fair that such a surfeit of beauty had been apportioned to a mere male! Really, what had the Divine Creator been thinking of?!

"What of my companions?" Ellyth demanded, "Shrina, Renn and Dara? Were you not sent to fetch them also?"

Piper shook his head, a cascade of reddish hair sweeping back and forth across bare shoulders. "No, Aes Sedai… just you. For now."

Ellyth's feathery brows drew down in irate fashion but she declined to give Piper the satisfaction of requiring further details of him… instead, she queried; "the wigs… the gowns… where-?"

"Did I acquire them?" Piper interrupted, before explaining airily; "oh, the Mother Ocean provides… just about anything and everything washes up here at Aisle Souvraniene, sooner or later." He grinned at Ellyth and winked sardonically.

Ellyth frowned and followed-on, wondering distantly how the others were managing in her absence…

---

"Watcher's Oath! If I don't get out of this beastly place soon, I shall go mad as the bloody Dragon!"

At this unwelcome and loud declaration, Dara of the Silvermoon Tribe of the Co'dansin Ayyad, seated cross-legged on a threadbare cushion, glanced up from the Stones board that held her attention… The tall and flame-haired barbarian channeler named 'Shrinalla' had resumed her annoying pacing up and down, a relentless back and forth traversal of the length of the large, dusty room that they all shared.

"If you remain here for much longer, then we shall all be driven as mad as your doomed Lord of the Morn!" Dara drawled, pointedly.

Shrina ceased her pacing to stand, hands planted on curvaceous hips, glaring down at the Ayyad channeler. She opened her full-lipped mouth to verbally retaliate, then paused, eyeing the board set before Dara. "What are you doing, Sharan?"

"Playing a game of Stones."

"Who with?"

"Myself." Dara arched a dark eyebrow, the swirling tattoos on her brow writhing, and regarded Shrina pityingly. "Obviously!"

Shrina the redheaded barbarian scowled. "That is silly!" She considered. "Though I suppose you can't exactly lose then, can you?" she further observed, with weighty sarcasm.

Dara shrugged. "I am scarcely likely to be defeated at Stones if I match you either, barbarian!"

"Don't call me a bar-"

"Why, you play even more poorly than does Ellythia! When it comes to tactics and forethought, you primitive Aes Sedai are but mere children!"

Shrina redoubled her dark scowl, taking a threatening step toward Dara, who ignored her, nodding to the yellow-haired barbarian channeler; "Rennetta plays tolerably well, when she applies herself, but…" she trailed-off.

Renn was of course currently unable to concentrate upon a game of Stones, or anything else, given her preoccupation with other matters. The voluptuous young Aes Sedai was lying on her back upon a sleeping-mat, over by the large, mullioned window, hands folded over her midriff, eyes tightly closed. Her full breasts rose and fell slowly as she breathed deeply and she appeared to be fast asleep, but apparently was not. Some sort of trance, by all accounts, though Dara did not quite understand what was taking place with the blonde Aes Sedai. Renn had been comatose since dawn of the previous day, when her peculiar emissary had been sent north to find the other barbarians… Odd indeed, that these uncivilised folk possessed talents and techniques unheard-of by even the sagacious Ayyad!

Shrina also glanced at Renn, then turned a disparaging gaze back to Dara, and sniffed disapprovingly. Dara responded to this with a goading smile that contained more than a hint of sneer, then raised a dark-skinned finger and traced the shape of an eye in the air, adding a squiggly line beneath.

Shrina's green eyes narrowed dangerously. "Stop doing that, Sharan sneak! You don't have the right!"

Dara bared her teeth and rose gracefully from the cushion. "I do, barbarian!"

"Don't call me a-"

"Am I not a ridiculous Watcher over the Waves also? Did I too not say the incomprehensible words of your absurd Oath?"

Shrina became even more incensed. "It is not absurd… well, not that absurd… and you are only a Watcher by courtesy¸ you slinking cat!"

Dara drew herself up to her full height, which was admittedly less impressive than she should have liked. "Since I am apparently a slinking cat, whatever that is, then you are a moronic barbar oaf!"

"Ink-face!"

"Big-nose!"

The name-calling might have escalated to outright physical violence, but at this point the two antithetical young women were interrupted by a loud, squawking sound. They jumped with surprise, turning to stare toward the window, from which the unexpected avian noise had come. A large, stern-looking eagle was now perched upon the sill, framed by ancient, carven stone, the desolate ruins of Larcheen stretching away behind its brownish, feathery form.

"He's back!" Shrina cried, entirely unnecessarily.

The great bird-of-prey cocked its head to one side, examining the two feuding women with a cold, yellow eye, cruel beak pursed disapprovingly, then turned its fierce gaze upon Renn, lying beneath the window. The young Brown promptly opened her eyes and sat up on the sleeping-mat, raising her hands and rubbing tentatively at her temples, frowning. "Ouch!" Renn exclaimed, "my flaming head hurts…" She peered blearily at Dara and Shrina, hovering over her. "I thought I heard shouting… have you two been arguing again?"

"No!" Dara promptly answered. Shrina elected to remain silent, doubtless because falsehoods were forbidden her. The eagle squawked again, flapping his wings a bit before settling down to preen long flight-feathers, presumably disarrayed from a protracted interval of soaring across the uncivilised wilderness.

Renn glanced at the large bird, then back at her companions. "Aldazar says you have been disagreeing," she accused.

"Aldazar?" Shrina repeated, confusedly.

"Well, I had to call the bloody bird something," Renn explained distractedly, a far-away look in her light-brown eyes.

Shrina blinked. "Old Tongue, is it not? What does it mean?"

"Eagle."

"Oh."

Dara noted that Renn's voice sounded hoarse, so she went over to the jug set upon a rickety table in the corner, pouring a stream of tepid water into a stone beaker. She then carried this over to the sleeping-mat and knelt gracefully, offering the beverage to Renn. "Here, drink this, bird-talking barbarian," she suggested, and the young Aes Sedai gratefully took the beaker and sipped thirstily. Dara blinked. "I mean; Rennetta," she corrected herself, pleased at her diplomacy.

"I think I actually prefer 'barbarian' to that name," Renn murmured, before sipping again.

Shrina scowled at Dara some more. "Stop calling us barbarians, you!" she snarled.

Dara shrugged. "But you are barbarians," she objected mildly, "all those not of blessed Co'dansin are mere lowly b-"

"Shara!" Shrina interrupted, "where the silk comes from! And the slinking cats! It is called 'Shara' and not Co'dansin!"

"Barbarians name it thus, true, but the correct name is-"

"Pah!"

"Would you two please stop sniping at each other?" Renn interjected, "or at least, do it more quietly? My pounding skull does not appreciate this tumult…"

"Sorry," Shrina whispered, giving Dara a spiteful look.

"Does your head always ache so, after you… after you do whatever it is that you do, with birds and beasts?" Dara enquired quietly.

Renn nodded, then winced. "It is the price I pay for sending my mind's eye into the consciousness of another creature," she admitted.

"Intriguing!" Dara commented, "I have never heard of such an ability amongst my own people…"

"You shock me!" Shrina observed drolly, "something that the wondrous Ayyad cannot do, yet we benighted barbarians can?"

Dara ignored Shrina, solicitously helping Renn to her feet, offering the weary young Aes Sedai an arm to lean upon. The eagle watched them closely from the window sill, then squawked again, pointedly.

Renn glanced enquiringly at the large bird, which stared back at her demandingly. "Oh, yes… of course," she mumbled, then turned to her Green Ajah friend; "Shrina, would you please give Aldazar some food..? He's flown a long way, and must be famished."

Dara watched as Shrina stalked over to a dilapidated sideboard set against the wall, grumbling under her breath as she did so, before returning with a tin platter upon which lay a haunch of mutton, somewhat high. Gingerly, the tall Aes Sedai set the meat upon the window sill, taking care to not get too close to the eagle, eyeing its vicious beak and sharp talons cautiously.

Renn noticed Shrina's nervousness. "Don't be a goose, Shrina!" she chided, "Aldazar won't hurt you! Well, probably not, anyway…"

Shrina retreated from the eagle's vicinity with evident relief, watching as the large bird-of-prey, after eyeing her suspiciously, sidled closer to the tempting mutton. "I thought that 'eagle' in the Old Tongue was 'caldazar' or something like that," she muttered distractedly, not taking her wary gaze off the dangerous bird as it began to tear greedily into the flesh set upon the platter.

"Not quite, barbar… that actually translates as 'red eagle,' you will find," Dara explained, watching the predatory avian also. She had always admired such noble creatures, these Lords of the Skies, it was a privilege to be so close to one. If only her beloved Hamadi were here with her, to see it also… she sighed softly.

Renn was staring at the Ayyad woman in surprise. "You speak the Old Tongue, Dara?" she wondered.

Dara nodded. "All scholars of Co'dansin do. I learnt the ancient World Speech long before I gained familiarity with the uncivilised Vulgar grunting sounds that you barbarians use amongst yourselves in these debased, modern days."

"Never mind that guff!" Shrina rudely interjected, "whither your scouting mission, Renn? What did you glimpse through the eyes of yon eagle? Have you seen my boys?"

"And Hamadi, what of him?" Dara added eagerly, "did you behold a dark-skinned youth with a handsome face, tattooed much as mine is?"

Renn nodded firmly. "Yes and yes! I saw the Twins and also a strapping Sharan lad who answers that description… but for the red eye…"

"The red what?"

"And my darling Jabal too," Renn exclaimed obtusely, "I thank the Creator that he is safe!" Dara put aside her confusion over the eye business, feeling a surge of relief within her breast that Hamadi yet lived… Shrina was clearly experiencing similar emotions at the news of her own Warders, since it was the first time that she had smiled in days. Renn continued; "oddly, I then noticed that conceited Gleeman friend of yours, Shrina; Roth Blucha, of all people, clutching his silver flute and seemingly inebriated!"

Shrina gaped. "Roth? What is he doing in the Land of Madmen?"

Renn shrugged. "Being a flautist and getting drunk, by the looks of it! There was a handsome woman on his arm, an Ebou Dari by the looks of her… she had one of those little jewelled knives hung about her neck…"

"That sounds like Ysmet!"

"Oh, and dearest Rashiel Tamor was there too…"

"Rashiel?!"

"Along with that Warder of hers, the Murandian Lord, I forget his name… the well-set-up, unusually polite chap with the horrid moustache…"

"Warder?" Shrina gasped, "but Trollop is a Red!"

"Well, she Bonded the fellow anyway! You know what Rashiel is like, with the menfolk! Did I not tell you about him?"

"No, of course you didn't! You never tell me anything important! What are they all doing here? How did-?"

"Stop chattering, Shrina!" Renn snapped irritably, "stick a stocking in it!"

"Who else did you see, Rennetta?" Dara enquired.

"Hmph? Well, the Aielmen, naturally, they were all there, though not that fierce spear-maiden, I didn't see her… various sailors, also intoxicated… a strange old man dressed in animal-skins, jigging about by the bonfire… actually, there seemed to be some sort of celebration going on…" Renn blinked. "Ah, and Master Shieldman, of course… I must tell Ellyth, she will be glad to know that…" Renn trailed-off, glancing around the room. "Um… so where is she, anyway?"

---

"That frock of yours is really rather choice," Piper observed with a touch of jealousy as they descended a wide span of curving steps, fashioned from cracked and crumbling marble, "though it has certainly seen better days."

Ellyth eyed Piper suspiciously, but saw no ridicule in his dark, Atha'an Miere eyes, just frank interest. She nodded glumly. "It was my best remaining gown," she admitted, self-consciously smoothing her torn and tattered skirts, trying to ignore how grubby the azure silk had become, "but now is fit only for rags."

Piper made a clucking sound with his sharp tongue. "I would that I had access to such skilled dressmakers… this horrid Land is no fit place for fine fashions," he commented mournfully, "though tis always a relief to return to Larcheen where I may clothe myself in something even slightly decent…"

Ellyth eyed Piper curiously. Cross-dressing was not unknown in the Westlands. There was that odd girl Min, who saw prophetic visions… she habitually garbed herself as a boy, the young Noblewoman recalled. Though there were some who took such behaviour even further…

Lord Guye had occasionally told the children anecdotes of a notorious great-aunt of his, the formidable Lady Illisia, who had always been considered eccentric. Though it was not in keeping with tradition for Amadici women to bear arms and take part in martial endeavours, Illisia Desiama had always possessed a rather mannish, warlike temperament, as well as a decided preference for her own sex in matters of romantic liaison. Barred from joining the Children of Light due to her gender, the redoubtable Amadici aristocrat had used her considerable fortune to form her own Legion, recruiting disaffected Whitecloaks from the Amador garrisons, soldiery of the Amadici Royal Guard and no few female mercenaries who shared her predilections.

As 'Lady Captain' of her own private Legion, Illisia of House Desiama had seen a deal of service, mostly up in the Borderlands, all the while stubbornly clad in her preferred mode of dress; a pair of pale trews, matching coat and a white cape emblazoned with silver crescent moons, since the golden sunburst had been denied her. The militaristic Noblewoman had ultimately fallen during the fierce fighting which saw the suppression of a violent Shadowsworn uprising in Kandor, dying as she had lived; boldly and without compromise. In the aftermath of the final engagement, her grieving armswomen had discovered Illisia's body amidst a dozen slain Darkfriends, all dead by her sword. There were worse ways to make an end.

But as for the obverse custom of men dressing in women's garb… this was something that Ellyth was altogether less familiar with. Though for all she knew, she might well have encountered such individuals previously and not even realised, had their guise been as complete as that of Piper… the comely Sea Folk youth certainly made for a tolerably convincing female. Why, he had even added a pair of small, false breasts to his ensemble!

The source of Ellyth's speculation was musing as they came to the foot of the marble staircase; "I suppose that I could lend you and your friends some of my dresses… not the really nice gowns, of course, I'm not feeling that generous, but nothing too shabby…" Piper paused, eyeing Ellyth up and down, critically. "I'd say we have a similar build, but you might need to raise the hems a little…"

Ellyth blinked. Needlework had never been her forte… "Do you always clothe yourself in womanly apparel?" she wondered, then quickly added, not wishing to cause offence; "if you do not mind my asking?"

"Oh, I don't mind at all. Not always, no, just when I'm in the mood." Piper shrugged. "Men's clothes tend to be rather boring in my estimation, female garments are so much more decorative, don't you find?"

"You should meet an absurd diminutive Saldaean I know by the name of 'Lord Wakime,'" Ellyth suggested, "he might well open your eyes to a whole new world of tasteless possibilities!"

Piper was not attending, had adopted an expression of mild disgust. "Of course, when we Souvraniene are out and about, abroad in the Land doing the will of the God, we must wear those ugly furs and masks and whatnot…" He set out across a rubble-strewn courtyard, heading toward a large gateway, bereft of gates.

Ellyth reluctantly followed-on. "For what reason do you present yourselves thus?" she enquired, casually, "the smiling masks and so forth..?"

Piper chuckled. "Still fishing for facts, your Ladyship? Well, the fearsome appearance… why, tis simply what is expected. The benighted natives of Aisle Souvraniene well-know what a leathern laughing face means, and they do not make the mistake of interfering with us… not more than once, at least." The Atha'an Miere channeler eyed Ellyth sardonically. "Strange as it must seem to you, Aes Sedai, we half-mad male-channelers who serve the Laughing God may represent the closest thing this unhappy territory has to actual law and order!"

"That is strange," Ellyth agreed as they stepped through the archway and out into the dark, cobbled thoroughfare beyond, a wide avenue stretching between ancient ruins. It was not empty. Ellyth raised delicate eyebrows in surprise at the sight of an unusual contraption… she was familiar with the two-man litters that were borne about the streets of Tar Valon, most usually containing those personages who considered themselves too important to simply walk to their destination, as everyone else was accustomed to doing… However, this particular mode of transportation was larger; a wooden compartment bedecked with beaded curtains, supported between two long poles… it currently rested upon the cobbles, awaiting them.

"What is that?" Ellyth wondered.

"A palanquin," Piper responded, in bored tones.

Ellyth's gaze moved from the vehicle itself to those who bore it; a dozen raggedly-clothed men, bearded and displaying the crude facial tattoos and filed teeth of this Land's debased inhabitants. Their wrists were shackled to the poles of the palanquin with heavy iron fetters. Slaves, in other words, akin to those unfortunates who had rowed their galley to this port, if slightly less wretched-looking. A half-dozen armed men clad in crude furs stood about the porters; the ordinary soldiers of the Laughing God, though not currently wearing their rough, leather masks. These individuals bowed to Piper before straightening, whilst the slaves dropped to their knees and remained where they were, eyes lowered, until the young Souvraniene bade them rise.

Ellyth frowned disapprovingly as she reluctantly followed Piper over to the… what had he called it? Palanquin? A strange name. Piper swept a curtain back, revealing a narrow seat within the compartment, cushioned with cracked leather. "In you get, Aes Sedai!" he prompted, cheerfully.

Ellyth scowled, then shook her head decisively. She indicated the slaves, standing patiently at the long poles to which they were chained. "I should prefer to walk," she primly stated, "rather than have these sorry specimens be forced to carry me to… to wherever it is that comprises our destination."

Piper sniggered. "Be not so overtly virtuous! Tis a long way…" He gathered his crimson skirts and slipped lithely into the palanquin, perching upon the bench, then beckoned insistently. "Hop in, my Lady!" Ellyth hesitated. She did not overly care for walking great distances, in truth, but having taken a moral stance on the matter, had no wish to immediately abandon it. Piper sighed, loudly and theatrically. "Your concern for the chattel is commendable," he remarked, "but in the Land of the Madmen, we don't make a habit of enslaving the innocent… if you knew of even half the crimes and atrocities these brutes have perpetrated, prior to our taking them captive and putting them to work at useful tasks, you would see that your sympathy was sorely misplaced."

Ellyth lingered a moment more, sensing the expectant eyes of both slaves and their guards upon her, feeling foolish… then, she hitched up her own besmirched skirts and scrambled awkwardly into the compartment. She unwillingly seated herself beside Piper, the narrow confines of the palanquin interior forcing them closer together than was entirely comfortable.

Piper grinned at Ellyth, leaning past her to tug the beaded curtain shut, plunging the inside of the compartment into shade. "Alone at last, your Ladyship!" he declared with a roguish wink, "cosy, is it not? Why, if my preference was not otherwise directed, such a pleasant tryst we might enjoy in this privacy, you and I!"

Despite herself, Ellyth could not help but be slightly amused by this suggestive comment, not to mention the mental image of the two of them canoodling within these narrow confines… "Keep your tattooed paws to yourself or I shall most certainly slap you!" she warned the Sea Folk youth.

Piper feigned disappointment. "Would you not at least promise me a place on your dance-card, my Lady?" he importuned.

Ellyth smiled coolly. "Perhaps," she murmured, "though were we to dance in our current state, I am uncertain which of us would lead…"

Piper looked thoughtful. "You may have a point there, Aes Sedai…" He then rapped sharply upon the wooden ceiling of the compartment. "On!" The palanquin rose from the ground as the slave-porters raised the long poles to their shoulders. The interior shook a little; Ellyth placed a steadying hand on the side of the compartment, leaning back on the hard bench as they set off with a swaying motion not unlike the movement of a ship's deck when at sea. Off they went, travelling to whichever mysterious destination Piper had in mind.

"Where are we going?" Ellyth demanded, not expecting to receive an answer.

Piper had produced a small, round mirror and was critically examining his cosmetically-decorated face… at this query, he glanced at Ellyth, arching thin, black eyebrows. "Really, milady, do you not favour surprises? Growing-up – in some sort of Palace I would presume! – were you the sort of girl who peeked at her Nameday gifts the night before?"

Ellyth responded to this insolence by narrowing her eyes dangerously, her upper lip curling in a silent snarl. She really was at the end of her tether, and did not appreciate being goaded and scorned any further!

Piper sighed and slipped the mirror into the sleeve of a long glove, then raised his hands, placatingly. "Alright, there's no need to glare at me like that! Don't kill the messenger! Very well, I'll tell you…" He smiled pleasantly, even white teeth flashing in his darkly attractive face, seeming to momentarily illuminate the gloomy interior of the curtained palanquin. Not for the first time, nor even the tenth, Ellyth found herself wondering at the perversity of Fate, that would render a youth this pretty entirely uninterested in the intimate company of women! It was ridiculous!

"If you must know," Piper confided, tapping a finger against the bronze bracelet-ter'angreal secured about Ellyth's wrist, "we are off to see the man who made this." Having given an answer that was really no answer at all, the youthful Sea Folk channeler leant back in the seat, smirking. Ellyth scowled, and resisted the urge to hurl herself at the handsome-yet-infuriating fellow, nails bared… but only just.

---

Atop the ruined palace in which the captives were quartered, there yet remained a small sun-terrace, encircled by broken stumps of weathered marble; the remnants of an ornamental balustrade. Shrina stood near to the westernmost limit of this level vantage, the wind whipping her cloak about her, taking care to not approach the edge of the roof too closely. It would be quite a long fall to the cobbles below…

Beside Shrina, Renn loitered, shading her eyes as she gazed out across the great bay. A distant speck held her attention, outlined against the orange sphere of the setting sun; the large eagle. "Farewell, Aldazar," she murmured, softly.

Shrina glanced enquiringly at Renn. "You sound almost regretful," she observed, "and I thought you'd be glad to see the back of that bloody bird!"

Renn shrugged, continuing to watch the diminishing winged shape until it was lost to sight, beyond the evening haze that shimmered about the vast bridge. "Oh, I suppose that I am," she murmured, "after all, it is rather disconcerting the way he keeps following me around everywhere… but at the same time, I sort of miss him."

"Well, the dratted eagle did do us a service, I suppose," Shrina grudgingly allowed, "at least I know my boys are safe, for the time being..." She fell silent, then became aware that Renn was eyeing her censoriously. "And everyone else too!" Shrina hastily added, "Jabal and the others… it is well to have tidings of them…"

"Indeed," Renn agreed, "though I would that I had not informed them of our whereabouts, by scratching the name of this city into the sand. Now they will certainly come here to attempt our rescue, and…" Renn trailed-off, evidently not wishing to speculate further.

"And what?" Shrina demanded, "think you that this mob of Madmen and their attendant ruffians can withstand Warders and Aielmen and… and Master Shieldman, whatever he counts as? Why, I saw Naythan Gaidin slice a Myrddraal in twain, his blade moving faster than my eyes could follow! It was like something out of the Legend of Jearom!"

"Yes, you told me," Renn reminded Shrina pointedly, "several times, in fact… but even so, I- yow!" Renn's surprised cry was occasioned by Shrina suddenly and unexpectedly snatching at the bracelet encircling her wrist, but as ever, the lunging hand came to an abrupt halt inches away from its target.

"Curses!" Shrina snarled, withdrawing her failed fingers, then scowling at her own bracelet, equally impossible to remove.

"I wish you would stop doing that!" Renn complained, "what in the Wheel do you think you'll accomplish, beyond annoying the rest of us?"

"If I take the ter'angreal by surprise, I may be able to grab it before my mind tells me not to," Shrina confusingly explained.

Renn thought about it… briefly. "That makes even less sense than anything else you ever say, Shrina!"

Shrina frowned. "I am not some helpless, snivelling Princess, stuck up in an ivory tower," she revealed, with wounded dignity.

Renn did her best to assimilate this. "I know you are not, Shrina. Anyone can readily see that this isn't remotely what you are… and by the by, was there supposed to be some sort of point to that bizarre statement?"

"The point, my dear Bookworm, is that I do not necessarily wish to be rescued by the Twins, or anyone else for that matter… it would be embarrassing!" Shrina drew herself up with haughty resolve. "I mean to redeem myself from this odious captivity… and surely, even you can see that the first step in accomplishing this is to get rid of these bloody bracelets!"

Shrina's voice had risen to a frustrated scream by the end of this statement, but Renn, long accustomed to the mercurial nature of her Green Ajah friend, simply blinked slowly and murmured; "the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills." She then cautiously moved closer to the edge of the terrace, examining the ancient ruins beyond. "An actual city of the Age of Legends!" Renn enthused, "or at least, what is left of one… who would have thought that such might still exist?"

Shrina pouted, misliking the rather obvious change of subject. "Tis a grim and dirty place," she muttered scathingly, though her sea-green eyes were involuntarily drawn to the impressive vista, even so.

"Those foundations!" Renn cried, gesturing at a circle of enormous, deep pits to the south, "they are vast indeed… the edifice that once loomed from them would have made the White Tower look no taller than a haystack!"

"Huh!" was Shrina's rejoinder, but sensing that something more might be required, she belatedly mumbled; "I have seen some pretty big haystacks in my travels, I can tell you!" Thinking about this statement, appreciating its essential foolishness and rather wishing that she had not made so crass a comment, Shrina sought inspiration for a more intelligent remark… but Renn, yet staring in fascination upon the ancient, fallen metropolis, did not seem to have heard in any case.

"Ah, there you are, barbarian Aes Sedai! I have been seeking for you…"

Shrina turned, glaring at Dara as her tattooed face rose through the aperture set into the floor-tiles at the centre of the terrace, followed by the rest of her, clad in the dark robe with the pale cord belt that she had found somewhere within the wrecked palace. A spiral staircase wrought of some unknown alloy, provided access to the roof from the floor immediately beneath. Dara made her graceful way up the rest of these metal steps, before sauntering over to join them. The numerous swirling lines and dots that marked her haughty, dusky features made interpreting Dara's exact expression difficult, but Shrina perceived that the Sharan maiden was smiling her customary superior smile, full lips slightly curved. The young Green maintained a truculent, obstinate silence at Dara's approach, declining to offer her a greeting, whereas Renn did not appear to have noticed the Ayyad woman's advent, continuing to gaze down upon the remnants of Larcheen, as though compelled to.

Dara proceeded to do likewise, ignoring Shrina's hostile stare. "There survives nothing of so great an extent in Co'dansin," the Sharan channeler commented, "little remains of this antiquity… but for the western pyramids (which not even we Ayyad can explain the provenance of) the oldest architecture known to us dates from barely three millennia gone." She shrugged, seemingly speaking to herself as much to them. "There exist a few scattered fragments from the previous Age, of course, but…" Dara's voice faded into silence, apparently she was lost for words – a state that Shrina could only approve of! – but then the Ayyad maiden waved a long-fingered hand speechlessly at the ancient ruins. "I would never have imagined that anything like this could yet survive to these times…" Her dark, almost black eyes shifted out to the bay; "that immense bridge, most especially… what load-bearing material might it be fashioned of, to somehow have endured the cataclysmic World-Breaking?"

"Oh, there is one like it at Whitebridge, in Andor," Shrina commented airily, "such are to be found in the Westlands."

"There is?" Dara enquired, turning her penetrating gaze upon the young Green, "is this barbarian bridge as immense in size as that?" She patronisingly pointed at the enormous span across the river, as though doubting Shrina would know to what she referred without a visual aid of some kind.

Shrina frowned. She would have dearly loved to answer in the affirmative, but the Oath against falsehood denied her this satisfaction. "Um… no. Not really."

Dara sneered and turned away, leaving Shrina to fantasise about shoving the irritating Sharan sneak off the roof… but Renn, finally becoming aware of the presence of someone other than Shrina, turned her head and stared at Dara owlishly. "Oh… hello Dara. I did not notice you. Was there any sign of Ellyth downstairs?"

Dara shook her head. "None. I see that she is not up here either… perhaps she went for a walk?" She glanced around the terrace. "Where is your noble eagle?"

"He is not my eagle!" Renn snapped. Dara's eyes widened in momentary surprise. Renn composed herself. "Sorry, Dara, I didn't mean to be snippy... it is just that everyone thinks Aldazar belongs to me! He is his own eagle, really. And I never asked the bothersome bird to follow me around everywhere I go, he just started doing it of his own accord!"

Dara shrugged, unconcerned. "It is a good omen, Rennetta," she assured the Brown Sister, "that a creature so fortuitous as the Great Sky Eagle would choose to serve you, should seek you out in distant lands beyond the horizon… truly, it can only mean that you enjoy the divine favour of the Holy Spirits!"

"Do you really think so?" Renn responded, eagerly. Dara nodded solemnly.

Shrina sniffed disparagingly, but was ignored by both young women, or perhaps they did not even hear as they began an esoteric discussion concerning signs, portents and other foolish things besides. Shrina blotted the chattering voices of Renn and Dara from her mind until they faded into a distant, background hum, whilst creeping as close to the edge of the terrace as she dared, scanning the empty, silent avenues far below. One concern currently occupied Shrina, to the exclusion of all else… where in the Waves had Ellyth disappeared off to this time?

---

Ellyth sat within the rocking palanquin, hands modestly folded in her lap, evincing a serenity and patience that she most certainly did not feel… but the young Aes Sedai had no intent of revealing her deep discontent to the fellow passenger seated alongside. Piper had his arms crossed over what were clearly false bosoms – woollen padding, apparently – leaning back, eyes half-closed, humming softly to himself. He appeared to be on the verge of dozing, but appearances could be deceptive…

Earlier, Ellyth had casually reached out to draw back the bead curtain that obscured her view of the outside world, in the hopes of determining their route. Instantly, Piper's dark eyes had snapped open, before narrowing slightly, and the curtain had whisked shut, moved by what could only be a weave of Air. Ellyth's captor had said nothing, returning to his reverie, but the implication was clear… she was not to be permitted knowledge of their location or destination. It had been a disconcerting moment; try as she might, Ellyth would never become accustomed to the disturbing reality of a man channeling in her vicinity. For all that her own brother could reportedly touch the True Source…

Ellyth feared greatly for Thaeus. If the opportunity presented itself, she intended to obtain one of the bronze torc-ter'angreal worn by the Laughing God's Souvraniene followers, and present it to her younger sibling in the hope that it might preserve him from the dread Taint of the vile Dark One. For a time, at least… after all, Piper had rather derided the efficacy of these devices, had he not? Though derision seemed to come naturally to the eccentric young man. Well, Ellyth meant to possess one of these torcs in any case, by fair means or by foul. Foul, most probably.

Ellyth sighed. It had been some twenty minutes, or possibly as much as one half-hour, since they had set out in this cramped and uncomfortable contrivance. She was bored. Ellyth eyed Piper sidelong. "May I ask you a question?" she murmured.

Piper sat up a little straighter, yawned delicately behind a gloved and richly be-ringed hand, then nodded. "Fire away, your Ladyship. My answer may not be particularly truthful, though. I do like to embellish dull facts with fanciful invention!"

"I imagine that you do." Ellyth shrugged, uncaring. "Tell me, if you please; how came you, an Atha'an Miere mariner, to join the retinue of this Laughing God?"

Piper blinked his dark eyes, hesitated, then muttered; "oh. That. Well, since you ask, I-" Abruptly, the palanquin tilted back a little, pressing them both against the rear of the compartment. "Uphill," Piper observed, "we're getting close…" He glanced at Ellyth apologetically; "it shall have to be the short version, I am afraid…"

"I care not. Well?"

Piper lowered his voice a little, confidingly. "As you know, I am of Clan Tolaman by birth, a distant cousin to the young Do Miere A'vron Aes Sedai, your fiery-headed friend…" Piper touched a reddish lock of his wig wistfully. "I would that I had flaming tresses near so fine as hers!"

Ellyth frowned. "I fear that you are becoming distracted from your answer, yes?"

"Apologies. Well, the ancestors of my lost clan served one Morgana Paendrag Halicon, the first Princess of her line, who inexplicably brought her people here some one-thousand years gone… the Atha'an Miere who came with them had all sworn oaths of fealty to her fearsome father, the High King, and shipped aboard the warships of his navy as navigators, quartermasters and the like…"

"This is the short version?"

"I take your impatient point, Aes Sedai! Well, moving on… after a couple of centuries or so, the few Tolaman left had grown disenchanted with their Shorebound allies, who by this had begun to call themselves the Hawx and were engaged in the building of that big, tasteless fortress set upon the Isle of the Spire…"

"I am familiar with it, yes?"

"I suppose you are, at that. By the by, I can't help but notice that you keep ending your sentences with the word 'yes?' Is there some reason for that?"

"It is a cultural idiom, yes? Continue!"

"Alright then… well anyway, the remnants of my folk rebelled, lit-out in the last great-ship left and didn't look back. Sailing north for the Isles of the Sea Folk was scarcely an option, since even had they survived the long and dangerous voyage in a leaky, worm-eaten old vessel, they were hardly popular with the other Atha'an Miere Clans, on account of taking service with the Hawkwing… their reception would have been far from welcoming. Hungry sharks might have been involved? So, the survivors of Clan Tolaman set up on an outlying island – I shan't tell you which one, so don't even ask! – and have been living there ever since."

Ellyth repeated her frown, only more so. "I enquired as to how you came to join the forces of the Laughing God, Piper!" she reminded the youth, pointedly.

Piper pouted and responded sulkily; "have you ne'er heard tell of something called context, Aes Sedai?"

"I have, actually. But enough is as good as a feast, yes? Please abandon the contextual details and do proceed with your explanation, before I die of old age…"

Piper sniffed. "Very well. We are now getting to the good bit, because actually, I am in it! Anyhow, some eight-hundreds of years after those events, yours truly was born. As I am sure you can imagine, I was an extremely beautiful baby, admired and beloved by all." Ellyth made an impatient sound, which Piper ignored. "I might have done well within my clan, since I was gifted and popular…"

"And modest!"

"…but misfortunately, as a promising young deck-boy with a perfect profile, I began to touch the Source. Imagine my embarrassment! Naturally, I did not tell anyone, but well-knew that it was only a matter of time before one of those mean old Windfinders noticed that I could channel. It is hard to conceal that sort of thing."

"I am sure that it was."

"At this point in the proceedings, the handsome Hero of our story-"

"Whoever is that?"

"Me of course! Hush! Stop interrupting! Anyway, our delightful protagonist was faced with a rather stark choice… I could consent to my clan's charming custom of chaining male-channelers to large rocks and dropping them into particularly deep parts of the Ocean… or I could choose an uncertain life of exile. A choice that was no choice at all, as far as I was concerned…"

"So, you..?"

"Waited for a dark and moonless night, stole a fishing boat and set sail for the mainland, to seek fame and fortune amongst my fellow Madmen! Luckily, I soon fell-in with the right sort of Souvraniene, who admitted me to their ranks and gave me a ter'angreal to help stave off the dreaded Taint." For emphasis, Piper tugged down the black lace stretched about his neck, momentarily revealing the bronze torc. "All that was required in return was an oath of unswerving loyalty to the Laughing God… Praise Him!"

Ellyth blinked in surprise whilst Piper chuckled softly. "And you have no regrets?" she wondered.

Piper shrugged. "Who does not live with regret? But the alternative would have been to wander about Aisle Souvraniene, talking to myself whilst my body rotted away, slaughtering everyone I met until one of them slaughtered me first. I'll take a world of regrets over that!" Abruptly, the palanquin ceased moving and then was lowered to the ground with a thump. "I do believe that we have arrived," Piper remarked, then swept back the bead curtain and stepped down from the compartment.

Ellyth followed, accepting Piper's helping hand without comment, as she considered the tale of his origins. Well, the life of an exile, however hard, at least featured the word 'life,' which was preferable to death by drowning… in the young Sea Folk channeler's position, she would certainly have made the same decision. Too bad that this aligned the Atha'an Miere youth with the enemy, the forces of that false, murderous Gleeman or God or whatever he was… Ellyth rather liked Piper, in truth. For all that he had an aggravating way about him… but then, what man did not?

These considerations melted away as Ellyth took in her surroundings… or one particular, unavoidable aspect of them, at least. The volcano that loomed over them was truly vast, its smoking summit all-but lost amongst the dark clouds that loured high above. Craning her neck back to stare and attempt an estimation of its great size, Ellyth decided that the volcanic peak was not quite so high as Dragonmount itself, but even so, the sheer mass of the lava-formation must far exceed that of the fabled death-site of the Dragon, covering acre upon uncounted acre. Naturally, Ellyth had glimpsed this distant volcano from the city of Larcheen a few times, but only in passing. She had thought it much further away, and part of an entire mountain range as opposed to a single peak. Up close, the smoking mount dwarfed mere humanity to insignificance, made one feel utterly lost in its shadow…

"Impressive, is it not?" Piper enquired rhetorically, adding conversationally; "the locals call it 'Caisenvol,' which means-"

"Old Father," Ellyth murmured, her limited knowledge of the ancient language of the Age of Legends equal to that translation, at least.

Piper grinned. "Indeed. Though we Souvraniene have our own name for the volcano. We term it; 'Kuthli Deyeniye.'"

Ellyth blinked, confounded. She was uncertain as to what this meant.

"Laughing Majesty," Piper explained, with a grin. He waved at the soldiers and slaves to wait, then made an elegant 'after you' gesture in the direction of a rocky path winding up into the volcanic foothills beyond. "Shall we?"

Ellyth hesitated. "Do I have a choice?"

Piper shook his head. "I really must insist, I am afraid. But don't you want to meet Drummer, Aes Sedai? He's eager to meet you." The Sea Folk youth lowered his voice conspiratorially, dark eyes flicking toward the soldiers loitering further down the path, grouped around the palanquin and its attendant, kneeling slaves. "Trust me, it will be worth your while…" For once, Piper sounded almost serious, difficult though it was to take a young man draped in a scandalous dress particularly seriously…but his habitual, mocking mannerisms seemed to have momentarily departed.

"Trust you?" Ellyth repeated, doubtfully. Piper nodded with slow significance. She sighed. "Very well. Lead-on, saucy wench!" Piper grinned again, blew Ellyth a kiss, then started up the path with a swaying, graceful gait. Ellyth trudged after, glumly considering her limited options. "Is it not rather perilous to locate a city so close to an active volcano?" she wondered, dark, perceptive eyes taking note of the wisps of ashen vapour venting from the summit, far above.

Piper unconcernedly answered over his shoulder; "Caisenvol, along with most of the other volcanoes of Aisle Souvraniene, is a product of the Breaking of the World, I do believe… it's not as though they built Larcheen next to it on purpose, after all. His Laughing Majesty just sort of turned up one dreadful day, rising out of the earth to everyone's horror, and there really wasn't much that the citizenry could do about it. Doubtless, most of them were dead by this point, anyway. The War took its toll down here, as it did everywhere else."

Ellyth dwelled upon these details for a moment, then demanded; "but what if the volcano were to erupt?"

"Oh, but it has, several times over the last three millennia. Larcheen has been partially drowned in lava and covered in ash on numerous occasions, but the natives always turn up sooner or later, to dig out the ruins. I think that they're rather proud of the place, in a strange sort of way. The Midnight City is the closest thing that this benighted Land has to a Capital, truly the definition of eternal to the locals, which is about the only thing its denizens have ever agreed upon over the long years of its existence."

Ellyth considered this, framing her next question, but instead elected to save her breath for the climb. The rocky path gradually became steeper, though they were yet positioned upon the lowest flows of the looming, smoking mount. "I do hope that this burning thing does not decide to drown us in boiling lava whilst we are stranded upon its Light-cursed slopes!" Ellyth muttered sourly. Piper did not seem to hear, he had paused on the path and looking beyond him, Ellyth could see that the well-trodden route they followed disappeared into a dark cave mouth set into the side of the volcano.

"Well, here we are again," Piper commented, seemingly speaking to himself as much as to Ellyth. The young Aes Sedai eyed the youthful male-channeler warily; he glanced at her and smiled his sly smile, before revealing that he had overheard her remark after all. "Do not concern yourself, my Lady… though Kuthli Deyeniye most certainly is awake, there have been no eruptions for a long time and shall hopefully be none soon, for we regularly appease the Volcano God to ensure our continued safety."

"However do you accomplish that?" Ellyth wondered absently, eyeing the steaming summit towering above her. It made the young Aes Sedai feel rather nervous, to be standing upon a deadly mount that might rain molten rock down upon her head at any moment…

Piper grinned. "Oh, it's quite simple, really… once a month, we Souvraniene all troop up to the top of volcano and then draw straws… the unlucky Madman who comes up short gets chucked into the lava!" He sniggered. "We sing hymns of praise to the God of the Volcano too, and then we all have a pleasant picnic lunch!"

Ellyth frowned disapprovingly. "I do hope that ridiculous story is merely an example of your tasteless wit!" she chided.

"Oh, you're no fun Aes Sedai!" Piper objected.

Ellyth smiled thinly. "Good! I am glad that you think so, given the sort of low activities from which you presumably derive enjoyment, yes?"

Piper sniffed disparagingly, then flapped a hand at the cave mouth. "Come along, spoilsport!"

A tunnel, twice their height and thrice their width abreast, extended into the heart of the volcano dubbed 'Old Father.' Mid-way down the rough-hewn passage, Ellyth paused, examining one of the small, crystalline hemispheres set into the rock wall. It gave off only a muted glow but these lights, arranged at sporadic intervals, provided just enough illumination to guide their progress into the depths of the smoking peak. It was preferable to stumbling about in the dark, she supposed.

"What are these?" Ellyth enquired, recalling the glowing crystal lights in the Cenotaph of Naythan's Elder Brother, "they are akin to something I have see before."

"The illuminations? I don't think they even have a name," Piper replied disinterestedly, adding; "Drummer made them."

"Drummer? You have mentioned this person previously… an acquaintance of yours, I take it?"

"You could say that," Piper responded, with a wry smile, then turned and continued down the tunnel. Ellyth frowned, and followed.

Further on, the passageway opened out into a large cavern, the roof of which was bedecked with shining, crystal shards, seemingly growing organically from out of the ceiling, rather than having been actually designed or constructed. A massive, round portal, fashioned of pale stone, was set into the far end of the cave. The rock-face surrounding it appeared shaped and smooth, at odds with the other, more uneven walls.

A man stood to either side of this portal, and though neither wore the red, laughing masks, Ellyth did not need to see or sense the bronze torcs about their necks to know that these two were more of the Laughing God's Souvraniene. Both men exuded the deadly confidence and arrogance that she had come to associate with these dangerous, warlike male-channelers.

"Salutations, Whistler," Piper called out to the tall man on the right, a cadaverous individual with deep-set eyes, a hooked nose and a shaven skull, clad in a loose, grey robe. Incongruously, his feet were shod in a pair of threadbare slippers.

Whistler nodded to Piper in greeting, then lived up to his name by pursing his lips and whistling appreciatively. "Well now, lovely Laurelai, don't you look pretty as a picture!" he observed in harsh tones. Piper simpered in ironic fashion, sketching a curtsy, and Whistler performed a sardonic, yet surprisingly formal bow in return.

Piper then glanced at the man standing to the left of the circular door, a squat, muscular specimen garbed in faded buckskins, a yellowing fleece thrown over his heavy shoulders. "I don't believe I know you," Piper observed, levelly.

"I am Strummer," the brutish-looking man replied, curtly.

"I thought Strummer was dead?" Piper queried.

Whistler shrugged. "He is the new Strummer," he explained, before his gaze moved to Ellyth. "Aes Sedai," Whistler acknowledged, inclining his bald head slightly, then indicated the portal that he guarded. "Please to enter, you are expected." With a loud grinding of stone on stone, the circular door began to roll slowly aside.

Ellyth was uncertain if it was some working of saidin that caused the portal to open, or via a more mundane mechanism. Reluctantly, she followed Piper toward the dark aperture now revealed. As Piper strutted past Whistler, he took the opportunity of attempting to lewdly pinch the tall man's bottom. Whistler grinned and slapped Piper's hand away, chuckling. Strummer stared blankly at the comic interplay, before directing an unfriendly gaze at the young Aes Sedai walking by. On impulse, Ellyth stuck her tongue out at him. Strummer blinked in surprise, before scowling darkly.

As the visitors entered a smooth-walled tunnel beyond the portal, the massive door rolled inexorably shut behind them. A pale glow was evident at the far end of the passage, some thirty paces away. "What became of the old Strummer?" Ellyth enquired, misliking the way her voice echoed in the narrow confines of the tunnel.

"Nothing good," Piper responded enigmatically, as he led the way toward the light. At the end of the passageway, an extensive domed chamber stood revealed, carved into the bedrock of the volcano and lined with numerous archways leading elsewhere. It was lit by more of the softly glowing crystalline lights. A much larger clear hemisphere was set into the apex of the convex ceiling, casting pale illumination down onto numerous artefacts and devices arranged about the circumference of the curvilinear wall. No two of these objects were the same, they were constructed from a variety of materials; metal, wood, stone and substances altogether unknown.

Ellyth's particular Talent was reliably informing her that the majority of these items were ter'angreal, most very new, some extremely old… but as with the devices of Power stored at the Cenotaph, she had no idea what any of them did, or for what use they had been made. Not for the first time, nor even the hundredth, Ellyth found herself wishing that her skill for locating ter'angreal came with some sort of knowledge of their provenance and purpose… but it did not, so there it was.

Dominating the centre of the domed chamber stood a tall column, fashioned of clear crystal, looming over the various other paraphernalia scattered about. It really was rather untidy in here… dusty, also. Ellyth sneezed daintily, then dabbed at her nose with a grubby lace handkerchief. Piper lingered beside her, hands arranged upon slim hips, a small smile curving his lips. "Where-?" Ellyth began to ask, but then, a tall, well-built man stepped out from behind the crystalline column.

Ellyth's mouth snapped shut and she stared; whoever the stranger was, he was certainly an impressive example of manhood, easily a head over six feet in height and built like a wrestler, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. But it was his face that held her attention; craggy, bold features, a deep, pale cicatrice marring the line of each cheek-bone and curving down to his square jaw… ritualistic scarring evidently, since it was unlikely that he would have received identical, mirrored wounds by happenstance. Though the big man looked barely beyond middle-age, the long mane that swept back from his high brow and down his back was silvery-white in hue, and reminded Ellyth sadly of Atual, who had always worn his hair similarly. She strongly doubted that this unknown personage hailed from Far Madding, though, or anywhere else that she was remotely familiar with…

The white-haired stranger was garbed in a long, dark coat and trews, both decorated along the seams with bronze buttons, as well as dull red calf-boots. He did not notice his visitors immediately, since he was otherwise engaged in the close examination of a small stone tablet held carefully in one large hand, eldritch symbols carved into both sides. Oddly, a wire frame was perched upon the crooked bridge of his nose, which looked to have been broken on more than one occasion, supporting round, glass lenses arranged before icy blue eyes. The obligatory bronze torc-ter'angreal worn by the Souvraniene servants of the Laughing God circled his bull-neck, appearing incongruously small in comparison with his generous physicality.

Though they differed considerably in more specific appearance, the mystery Souvraniene rather reminded Ellyth of the big Aielman, Gerom, since they were of a size… equally, they appeared to share a similar air of studious detachment. And for all that he was clearly no Aiel, there was something decidedly deadly about this man.

Ellyth glanced at Piper, noting that the Atha'an Miere youth was gazing upon the tall Souvraniene with unmistakable fondness… so, it would seem that there was undoubted friendship there, and perhaps something more.

"Drummer!" Piper called, "a Sister of the White Tower to see you!"

The huge, scholarly man – Drummer, it would seem – looked up from the tablet at these words, carefully removing the wire-framed lenses from his nose and tucking them into a pocket. He blinked his chill, blue eyes slowly before examining Ellyth closely. She tensed a little beneath that cold, searching regard… there was something markedly inhuman about this penetrating gaze. Then, Drummer smiled tentatively, a surprisingly pleasant smile at that, though the effect was partially spoilt by the fact that his upper and lower eye-teeth were filed to points, giving a savage cast to the expression.

"I am honoured to welcome you to my workshop, Aes Sedai," Drummer rumbled in deep yet clear tones, speaking the Vulgar with a strange, sibilant intonation, the vowel sounds lengthened and oddly pronounced, "long have I wished to meet a genuine Servant of All from the distant northern continent."

Ellyth blinked. Well, he was polite at least, this Drummer who could apparently make ter'angreal, though altogether fearsome in appearance. Still, one should not necessarily judge a book by its cover…

"The Lady Ellythia is also a genuine aristocrat!" Piper revealed, with some irony. Drummer did not react to these words, but sketched a rather old-fashioned bow, sweeping back the long skirt of his dark, brass-buttoned coat and extending a large, booted foot. Ellyth responded with a graceful curtsy, then started forward, Piper at her side… but straightaway faltered to a halt, staring in consternation.

"Light! What in the Wheel is that?!" Ellyth cried.

Something small and covered in brown hair had been lurking behind Drummer's wide neck… it now revealed itself, moving into view to better examine Ellyth with black, twinkling eyes. She gaped at it; a diminutive creature with a wizened face reminiscent of a human's, skinny arms and legs, a long tail curled about Drummer's throat. It crouched upon his wide shoulder for a moment, peering at Ellyth with interest, then uttered a high-pitched chattering sound and swarmed nimbly down to the stone floor, scampering rapidly toward her upon its four, hand-like paws!

"Eeek!" Ellyth squealed, flinching back, "what is it?"

"A monkey," Piper answered, watching with amusement as the strange little beast clambered briskly up Ellyth's dress to perch upon her reluctant shoulder. "Haven't you seen one before?"

"No!" Ellyth shrieked, shuddering as the creature began to curiously twine its busy fingers in her hair, sniffing the chestnut locks with a small, pink nose, continuing to chatter away in its shrill voice.

"Be not so mischievous, Aldo," chided a deep voice. Ellyth tore her nervous gaze from the poorly-behaved… monkey? What a strange name! She stared up at Drummer, who now loomed before her. The towering Souvraniene continued to berate what was presumably a pet of some kind; "for shame! This is no fit way to treat a guest… you know better than that!"

The monkey promptly ceased its unwanted exploration of Ellyth's coiffure and sprang from its perch with a loud whoop, landing dexterously back upon Drummer's broad shoulder and wrapping long, hairy arms about his thick neck. Drummer patted his pet gently on the head, then glanced apologetically down at Ellyth.

"Please forgive Aldo his excess of familiarity," Drummer requested softly, "he is an overly-curious creature and loves to meet new people, oft forgetting his manners in the excitement of the moment."

Ellyth opened her mouth, but for the life of her, could think of nothing to say. The monkey – Aldo?! – scowled and bared sharp teeth at her, from the safety of his master's shoulder.

"What manners?" Piper commented, as he stepped forward, then went up onto his tiptoes to peck Drummer on a scarred cheek. He slipped back, leaving a trace of rouge on the Souvraniene's jaw.

"Hello, bijoun," Drummer absently greeted Piper, eyeing the exotically-garbed Atha'an Miere youth with detached amusement. "I see that you wear your finery, this day."

"But of course," Piper responded, with a dazzling smile, primping a little, "it is a special occasion, after all…"

"It is?"

"You have always wanted to meet an Aes Sedai, have you not? A real Sister of the fabled White Tower, not one of those peculiar Witches of Aisle Souvraniene who erroneously claim that title…"

"I suppose. Though you scarcely need an excuse to dress up, my dear."

"Naturally!"

Drummer carefully lowered Aldo to the floor and presented the monkey with the small stone tablet covered in symbols. "Put it back with the others, if you please."

Aldo ventured a quizzical expression with his bizarrely human and solemn old-man face, then obediently seized the tablet and raced away, seemingly unhampered by the fact that he was using only three paws on this occasion. Ellyth watched the strange creature disappear through one of the archways with some relief, then eyed the two Souvraniene with her dark, perceptive gaze. She knew just enough Old Tongue to be aware that bijoun meant 'flower.' The pair clearly had a relationship with each other that went beyond mere friendship. Opposites truly attracted, whatever the circumstances!

"Did you call that odd, man-like beast a... a monkey?" Ellyth enquired, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

Drummer nodded. "Also known as a 'simian'" he explained, "there are a few of them in the woods hereabouts, that is where I found Aldo… he had been injured by a Snowcat. I Healed him and in gratitude, he chose to remain with me."

"Because of the free meals, you mean!" Piper remarked snidely.

"I have never seen anything like him," Ellyth commented, declining to add that she hoped she never did again!

"Neither had I," Drummer commented, "though I found a small amount of information about his species, including their names, in a very old zoological text. I do not believe that monkeys are native to this land, since there is no extant fossil record… possibly, some distant ancestor of Aldo escaped from a bestiary during the Breaking, along with his mate, and they bred in the wild."

Piper leered. "Wild mating, eh? I rather like the sound of that!"

Drummer ignored the irreverent youth, or perhaps he had not heard. Like Renn, he was clearly overly-cerebral, lacking much of an attention-span for what was going on around him whilst otherwise engaged in thought and discourse. Drummer continued to address Ellyth with respectful intensity, holding her gaze with eyes that seemed almost hypnotic in their arresting power. "I have heard much concerning the Aes Sedai of what you term the Westlands, though a deal of it is, of course, apocryphal… tell me, Ellythia Sedai, if you please; is it true that your noble sorority has existed ever since the Breaking of the World, that your Amyrlin and the seven Ajah were instrumental in restoring peace and order to this region of a ruined world?"

Ellyth nodded, and opened her mouth to further elucidate… but then, the tall, crystal column behind Drummer abruptly flared to life. Roiling, swirling colours bloomed within its confines, swiftly coalescing into a man-shape. More than a little surprised, Ellyth beheld the form of a slim, male personage of indeterminate age, floating within the column. He was bald, dusky-skinned and wore a pale robe of antique cut that left his right shoulder bare. His eyes, focused upon Drummer's broad back, gleamed with an unearthly golden luminescence. Seeing that Drummer had not noticed the appearance of this apparition, Ellyth pointed wordlessly, very much hoping that this was some sort of Age of Legends incorporeal messenger… and not a ghost! After the regrettable incident with the horrid monkey, she had no wish to be haunted by spectral manifestations in addition…

Drummer turned curiously, blinked, then addressed the insubstantial man within the crystal column, which was evidently some sort of potent ter'angreal. "Seneschal? I did not summon you…"

The slender man shrugged bony shoulders, a surprisingly human gesture for an entity that was clearly inhuman, and responded in a remarkably toneless voice that echoed all around them, with no obvious source. "You instructed me to inform you should the temperature rise by a further degree," this Seneschal reminded Drummer.

"Yes… yes I did… and so?"

"The temperature has risen by a further degree."

Ellyth tore her gaze from the compelling figure within the ter'angreal-column and glanced at Drummer in time to see him frown with concern, touching a thick finger to his lips as he considered this information. "This is not good," he muttered, to no-one in particular.

Ellyth eyed Piper questioningly, and the youth whispered in explanation; "Seneschal keeps an eye on the heat level at the centre of the caldera…"

"Caldera?"

"Tsk! The big crater at the top of the volcano, my knowledgeable Ladyship… it would appear that we may actually be due for another eruption, and soon!"

Ellyth's dark eyes widened… so, the volcano might well explode while they were inside the bloody thing! Come to think of it, the air within this domed chamber did seem to be rather warm…

Drummer noticed that Seneschal was still extant, floating mutely within his column, golden eyes staring unblinkingly. "Was there something else?"

Seneschal nodded. "Yes. It is still your move."

Drummer blinked in confusion, before his expression cleared with realisation. "Oh… of course…" He considered a moment, then stated; "High Counsellor's Spire to Emissary seven. Check, I do believe."

Seneschal closed his glowing, golden eyes before immediately opening them again. He smiled faintly. "A wise gambit, Master Drummer. You noticeably improve at tcheran with each new game. Would you care to hear my counter-move?"

Drummer shook his large head, long silver-white hair whisking against his broad back. "Not presently, Seneschal, I find myself preoccupied with other matters. Surprise me with it later, and be so good as to continue monitoring the temperature."

Seneschal bowed his head obediently to Drummer, glanced at Ellyth, then bowed even lower. "Honour to serve, Aes Sedai, " he murmured, after which his image dissipated into a host of multicoloured motes, which faded away until the crystal column became dormant once more.

"Seneschal never bows to me," Piper complained, resentfully.

Drummer smiled in commiseration, draping a companionable arm about the youth's shoulders. "Perhaps he does not recognise you, garbed thusly?" he suggested.

Piper pouted, then abruptly pulled off his red wig, revealing dark, wiry curls beneath, which he mussed with his fingers. "You should teach me tcheran," he suggested, "if I won a few games from Seneschal, I might win his respect also."

"You could try, I suppose," Drummer speculated, "though he is an excellent strategist. I have yet to beat him."

"Tcheran?" Ellyth commented, "I know someone who plays this game…" She thought longingly of Naythan, then forced her mind back to the present.

"Interesting," Drummer observed, "there are few alive today who have ever even heard of tcheran, let alone being cognisant of the rules. Seneschal taught it to me about a year ago, and we have often played since. A fascinating game."

"But where is the board?" Ellyth wondered, glancing around. Naythan had described the pieces to her, black and white, arranged upon a…

"Board?" Drummer repeated, then smiled shyly and tapped the side of his skull. "Why, it is in here."

Ellyth blinked, then returned her attention to the tall, quiescent crystal column, some ancient ter'angreal of the Last Age, containing… what, exactly? "Who is this Seneschal?" she asked, "what is he?"

"A computational-Construct," Drummer answered promptly, with a certain enthusiasm, "a diagnostic and theorem driven tool dating from the Age of Legends, though with the addition of a guiding personality, presumably to ease communication with whomsoever he assists."

"Not much of a personality!" Piper muttered, under his breath.

Drummer smiled wryly, slipping his arm from Piper's shoulders and pacing over to the ter'angreal-column, running large hands across its surface. "Seneschal was defunct when I first found him, deep beneath Hob's Hill…"

"Caisen Hob!" Piper whispered to Ellyth, theatrically shading his mouth with his hand. She blinked, unsure quite what that meant…

"…I was eventually able to repair Seneschal, more-or-less restoring him to functionality," Drummer continued, in his single-minded fashion, "it took many years, a process of trial and error. More error than trial, in fact. So much knowledge was lost, in the War and the Breaking… at times, I despaired of success."

Ellyth recalled one of the sole words from Drummer's explanation that had been remotely familiar to her, let alone comprehensible... "A… Construct?"

Drummer nodded slowly. "Indeed. A life-form made, not by the Creator, but by an Aes Sedai, long ago. One Jorlen Corbesan, Seneschal informs me. An inventive genius of the Last Age… a prodigious talent. Most Constructs were not beings formed of light and controlled by reason, as is Seneschal, but rather, were biological in nature…"

"I am aware of this!" Ellyth stated impatiently, "I know one!"

Piper and Drummer exchanged mute glances. "You know one what?" Piper asked, with annoying obtuseness.

"I know a Construct… a Lightborn, as they were termed, during the War with the Shadow."

The pair of Souvraniene – or perhaps it might be more accurate to think of them as a couple? – continued to stare at Ellyth with a lack of comprehension that she found quite aggravating. She abandoned her explanation. "Why did you bring me here?" she asked quietly, "over and above the high honour of meeting an Aes Sedai?" Ellyth smiled thinly. "I am assuming that my presence was not required in order that I might be introduced to your disconcerting monkey-creature, or to your ter'angreal-Construct, Seneschal?"

"It might have been!" Piper suggested portentously, hinting at a mysterious motive that clearly did not exist. Or did it?

Drummer waved a hand at Piper, effectively silencing him, something that Ellyth suspected few others were able to accomplish quite so easily… The scholarly Souvraniene lowered his deep voice significantly. "All is not as it seems."

"Is it ever?" Ellyth responded pointedly, but felt curious despite herself.

Drummer glanced at Piper. "Make us private, would you?"

Piper winked. "Your every wish is my command!" He then closed his dark eyes, concentrating.

Ellyth had no way of knowing if Piper was channeling saidin or not, but presumed this to be the case. "A privacy-weave?" she wondered. Drummer nodded. "But why?"

"Those two red-masks outside," Piper murmured, his eyes snapping open, his manner become atypically serious, "Whistler and the new Strummer, who I rather mislike the look of, and not just because he his short and ugly! Think you they are posted here simply to ward this place from intruders, Aes Sedai?"

"They are not," Drummer stated, fatalistically, "there are always a pair of Souvraniene guards placed without my workshop to watch me, to report on my activities and movements."

"Report to whom?" Ellyth enquired, though thinking about it, suspected that she already knew.

So did Drummer. "I believe you are well aware of who it is that controls this place and its people, for all that he seldom visits Larcheen anymore… the one who had you brought here against your will, who personally accomplished this crime… the Laughing God."

Ellyth's eyes narrowed, in painful memory of that particular betrayal. "He said his name was Jeb Simanon, or something like that," she muttered angrily.

Drummer nodded. "Jebedah Chul Simanon. That was his name, once, when he was still a man. Now... now he is something more… and also, less. He is the Laughing God." He sighed deeply. "He is our manipulative Master in all things, we Souvraniene who serve him… and more to the point, regarding myself… well, he has not entirely trusted me for a long time, near a century, in truth…"

Ellyth found herself wondering about Drummer's age, but even more so concerning his motives...

"The God would have disposed of Drummer long since," Piper added morbidly, "me too, as he knows we're close… but he needs him, you see, to make ter'angreal and accomplish other tasks that the rest of us cannot even contemplate."

"How do you do it?" Ellyth demanded eagerly of Drummer, "actually constructing devices that utilise the One Power? No-one has managed it for thousands of years!"

"I am aware of that." Drummer shrugged his wide shoulders. "I taught myself this lost skill, back in the early days… it took a very long time to master the art of creating and duplicating ter'angreal, but I managed eventually, to an extent at least. Though I am not sure that it was even worth the effort."

Ellyth blinked, considering. "If you do not mind my asking, Master Drummer, how old are you?"

"I have walked this Land of the Madmen for more than three-hundred years," Drummer wearily revealed, "but the Laughing God is older even than I, possibly a great deal older."

"He never discusses his age," Piper interjected, watching Ellyth carefully, "nor his origins. The God is more powerful than any of us, even Drummer, there are none alive who can match him."

Ellyth returned the serious gazes of Drummer and Piper for a long moment, then impatiently urged; "whatever it is that you feel you must say to me, kindly just say it."

Drummer hesitated, then spoke softly. "Would you and your companions be free, Aes Sedai? Do you wish to escape this dead city?"

Ellyth nodded firmly.

Piper smiled wickedly. "My! What a coincidence… because so do we!"

---

Act Two : The Isle of the Spire

Chantel Paendrag Tavor, High Princess of the Hawkwing's Blood, stood at the tall, narrow window, gazing out into the night. Her extensive quarters, occupying the upper floors of the largest and most impressive tower that the Castle of the Hawx could boast, were well-supplied with a variety of windows, but this one was her favourite. Not due to the small balcony, which the Princess tended to avoid because she secretly feared heights – only Rags knew of her phobia and had earnestly promised to not tell anyone – but on account of the view that the window afforded. The mainland. The vast territory stretching away to the distant ice-bound south; the mysterious unknown continent which her forebears had sought to rule, that her ancestors had spent the last millennia attempting to conquer in the name of the High King's Law.

Chantel frowned, finely-delineated brows drawing down over large, dark eyes, her pretty mouth pouting slightly. Some joke! Her fief consisted solely of this small island with its protective Age of Legends Spire, around which her few remaining subjects huddled like frightened sheep. The Land itself… that belonged to the Madmen, and always had, ever since the Breaking of the World. Or more specifically, it was the province of one Souvraniene in particular, whose very name gave the children of the Hawx – and doubtless, their parents also – terrifying nightmares… he who titled himself 'the Laughing God.'

Chantel squinted, peering in the direction of the landmass that lay across the mile-wide strait that separated order from chaos. She could not actually see the cliffs or forests in the darkness, but detected that there were large fires burning over there, on the mainland. Something was going on. Her own people's doing, perhaps, search-parties or punitive raids… but more likely, it was the debased inhabitants of this primeval territory, up to no good… the savages.

Chantel shivered slightly. The natives of this Land of Madmen; they ate people… each other, mostly, but anyone else who had the misfortune to fall into their clutches. And the cannibals were not even the worst of it… there were Witches, of course, and the Souvraniene, after whom this cursed land had been named. But most disturbing of all, down in the arid expanse encircled by its ring of attendant volcanoes, termed 'the Wastelands,' dwelt vicious creatures of evil aspect, known to all as 'Fox-Daemons.' Rags had told her stories about them… but only when old Severina wasn't there to disapprove, naturally.

Were the Fox-Daemons real, or just another of the Court Fool's fanciful inventions? Despite the fact that their presumed existence scared her, Chantel rather hoped that they did exist, that there were extant such interesting beings as these fell Daemons… when she was all grown-up, she would very much like to lead an expedition down to the Wastelands to capture one, bring the monster back to the Castle in a cage and show it off to her subjects. That might be fun… assuming that any of them survived the many perils of the long journey there and back again. But the Princess considered that such an adventure would certainly make a nice change from languishing in her tower, being instructed by Severina and a selection of boring tutors in the hollow duties of a meaningless and mostly powerless position, with only the addled imagination of Rags for diversion!

Chantel sighed, loudly and pointedly. Behind her, she heard the monotonous clicking of Severina's knitting-needles pause. "Come away from the window, Majesty," Severina called out in her husky voice, not quite a command but definitely more than a mere request.

Chantel ignored these words and turned, regarding the Chatelaine of her Castle imperiously. "There are strange events transpiring out there, beyond the waters," she observed in her customary measured, precise cadences, flavoured with the accents of privileged nobility, before demanding; "what is going on, Sev? Tell me!"

Severina lowered the anonymous purple thing that she was working on, silver knitting-needles catching the dim light from the guttering fire in the hearth, and returned Chantel's haughty gaze coolly. A tall woman, she was almost at the Princess's eye-level whilst seated in her favourite chair, a high-backed oaken article, bereft of cushions. "Please to remove yourself from the vicinity of the window, Majesty," Severina required, "it is not safe for you to stand there, in plain sight."

Chantel sniffed, dismissively. "Assassins?" she enquired, in disparaging tones, "arrows flying from out of the darkness? Or mayhap some wicked Witch shall send her trained bats to slay me, their teensy claws coated with lethal poison?!"

Severina blinked. "Poisoned bats?" she murmured, wonderingly.

Chantel smirked. "Something that Rags warned me of…"

Severina frowned disapprovingly. "You should not listen to that stunted lunatic's tall-tales and half-truths, Majesty! Rags is a fool!"

"I am well aware of that!" Chantel responded hotly, obstinately placing her hands on slim hips, "he is my Fool, in point of fact… the Court Fool!"

Severina shook her head slowly, then discarded the nascent knitting and rose, smoothing the folds of her pleated gown. Her long, greying hair fell in a thick braid, almost down to her slippered feet. When she spoke, her voice was maddeningly patient; "I do not refer to his position… I mean that Rags really is a fool!"

Chantel pouted again. "He is wiser than you think," she muttered, sulkily.

"Majesty, I beg of you, if you must stand by that cursed window in full view of a watcher below, at least do so whilst wearing garb of a darker shade…"

Chantel glanced down at her shimmering, pale gown. "I don't care for black garments, they remind me of funerals. Whatever is wrong with this dress, Sev?"

Severina took a step forward, clasping her hands before her. "It makes of you an easy target for anyone out there, lurking in the night, who may mean you harm!"

Chantel reacted triumphantly. "Ah-ha! So you do admit that there are enemies about, that there is trouble afoot?!"

Severina sighed loudly. "I admit nothing of the sort, Majesty. Now, please would you-"

"I shall move away from this window if – and only if! – you tell me what is taking place in my castle! Why do the alarm bells ring? For what reason do the Hawk Guard patrol the walls in strength?" Severina sighed again. "And stop sighing! If you keep doing it, I shall start to suspect that you've fallen in love with someone!"

Severina grimaced at the thought, raised her eyebrows, then extended a long-fingered hand. After a momentary hesitation, Chantel reluctantly took it in her own and allowed herself to be led away from the window and deeper into her apartments. In the central atrium there resided a large fountain surrounded by a circular coping, where water splashed softly and fat orange fish swam to and fro amongst the lilies. They seated themselves upon the low wall around the pond and Chantel, after prodding at one of the fish in a desultory way, eyed Severina with dark, knowing eyes; the cool gaze of maturity exuding from the smooth features of a girl of thirteen summers.

"I know that there has been another escape, that the Witches have fled," Chantel declared, "their protector also, the Sea Folk swordsman who was wounded. Oh, and the remaining peculiar outlander, the woman with bizarre tattoos upon her face. She's gone too."

Severina frowned. "Who told you this, Majesty?" she coldly enquired.

"One of my maids did, actually."

"Which one?"

Chantel scowled. "Torture me if you like, I shan't tell!"

Severina's lips compressed grimly. "No? Then I am afraid that they shall all have to be punished."

Chantel glared at her Chatelaine. "Don't you dare whip my maidservants, Severina! There shall be trouble if you do."

Severina glared back. "It lies within my powers and prerogatives to ensure the security of the Castle, as well as the safety of your person, High Princess."

"Oh blah-blah!" Chantel rudely responded, before jabbing a richly be-ringed finger at Severina. "Do not threaten my girls, Sev, and don't try to bully me either… I'm not a little child anymore, I am too old for you to spank!"

Severina replied icily, and a little menacingly also. "Oh really? Are you quite certain of that, High Princess Chantel Paendrag Tavor?"

Chantel did her best to retain a modicum of composure, but could not quite stop herself from swallowing nervously. Severina had that effect on her… on just about everybody within the Castle of the Hawx, for that matter. "Fairly certain…"

Severina smiled one of her rare smiles, a surprisingly warm expression for someone of so stern and censorious a demeanour. "Well, I suppose you are older now, at that." She considered a moment, then quietly revealed; "the Aes Sedai witches have absconded, Majesty, I am sorry to confirm that these rumours are quite true."

"I knew it!"

"The Atha'an Miere Gaidin also, and the female-channeler who claimed to hail from fabled Shara…"

"Drat!"

"No few of the Guard were slain during this escape, both down on the shore and within the lower cells themselves…"

"Oh no! Anyone who will be sorely missed?"

"Not particularly, Majesty. The only Officers lost were Captain Tyrile and Lieutenant Ausen."

"Tyrile was an odious sneak and I'm not even sure who this Ausen was… but how did the Witch-women accomplish all of this mayhem? With their evil channeling?" Severina confined her answer to a meaningful glance across the fountain. Chantel followed her mute gaze and beheld, through a narrow embrasure, the dark outline of the towering Spire looming up into the night sky beyond the Castle, the ancient artefact that gave the Isle its name and protected them all from the depredations of the dreaded One Power. "No, I suppose not," Chantel murmured, feeling foolish. "So how?"

Severina looked mildly uncomfortable at this consideration, which for her was even rarer than smiling. When she finally spoke, Chantel could not help but note that the grim Chatelaine had lowered her voice even further – the Princess had to strain her ears to properly hear – and was clearly choosing her words with care. "Not all of the evidence has been adequately gathered, Majesty, but it would seem that the Witches almost certainly had help from outside, in conducting their escape from the cells. Some of their confederates may have breached the defences of the Island… the small canoe that was stolen in the previous escape by the twin Warders-"

"They were so handsome!"

"-and the Sharan youth-"

"Even handsomer, but for those yucky tattoos!"

"-was found abandoned in a cove, out by Larynda's Point…" Severina hesitated.

"What is it, Sev?" Chantel urged.

"Only that a pair of Guards patrolling the beach below the Castle were attacked, knocked unconscious and left bound and gagged in one of the war-craft… they later reported that something with glowing eyes came out of the night and violently assaulted them, utilising great strength and speed… they claim that it was not human." Severina was looking vaguely uncomfortable, Chantel well-knew that her Chatelaine and unofficial nursemaid deplored anything that did not fit within her rational beliefs, her preference for ordered logic.

"I wonder what it was?" Chantel mused, "glow-in-the-dark eyes… strong and fast… not a man…" her mouth dropped open; "of course! A Fox-Daemon!"

"A what?" Severina snapped.

"Something Rags told me about, a scary manner of monster that lives down in the Wastelands… well, I expect it has gone now, whatever it was. A shame, really, I should have liked to see it for myself… from a safe distance, naturally."

Severina frowned with disapproval. "Rags should know better than to misinform you regarding such… there are more than enough real dangers to trouble the Land of Madmen, without that eccentric lack-wit inventing further sources of-"

"Fox-Daemons are real, Rags swore that they were upon his Gleeman's Oath… he would never lie about something under that duress!"

Severina sniffed disparagingly. "Gleemen!" she sneered, "a pack of worthless wastrels, by all accounts… it is well that there were none infesting this place when your glorious ancestor, Morgan Paendrag Halicon, brought her people here…"

"And I thank the Divine Creator that she did!" Chantel muttered sarcastically.

"…why, the complete absence of Gleemanry is one of the few positive considerations concerning these uncivilised lands."

"Well, Rags always says that he is glad that there are no Bards here, either!"

"A Bard would be acceptable at Court. A Gleeman? Definitely not."

"Well, isn't that rather why mother made Rags her Court Fool in the first place? After the scouts found him washed ashore from that wrecked ship and brought him back to the Castle? I don't really know, I wasn't born yet…" Severina nodded impatiently, but Chantel shrewdly took note of the way her dark eyes shifted to the sides a little, not quite meeting her gaze. "There's something else, isn't there?" the Princess softly speculated, "you haven't told me quite everything, have you Sev?"

Severina frowned slightly, then reluctantly nodded. "Your talent for detecting unspoken truth improves apace, Majesty. You shall make an excellent Ruler of your subjects, when you come of age."

"And rule over what, exactly?" Chantel bitterly demanded, "a flyspeck island stuck off the coast of the worst place in the world, with a waning population, internecine feuding and only some silly old Spire to preserve us all from the bloody Madmen?!" Severina scowled disapprovingly, but Chantel ignored her disapprobation with the ease of long usage, adding; "and don't try to change the subject with empty compliments, Sev! That hasn't worked on me for ages… now what it is that you aren't saying, about the escape of the Witches and the other prisoners?" Severina sighed yet again. "And stop that flaming sighing!"

The Chatelaine of the Castle paused, considering, then leant toward Chantel, her manner conspiratorial. "That the Witches and their associates were aided in being redeemed from captivity is incontrovertible… but this aid may not have solely come from beyond the Isle of the Spire…"

Chantel's brow furrowed with confusion and concern. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"The prisoners might have had help from inside the Castle… I fear that there are those amongst the People of the Hawk who cannot be trusted, who may well be in league with both the Aes Sedai Witches, and…" Severina hesitated, then hissed; "him!"

Chantel was perfectly well aware of whom this pronoun portended. There was but one man within the Land whose name was roundly avoided in like fashion. "The Laughing God!" she whispered, excitement vying with trepidation inside her mind.

Severina nodded curtly and rose, Chantel joining her as they made their way through a tall arch and into the foyer, lined with ancient statuary depicting strange beasts the like of which the Princess had never seen in life, and rather doubted the existence of. Especially the big flappy-eared one, with the absurdly long nose…

Severina grimly continued her report; "one of the Laughing God's galleys was sighted by our scouts, whilst out patrolling the western coast… it rounded the headland and turned south, presumably returning to the Dead City. Another prisoner from the deep cells, a Witch taken captive on the mainland some months ago, also went missing… her body was later found buried in a shallow grave at one of the northernmost sea-caves of this Isle, apparently slain with the One Power. There were no marks of violence upon her, in any case. And of course, the most damning evidence of betrayal is the fact that both the Gaoler and an apprentice Physician were drugged with sleep-herb, rendered unconscious to abet the escape of their charges. This could only have been done by someone with access to the Castle and a knowledge of its interior." Severina paused, staring down at Chantel levelly. "There is almost certainly an enemy within."

Chantel's dark eyes widened. "But who-?"

Abruptly, the ornate, double-doors leading to the outer hall were unceremoniously kicked open. Immediately, a long stiletto blade appeared in Severina's hand and she swiftly placed herself between Chantel and a possible assassin… but it was only Rags, the unusual Court Fool.

Chantel stared; not at the multicoloured motley sewn with small silver bells that the short, strange man wore, she was accustomed to seeing this… but rather, at what he held. "Rags! Knock, curse you! And what in the Wheel is that?!"

Rags manipulated a pair of crossed sticks in his hands, attached strings descending to a grotesque, garishly-painted marionette. The carved, wooden figure resembled a grim old man with an iron-grey beard, his red lips set in a stern and rather grumpy expression, googly blue eyes staring wildly. The thick wooden torso and jointed limbs were clad in a suit of golden, scaled armour, a winged coronet of the same metallic hue set upon the ashen head and a silvery sword gripped in one fist.

Rags did not straightaway answer the angry query of his High Princess, but instead capered in the wide doorway, the bells on his coat, trews and pointed shoes tinkling merrily. At the same time, the Court Fool skilfully twitched the flat wooden sticks and thence the strings, making the puppet caper also. It was an odd sight.

Chantel gaped at the marionette, which clearly represented a King of some kind… and though she had never seen that carven face before, there seemed to be something oddly familiar about it. While Severina deftly returned her stiletto to wherever she kept it hid, scowling darkly at the scurrilous Court Fool, the Princess wondered; "who is that ridiculous dummy supposed to be, Rags?"

Rags grinned toothily. "Why, tis himself... Artur Hawkwing!" he replied, cheerfully.

Chantel's mouth dropped open even further as she stared at the face of the puppet, a cruel caricature, the crude marionette dancing woodenly upon its strings. Then, she shrieked with laughter. "Oh no!" the Princess spluttered, when she could speak again, "that's terrible!"

Without moving his lips too much, Rags produced a squeaky, slurring voice whilst making the puppet dance in circles. "I be the High King of the World!" Rags tugged a string and the wooden hand holding the painted silver sword swept upwards, waving about. "Wiv my sword Justish, I shall conquer thish Land of Madmen!"

Chantel's scandalised mirth redoubled, but Severina most certainly was not amused. "Rags, you filthy swine! You dare to denigrate the blessed name of Artur Paendrag Tanreall by making of him an ugly toy? Why, it is pure blasphemy!"

"No it's not," Rags objected, "tis a marionette!"

Chantel darted forward, grabbing the crossed wooden sticks. "Let me have a go, Rags… you do the funny voice and I'll make him jump about!"

"Yes, your Majesticness… careful now, don't get the strings all tangled…"

"You should be put to the torment for this insult against the High King's memory!" Severina snarled wrathfully.

Rags responded to this threat via further ventriloquism; "no he shouldn't!" piped the Hawkwing marionette, as Chantel made its head swivel to stare commandingly at Severina, "don't torment the fine fellow, in shtead I shall make him my besht Governor of Aisle Shouvraniene because he be sho handshome and clever!"

Chantel giggled girlishly, whilst making the puppet of her ancient ancestor march up and down importantly. Apoplectic with rage, Severina opened her mouth to further lambaste the insolent and irreverent Court Fool… but the Princess glared at her. "Shut-up, Sev!" Chantel forestalled her Chatelaine, "we're just having some fun, the Hawkwing wouldn't mind… anyway, he's been dead for a thousand years, so who cares? Don't be such a prig…" Severina's mouth snapped shut, and after a final murderous glare at Rags, she stalked away from the foyer, stomping down a rear corridor. Chantel and Rags watched her go, then eyed each other drolly. The marionette appeared to observe the Chatelaine's furious exit also, staring with its painted wooden eyes. The swift steps faded, followed by the sound of a slamming door in the distance.

"The fearsome Lady Severina doesn't much care for me, does she?" Rags whispered.

"Not one bit!" Chantel softly confirmed, "for she does not see your good points, only the bad…" The High Princess of the Hawx smiled cunningly, glancing at Rags sidelong. "We've just had a little chat, Sev and I… most illuminating. Of course, I knew that you were going to drug the Gaoler – it was my idea, after all – but the young Physician too? Nice touch, Jeb!"

The Laughing God, who had worn a great many guises in the course of his long life, chuckled quietly and winked. The High Princess winked back.

---

Act Three : Stedding Dashai

Mitsu, Sworn Bloodknife of the Seanchan Empire, sat cross-legged beneath a spreading chestnut tree, growing at the edge of a small dell. Her heavy, curved sword was laid across her knees, small yet powerful hands resting on hilt and blade, both marked with the Heron sigil. Her dark, tilted eyes were tightly closed and she breathed slowly, deep and even; in through the nose, out through the mouth. Usually, the Ko'di came to Mitsu with ease; the detached mental state taught in the first stage of her training, after she was accorded the high honour of being chosen as… as a…

Kneeling in a line with the four other candidates selected from the Fists of Heaven… to Mitsu's right; Mashi waited, a slight woman with coal-black skin, closely-cropped curls and predatory eyes. Numerous sheathed throwing-knives were strapped to her person; scabbarded at waist, thighs and arms. Mashi could hit an enemy in whichever eye she chose from twenty paces with these abbreviated, perfectly-balanced blades… she never missed. To Mitsu's left; Danao knelt patiently, a small smile curving the lips of his pale, boyish features. He possessed the smooth, guileless face of an innocent child… and the twisted soul of a ruthless killer. In the midst of battle, Danao would often giggle in delight as he slew his foes. Further along the line, Bethaan and Hijiro also waited; they were from a different company of the Fists and Mitsu did not know much of them, but if they were not equally skilled at dealing death then the pair would never have been chosen. All five Fists of Heaven were to be trained together, and if they proved worthy, they would… would become…

Mitsu's eyes snapped open and she scowled. This was no time for idle reminisces… she needed to exist solely within the present. The past was dead and the future had yet to occur, only the now was of import. Mitsu closed her eyes again, exerting a powerful will over her senses, stilling her faculties, slowing her breathing, once more seeking the Ko'di… the calm before the storm. But against Mitsu's volition, her mind was unwillingly drawn back to that day on the Field of Luthair, beyond the towering walls of Seandar, where scant years ago she had first taken her Vows and spoken her Oath as… as a…

"She comes!" Mashi hissed, and Mitsu risked a swift glance before dropping her gaze back to the dusty ground before her.

"Might She Live Forever," Danao drawled softly, and as usual, Mitsu was uncertain whether the deadly youth was being serious or jesting.

To Mitsu, the momentary glimpse of the approaching group filled her perception, focusing her utmost devotion. Certainly not directed at the squad of Deathwatch Guards pacing about the visitors, red and dark-green armoured elite human warriors and huge Ogier Gardeners. Nor was it focused on the smaller circle of the Blood that walked within this protective ring, though her patron the High Lord Turak was present along with a half-dozen well-born Nobles of almost equal importance. Mitsu's devoted attention was neither held by the quartet of hereditary So'jhin servants, arrogance personified, distinguished with the distinctive coiffures of their rank, hair shaved upon one side of their heads and hanging in long braids on the other. And not even by the notorious Soe'feia, Anatoini Two-tongues, Truthspeaker to the Crystal Throne, the sole person within the entirety of the Empire who possessed the prerogative to say the unsayable.

No, Mitsu's devotion was directed purely toward the diminutive woman who moved at the centre of this group, much as She ruled absolutely at the heart of the great continent of Seanchan, holding the lives of every one of its enormous populace in the grasp of her small hands, the nails long and lacquered. It was She to whom Mitsu had sworn life and soul and sword, none other. She who had taken the name 'Radhanan' on acceding to the throne, a name never to be used to her face, upon peril of the most terrible of deaths in the Tower of Ravens… it was the Empress. Might She Live Forever.

Mitsu kept her eyes fixed firmly upon the ground, but her ears listened intently to the sound of the approaching party, multiple footsteps crunching in the dry dirt of Luthair's Field. Here; countless mock battles had been fought in near one thousand years of martial history, the place where the Ever Victorious Armies of the Seanchan Empire had been taught the arts of war, the cost of conquest.

The footfalls ceased nearby, then one single set of feet resumed, moving with slight, measured steps toward the quintet of kneeling Fists of Heaven. They stopped. And then, the voice spoke. Not the Voice of the Empress, her Truthspeaker, but Radhanan Solea Paendrag herself, Blood of the Hawkwing, addressing Mitsu and the others personally, in chilled, cut-glass tones…

"Speak your Oaths, then rise and take your place amongst the elite of the elite, the peerless life-takers of the Seanchan Empire. Speak, my loyal Bloodknives…"

Along with her four comrades, Mitsu promptly opened her mouth, and spoke...

Mitsu blinked her eyes wide and shook her head angrily. The Ko'di, the Void, the Oneness… call it what you will, try as she might, it would not come to her. She thought she knew why. She was not the same person she had been. She had changed. Instead, there was the past rather than the present, overwhelming remembrance of the proudest day of her life. The occasion on which the Empress, Might She Live Forever, spoke directly to Mitsu, and not through an intermediary… commanding her to say her Oath and cast away life, embracing death as a Bloodknife of the Empire.

True, later when Mitsu had finally completed her extensive and arduous training and had been presented with her Ring of Shadows… that had been an almost equally notable experience. The favoured daughter and heir of the Empress, Tuon Athaem Kore Paendrag, had personally gifted Mitsu with the ancient ter'angreal-ring that was the symbol of her hard-won station, had even spoken a few kind words to her. A great honour. But the ceremony at which Mitsu had been addressed by the Empress, Might She Live Forever… that had veritably been the high point of her existence, an event that eclipsed all else that had befallen her.

Mitsu frowned, dwelling upon her missing Shadow Ring, a dark, vine-shaped circlet adorned with thorns. It made her feel incomplete to be without it, this distinctive device to be used only in the last extremity of her duties. For all that activating the Ring with her life's blood would spell her own death, that she had always associated the lethal ter'angreal with her personal doom… Mitsu badly wanted it back!

But the Aes Sedai, the marath'damane who had confiscated it, had subsequently been taken captive by these mysterious 'Hawx' who held sway in the northern parts of this accursed Land. Presumably, they now had Mitsu's Shadow Ring, those savage warriors who bore tattoos of a hawk in flight etched into their skin, much like her own. A common device of needle and ink, often sported by soldiers of the Seanchan Empire, as well as the forces of the High King, long before that… Mitsu wondered about this. It seemed an odd coincidence, and one that required explanation… she suspected the Chami of keeping many secrets from her, this being but one of them.

A long shadow fell over Mitsu. One does not take a Bloodknife by surprise, or approach her unnoticed, and Mitsu already well-knew who it was. "Balal," she acknowledged softly, without troubling to look up.

"Human," responded an extremely deep voice. A pause, then the sonorous tones added; "that is to say; Bloodknife."

Mitsu rose smoothly to her feet, sliding the Power-wrought blade into the scabbard at her back with a single, deft motion, then stared up at Balal interrogatively. He was quite simply the largest Ogier that she had ever encountered, a formidable, hulking presence, his great shaggy head and barrel-chest protected by ornate, sung-wood armour. Huge, cold eyes gazed down at Mitsu, holding little in the way of approval – Balal had no particular love for humans – but at least there was respect there. Over the three days since the siege of Stedding Dashai had begun in earnest, Mitsu had made herself extremely useful in the defence of the last Ogier domain yet to fall to the forces of the Laughing God.

"Is it time?" Mitsu asked, quietly.

Balal had a long-handled axe with an enormous, bramble-engraved blade, propped upon one massive shoulder. He swung the heavy weapon down, testing the keen edge with his thumb, drawing a line of blood. "It is."

Mitsu nodded, then scanned the clearing behind Balal, noting that it was empty. "Where are the others?" she wondered, not particularly caring what the answer might be.

"There are no others, Mitsu-called-Bloodknife," Balal explained, "there is just me." Mitsu did not bother to ask why this was the case, but there remained a faint trace of curiosity in her cold eyes. Balal chose to answer this unspoken question; "scouting the enemy has become too dangerous, several of my Guardians have not returned from their patrols of late… I will not send any more of my people to their deaths, I shall go myself. As Leader, it is my responsibility and mine alone."

Mitsu shrugged, unconcerned, then turned, gazing into the trees to the south. "Let us do so, then."

Balal's gravelly, basso voice sounded again, to her back. "You do not have to come with me, human. This is not your fight."

Mitsu glanced back at Balal, having to crane her neck and lean back a little, since the huge Ogier stood almost twice her height. Her voice was patient as she explained; "I swore sacred oath upon the Crystal Throne to obey the Chami…"

"What is a Chami?" Balal wondered.

"A monster… a very annoying monster! He who you Treebrothers name 'Lightborn.'"

"Oh… him. An odd creature!"

"Very odd. The Chami commanded that I accompany Feren back to the stedding and then convey to his location any information concerning the Breaker weapon." Mitsu shrugged again. "Since such has been found, I must bring word of it to the Chami, but cannot do so while Stedding Dashai is surrounded by red-masked Souvraniene and their followers. If I do not assist the Ogier in breaking the siege and destroying the enemy, I will not be able to obey my orders and my eyes shall be eternally lowered… and to a vile, monstrous Chami, of all things!" Mitsu considered a moment, then mused; "my honour might even require that I take my own life..?"

Mitsu neglected to add that during the terrible, five-day Battle of Semalaren, an Ogier Gardener of the Deathwatch Guard had saved her life, at the cost of his own. It was a debt to the Treebrothers that she had long wished to repay, and now she had been given the opportunity… for all that the Ogier of Seanchan, when compared with their surviving cousins in this Land of the Madmen, seemed very different. But they were still Ogier, and a life-debt was a life-debt.

Balal stared down at Mitsu for a long moment, then rumbled; "you humans are very strange."

"I am no ordinary human," Mitsu stated proudly, "I am a Bloodknife!"

Balal shrugged his massive shoulders, muttering; "I am still not entirely sure what that is…" before returning to his theme; "but to risk life and limb because of an oath? On account of mere words?"

"My honour is everything to me," Mitsu replied simply, "it is all that I have left."

Balal blinked his huge eyes slowly, his pointed, tufted ears that projected to either side of his sung-wood helm drooping a little. "Then you have my sympathy… Bloodknife." He turned. "Come. Let us go and see what the enemy are doing."

What the enemy were doing consisted of the digging of an encircling network of trenches about the borders of the stedding, the raising of tall watchtowers set at intervals, but primarily; the construction of a dozen massive, complicated-looking devices, a central arm supported by a triangular frame of wooden girders.

"What are those things?" Mitsu wondered, peering through the leaves of a rhododendron bush at the frenetic activity being conducted by a host of enslaved labourers. Numerous crudely-armed soldiers wearing rough leathern masks watched them closely whilst they worked.

Balal answered softly, though for an Ogier this meant a level of sound with which Mitsu was yet uncomfortable. "Catapults."

Mitsu blinked, recalling descriptions from ancient war-texts studied in her youth. "Oh. To hurl missiles a great distance? Yes, I see." In Seanchan, such siege engines had long ago been rendered obsolete by the introduction of damane into battle, but Mitsu was aware from reports by agents of the Hailene that mangonels and trebuchets were still utilised in the Westlands for reducing an enemy city's defensive walls… and it would seem that the catapult was not an unknown weapon in this Land of Madmen, either.

"They follow the same plan as has been employed in the destruction of previous stedding," Balal rumbled as quietly as he could, which was not particularly quiet, "their weaves of saidin are of little use to them, since the aura of Stedding Dashai would counteract the flows, so the evil ones mean to project balls of burning straw and pitch into the canopy, setting the forest alight. When the conflagration forces the Ogier inhabitants to flee the safety of the stedding, the enemy will be waiting for them… and the slaughter shall commence."

These grim prognostications were delivered levelly, in neutral tones, but Balal sounded truly angry when he added; "the wicked humans have felled many fine trees to make their ugly catapults and towers!" His scandalised voice had risen by the end of this sentence, and though the closest sentries were a good five-hundred yards away, Mitsu felt that it was high time to depart, before Balal began to shout insults like; 'tree-killer!' and 'bush-burner!' at the masked soldiers. She motioned to the Ogier warrior and they carefully crawled backwards from their vantage at the edge of the stedding until they were hidden by sufficient vegetation for it to be safe to rise and proceed on foot.

"We must return to the Stump forthwith," Balal whispered loudly, "Elder Hahal and the others should be imminently informed of these preparations."

"I shall remain here and keep watch on the foe," Mitsu stated. She did not care for going into the centre of the stedding and did her best to avoid the Ogier, but for the Guardians whom she had fought beside over the last few days. The way the Treebrothers looked at her with their large, cold eyes, tufted ears pressed flat to the sides of their heads… it should not have made a Bloodknife uncomfortable to receive the censure of Ogier, but somehow it did. The denizens of Stedding Dashai, some of whom were refugees from other, defiled stedding, had little love for humans, which Mitsu supposed was only understandable, given the circumstances.

Despite the fact that when they had come here from the Dragon College, Feren had explained to his folk that the two humans accompanying him were innocent of any crimes against Ogier, a fair amount of prejudice had lingered, directed mainly at Mitsu. Tamei had been less unpopular, a source of interest to some of the Elders and other scholars of Stedding Dashai; Elder Hahal had named her 'Wolfsister' and many questions concerning her lupine abilities had been directed at the wild, golden-eyed maiden. But Tamei had found this attention uncomfortable, and until the arrival of the Laughing God's army, the two of them had been content to set up their camp outside of the stedding, whilst waiting for Feren's research to yield results.

Mitsu frowned with concern. Tamei had been gone from her side for but three days, but it felt like an eternity. Was she safe, or would she return only to find the rest of them dead? Would she share their dark fate? Mitsu realised that Balal was staring at her curiously and shook her head, attempting to clear it of the sorts of fears that should be alien to a Bloodknife of the Seanchan Empire. It was difficult, though…

"You should come also," Balal objected, "in case I do not-"

A deep, harsh scream sounded through the trees, originating from further within the stedding. Mitsu and Balal exchanged a mute glance of surprise, then turned and ran in the direction of the anguished cry. His longer legs pumping hard, Balal swiftly drew ahead, almost disappearing amongst the trees to the fore, but he came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a large clearing as Mitsu caught up to him. They stared.

A score of the Laughing God's soldiers, clad in crude furs and plain leather masks, their bare chests and arms tattooed with darkly-inked designs, were clustered at the centre of the clearing. The humans did not notice that they were being watched, their attention held by a dying Ogier Guardian struggling at their feet. The tall Treebrother was transfixed through the wooden armour plates covering his torso by several cruel, flint-tipped spears gripped by the masked soldiers, but even with his life's blood gushing from his wide mouth, the Ogier was still attempting to rise and continue the fight, weakly raising the heavy sung-wood club clasped in his hand. Gore and brains besmirching the knotted head of the club and a half-dozen still corpses lying about the fallen Guardian told that he had not gone down easily. The spear-wielding killers surrounding him had to use all of their strength to hold the fallen Ogier down, leaning their weight upon the hafts, while the rest lingered behind, keeping a wary distance.

The mortally-wounded Ogier coughed-up a final gout of blood, then sank back upon the gore-soaked grass, his huge eyes glazing over and staring emptily up at the sky. He lay still. The score of masked soldiers raised a ragged cheer, shaking their primitive weapons in the air.

"The human filth have killed Dayali," Balal growled, "I shall kill them."

Mitsu reached for the Heron-marked hilt projecting over her left shoulder, wondering if they should split up and take the enemy from two directions, but Balal was clearly in no mood for discussing tactics. With an angry bellow, the Leader of the Guardians of Stedding Dashai surged forward, massive axe raised. As she swept her blade from its scabbard, Mitsu watched Balal plough into the enemy, an unstoppable force of nature. She had beheld Gardeners of the Deathwatch Guard in battle before, and well-knew how implacable they could be in combat, how effective…

But Balal was differently deadly; wilder, more ferocious, roaring loudly as he killed. His axe swept out before him, reducing the throat of one surprised opponent to a red ruin before impacting against the skull of another with a sickening crunch. A third brigand darted in from the side, lunging with a flint-bladed knife, but Balal simply swept out his long, powerful arm and punched the attacker forcefully in the face with a massive fist, slamming the man's head back. From several paces away, Mitsu clearly heard the neck snap. The three slumped to the ground as one and Balal stood over the trio of corpses he had made in scant seconds, regarding the remaining followers of the Laughing God menacingly. They gaped at him in shock, hesitating.

"Who is next?" Balal rumbled grimly.

From somewhere, the masked killers found a vestige of their courage and leapt forward, shouting savage war-cries, brandishing spears, knives and clubs. Balal met them without taking a single step back from the fray, despite being heavily outnumbered, his axe rising and falling amidst welters of gore, ignoring the minor wounds he was taking, his ferocity greatly exceeding that of the humans. Then, Mitsu was there at his side, sword poised, shifting liquidly from form to form as the Ko'di finally came to her; decapitating heads and amputating limbs, striking, slicing and stabbing, a veritable whirlwind of violent death.

It was over soon enough; Bloodknife and Ogier Guardian stood breathing heavily amidst the fallen bodies of the enemy, lying twisted and torn about them.

"They stood no chance against us," Mitsu observed, when she had reclaimed her powers of speech, "but attacked fiercely, even so…"

"It was not bravery," Balal responded contemptuously, "these vile human murderers simply fear their insane God more than they are afeared of us." Balal ignored his bleeding cuts and began to wearily wipe the blood from his axe blade with a rag, whilst Mitsu crouched, examining the nearest corpses. "All we can do is kill them," Balal further commented, "the wicked Warlord of the evil ones has the power to consume their shrivelled souls, by all accounts." He considered, then mused; "if such debased creatures even have souls."

Mitsu was only half-listening. The closest slain brigand lay flat on his back, a gaping wound in his chest from one of her sword-thrusts, though she barely recalled killing the man. The leathern mask had slipped to one side, uncovering part of a brutish face; dark, faded tattoos on the cheeks and brow, the bloody mouth gaping to reveal yellow, filed teeth… but it was that which adorned the dead man's earlobe that claimed Mitsu's particular interest. A tarnished, silver stud, fashioned in the shape of a hawk in flight. Again; the sigil of the High King. How had this lowly criminal come by it? Feeling profound distaste at touching the deceased defiler, Mitsu removed the hawkish ear-stud, tucking it into her belt before rising smoothly and regarding Balal.

The massive Ogier warrior was gazing upon the slain humans with gloomy satisfaction; then, his huge eyes moved to the large corpse of one of his Guardians. He sighed mournfully, the susurrating sound reminiscent of a strong breeze disturbing dead leaves. "Dayali was a fine Treesinger," Balal observed regretfully, "he shall be missed."

"You fight well, Balal," Mitsu complimented her comrade, "you would make for a skilled Gardener."

Balal turned his shaggy head and blinked down at Mitsu with distracted confusion. "But I am a skilled gardener," he protested mildly, "have you not seen my rose bushes? I pointed them out to you after you had met with the Elders. They are perhaps the best in Stedding Dashai."

Mitsu shook her head. "No, Balal, you misunderstand… 'Gardener' is the name of honour accorded to the Ogier warriors of the Deathwatch Guard, who protect the lives of the Blood and the Empress, Might She Live Forever."

"Nothing lives forever, not even the Great Trees," Balal commented absently, then his long, hairy brows drew down over staring, pale eyes. "You mean to say that in your faraway land, the Ogier involve themselves in human affairs, and actually serve this Empress of yours as soldiers?" He sounded as though he did not wish to believe it.

Mitsu nodded impatiently. "Yes, of course. When the first Emperor, Luthair Paendrag Mondwin, brought his armies to Seanchan, he found it much as this chaotic, undisciplined place. The Armies of Night reigned supreme, Marath'damane witches and even accursed male-channelers ran amok, contesting with each other for power and oppressing the people… the Ogier kept to their stedding where they were tolerably safe from the dread One Power, but approved of the Emperor restoring order to that unhappy land, and after discussing it at their Moot for several years, resolved to aid the Hawkwing's son in this endeavour. Which they then did, most effectively. That is why the Pact was agreed between our peoples and ever since, the Deathwatch Guard has always included a contingent of-"

"You have slain my men." The interjecting voice was cold and cruel, spoke the Vulgar with a harsh accent.

Mitsu and Balal whirled around, weapons raised. "Souvraniene!" Balal shouted in warning.

A tall, gaunt man stood at the edge of the clearing, dark, glittering eyes watching them through the holes in his red, leather mask, emblazoned with an insane, laughing mouth. Thin, pale braids extended out from his skull, framing his macabre, false face. The male-channeler wore a loose, buckskin kilt, an obsidian-bladed knife tucked through the belt, and had a spotted animal skin thrown over bony shoulders, his skinny arms and slat-ribbed bare chest marked with arcane, crimson tattoos. He leant upon a long, ash-hafted lance with a barbed point of forged bronze, the weapon standing taller than he did. A circular, iron amulet hung about his thin neck, strung upon a heavy chain.

Casually, the Souvraniene reached up with his free hand and raised the red mask, perching it atop his narrow skull. His face was thin and predatory, a puckered scar twisting his mouth up to one side, revealing a filed incisor and giving him a permanent sneer. His gaze swept over the numerous corpses in the clearing. "Yes, all quite definitely dead," he confirmed to himself, before returning his ruthless gaze to Mitsu and Balal. He grinned savagely, exposing more pointed teeth. "No matter. They were scum. Expendable and easily-replaceable scum. I shall recruit more…"

Balal and Mitsu exchanged a meaningful glance that held deadly intent, then started forward, approaching the Souvraniene purposefully. "You and your foul, murdering beasts should not have trespassed within Stedding Dashai, Madman," Balal growled, "now you shall perish, as do all humans who come to this place uninvited."

The Souvraniene did not seem overly-concerned by either this threat or their moving steadily towards him, but merely pointed a long-nailed finger at Mitsu. "That human looks very much alive to me!" he commented.

"I was invited," Mitsu explained, coldly.

"She is our guest," Balal added, "you are not."

The Souvraniene shrugged his narrow shoulders, uncaring. "I go where I please, Ogier fool. All of this Land, from Ocean to Ice, is the realm of the Laughing God… and I, Singer, am his loyal lieutenant!" He then threw back his head and in a surprisingly pleasant tenor, sang;

"Oh, the Laughing God is mightier than any other Madman;

He rules our dreams and often seems to have some secret Madplan!"

Singer fell silent, then giggled alarmingly, before stilling his features to a serious demeanour with unnerving rapidity. "I wrote that. What did you think? Be honest now, I shan't be offended…"

Mitsu's and Balal's steps faltered and they eyed each other uncertainly, before advancing threateningly once more. "Enough!" Balal snarled, "you merely delay your own death, crazed human…"

"Think you that I will just stand here and let you kill me, Tree-lover?" Singer enquired, with soft menace to his tones.

"You shall have no choice, and no chance against us, puny Madman!" Balal raised his great axe threateningly. "You stand within a stedding. Your channeling will avail you little in this place."

"Oh? Will it not, now?" Singer smiled nastily and took his hand from the haft of the long lance. Instead of toppling over once bereft of support, the tall weapon remained upright… then rose into the air, hovering beside Singer. The lance began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Mitsu and Balal paused in consternation.

"As the God often tells us, there are ways and there are means," Singer commented, then touched the dark, iron amulet hung about his neck. "This is a Well-ter'angreal," he revealed, "it contains saidin, enough to tear the two of you to shreds, which I shall greatly enjoy doing." Conversationally, he added; "my Master gifted this Well to me, as a sign of his favour. It is very old, and impossible for even Drummer to duplicate. I was on my way to the Stump to slaughter your Elders when I heard my men shouting, and returned… curiosity has ever motivated my actions…" By this; the spinning lance had become a circular blur beside Singer, the bronze head humming through the air with each revolution. "After you are dead, I believe that I shall set the stedding ablaze. I do love the aroma of burning trees in the morning…"

Desperately, Mitsu lunged forward, Balal right behind her, knowing that it was a doomed attempt, that the Madman was too far away to cut down before he could destroy her with the Power… but she had to try. Singer's dark eyes narrowed and the lance immediately ceased its spin, streaking toward them, point first. It howled through the air, a deadly missile projected upon a skein of saidin. Mitsu dropped and rolled, lightning swift, but still felt a flash of agony from a glancing blow as the bronze point slashed open her shoulder before flashing past. Ignoring the pain, Mitsu sprang to her feet, looking for her fallen sword, a hand clutched to the shallow wound from which blood flowed copiously.

Singer regarded Mitsu malevolently. "You move fast," he commented, then gestured in her direction. Mitsu leapt to one side as the ground beneath her feet exploded upwards, a gout of flame singing her loose trews. "Stand still, curse you!" Singer hissed, gesturing again. A further fiery detonation, but Mitsu was no longer there, avoiding destruction with a serpent's speed, but only just. She did not have time to find her blade, she would have to slay the Madman without it.

One of the many skills Mitsu had been taught in her Bloodknife training was the art of misdirection; how to attack an enemy armed with a bow, avoiding their arrows whilst moving steadily closer until within range to kill them. It involved both anticipating and confounding one's foe. Mitsu used misdirection now, with greater intent and facility than she ever had before, feinting in one direction before leaping, tumbling and diving out of the way of the Souvraniene's steadily more powerful attacks, enraging him considerably in the process…

"Stop jumping around like a jackrabbit, you annoying harridan!" Singer shouted angrily, as Mitsu crouched several paces away, bruised and scorched but still in the fight, despite her shoulder wound. She gathered her waning strength, preparing to pounce upon her opponent and fatally end the unequal duel… but Singer had other ideas. Snarling furiously, he raised both hands and struck with all his might. Mitsu almost avoided the resulting blazing explosion… almost, but not quite. As the dust cleared, Mitsu lay on her face, stunned, a smouldering crater at her feet. Singer stepped sinuously forward to stand over her, smirking cruelly. "Any final words?"

Mitsu raised her head weakly. "Yes… your song was… bad!" she slurred.

Singer frowned. "Bad?"

"Very... bad!"

Singer glared down at his prospective victim, incensed. "How dare you?!" he spat, "ignorant lowbrow peasant! What know you of fine music?" He raised a hand, pointing at Mitsu, his glittering eyes narrowing with deadly purpose. Mitsu closed her own eyes, then, after a long moment when nothing happened, opened them again. Singer's bony brow was furrowed with concern as he fingered the round amulet that he wore. "Empty…" he muttered ruefully, then glanced at Mitsu, venturing a sickly smile, rendered grotesque by his scarred and twisted lip. "Well… this is awkward!"

Mitsu forced herself to rise, despite feeling much as though she had been recently trampled by a herd of rampaging S'redit, and stood swaying, her cold, tilted eyes pinning the Souvraniene, a cat watching a mouse. Singer took a cautious step back, a hand fumbling for the obsidian knife at his belt. "You fight well, stranger," he observed, "there is always room for one of your skills in our ranks…"

Mitsu stumbled forward a step, flexing her fingers, blocking out the pain of her wounded shoulder, as well as from the rest of her bruised body. The Heron-mark blade that had once belonged to the High Lord Turak lay nearby, but Mitsu did not trouble to retrieve it… she would not need it. Singer took another retreating step, colliding with a tree. "The Laughing God will reward you well, if you but take service with him," he offered.

Mitsu shook her head. "I serve the Empress, Might She Live Forever, and none other," she mumbled, blinking rapidly to clear her blurred vision.

Singer frowned, perplexed. "Live forever? I thought that you people said; 'May She Never Die?'" he queried, as Mitsu moved a stalking step closer.

"What people?" Mitsu demanded, "of whom do you speak, insane fool?"

Singer shrugged. "Why, the Hawx, of course… those paranoid idiots hiding-out on their precious Spire-Island, the shipwrecked dregs of the armies of some ancient King or other… now what was his name? Arto Hawkwind..? Something like that, I do believe…" His questing fingers closed convulsively around the knife's hilt.

"Artur Hawkwing?" Mitsu gasped.

"Yes, that's the one," Singer confirmed, "I've never been very good at remembering names…" then yanked the knife from his belt and lunged upwards, sweeping the obsidian blade toward Mitsu's belly for a disembowelling stroke.

With contemptuous ease, Mitsu slapped a hand down on Singer's wrist and wrenched, breaking several small bones. Singer screamed in pain as the knife fell from his grasp; Mitsu caught it neatly in her other hand and promptly slashed the keen edge across the throat of the Souvraniene. Singer ceased his cries of pain in favour of muted choking sounds, touching wondering fingers to the deep, narrow wound, from which blood began to seep before pouring down his tattooed chest. His dark eyes held Mitsu's spitefully for a brief moment, then glazed over… he dropped to his knees before slumping face-down in the grass. His legs kicked a little, then stilled.

Mitsu stepped neatly aside as Singer fell. Distantly, she regretted her automatic, lethal action, but solely because she might have questioned the Souvraniene further – preferably under torture – concerning these Hawx and their possible connection to the armies of the High King… though doubtless, it would all have been lies. Men like Singer lied as easily as they breathed… and in any case, Mitsu's ingrained training had taken over; disarming an opponent and then despatching them with their own weapon was second nature to her, an almost involuntary response. She was a Bloodknife of the Empire, and she killed. It was what she did. It was what she was. Even so, Mitsu suspected that there was a secret here, something that had been kept from her… and naturally, that cursed Chami was lurking at the centre of the mystery!

It was only then, now that the threat of the dangerous Souvraniene had been neutralised, that Mitsu remembered Balal. She turned, stared, and sighed regretfully. Mitsu had avoided the saidin-propelled lance, if only narrowly, as her wounded shoulder attested. Balal had not. The long lance must have struck his chest with terrible force, piercing his sung-wood breastplate and flinging the Ogier across the clearing. Balal was slumped against a tree, pinned in place, the haft of the dread weapon impaling him, the bronze point sunk deep into the wood at his back. His great head hung forward and a deal of gore was pooled around his booted feet…

As Mitsu limped over to Balal, scooping up her Power-wrought sword on the way, she thought that he must assuredly be dead… but then, the huge Ogier warrior slowly raised his shaggy skull, large eyes focusing on her with difficulty.

"Save…" Balal managed to say, blood running from his stern mouth. Mitsu leaned closer, straining her ears. "Save… Stedding… Dashai…" Balal whispered, then his head sunk down and he spoke no more.

"I will," Mitsu promised, though Balal could no longer hear her speak. Her brow furrowed. For some reason, she could not get the image of Balal's prized roses out of her mind… who would tend them now? She would have to go to the Stump and report on recent events to the Elders, not just concerning the construction of the catapults but also the deaths of two more of their Guardians, including the highly respected Leader of these Ogier warriors. Enduring the disapproval that the Treebrothers held for humans was bad enough, but to have to be the bearer of such grim tidings on top of this… well, it must be done. Though the Ogier would perhaps kill the messenger..?

"Death is lighter than a feather; Duty heavier than a mountain," Mitsu muttered. She gazed sadly upon Balal for a moment, nailed to the tree-trunk by the cruel lance. She could not leave him like this… he deserved better. She sheathed her blade and gripped the haft sunk into Balal's chest with both hands, pulling with all her might, her shoulder wound protesting… but the lance would not budge.

"Let me do it."

Mitsu spun around, biting back a curse as her good hand blurred toward her sword-hilt, but it was only the Ogier youth, Feren. He stood just behind her, clad in heavy sung-wood armour, his club dangling limply from one hand. His huge, pale eyes held immense sorrow as he gazed upon his dead uncle. Mitsu frowned. It was extremely rare for her to be approached unawares, though the annoying Chami did it often, to irritate her. Feren's silent arrival made her chide herself for being careless… had he been an enemy, she would likely be dead by now. But then, she was feeling somewhat faint after her one-sided battle with the Souvraniene, her awareness was hardly at full strength. It was still inexcusable, though… for a Bloodknife could never be permitted excuses for failure, only the honour of a glorious death in service to the Empire.

Mitsu stepped unsteadily aside as Feren moved forward, gripping the haft of the lance in powerful hands and wrenching the long weapon free of both tree and corpse. He discarded the lance carelessly and caught his dead kin as Balal toppled forward, lowering him gently to the ground. Feren then knelt beside Balal, closing his staring eyes and carefully folding his uncle's hands over the mortal wound in his chest.

Mitsu crouched beside Feren, her head spinning, eyes fixed on Balal's face. He looked tolerably calm in death, at peace almost. The dead did not always look so… particularly when she had a hand in their demise. "Balal fell bravely, protecting his stedding," Mitsu murmured, feeling that her words were sadly inadequate as soon as she spoke them. But in these situations, one had to say something.

Feren glanced at Mitsu, a single large tear rolling from one eye. "Uncle Balal loved Stedding Dashai, he would gladly have died for it," he mumbled, then blinked. "Which is what he did, I suppose. I would that I had arrived sooner, that I could have prevented Balal's death, perhaps with my own life in stead of his… Uncle bade the Guardians stay close to the Stump, to protect the Elders, but I disobeyed, and…" Feren trailed-off, peering at Mitsu's shoulder. "You are wounded! Hold still…"

Mitsu tried to protest, but was feeling too weak to make more than a half-hearted objection to Feren's ministrations, so she knelt quietly whilst the Ogier youth tore a strip of cloth from his coat and carefully bound the gash in her shoulder. Mitsu had long experience of battlefield injuries and knew that while it had bled a fair amount, the wound was not that deep, the muscle and bone intact. She would heal in time, were she given time to heal. Likely, she would not be… the stedding would fall soon, in the next day or so, there was no possible way to prevent this. The enemy might have received a setback today, though at great cost, for a warrior of Balal's calibre would be impossible to replace… but the forces of the Laughing God were strong and numbered a great many of the red-masked Souvraniene in their horde. It would take a miracle to defeat them. And Mitsu, who barely believed in the omens that so many of her fellow Seanchan set such store in, certainly had no faith in the miraculous.

Feren knotted the bandage and gave it a cautious tug, then nodded, satisfied. As they rose, Mitsu gazed up at the tall Ogier youth and spoke with determination. "Feren, return to the Stump and tell Elder Hahal what has happened here…" Feren glanced down at Balal and his ears drooped sadly. "I shall remain at the perimeter," Mitsu continued, "and will await the cover of night. Then, I shall go out beyond the borders of the stedding on a clandestine raid and attempt to set the siege weapons of the enemy afire. This will delay their assault, and should-"

"But they will kill you!" Feren objected.

Mitsu shrugged noncommittally, then winced as her injured shoulder protested the motion. "The enemy shall have to see me first. I am a Bloodknife, Feren! My order is without peer when it comes to moving unseen in darkness… they will never even know that I am there, until it is too late."

Feren frowned, his ears twitching obstinately. "I think that the ample light provided by the burning siege engines will enable them to see you quite adequately!" he pointed-out, somewhat sarcastically.

Mitsu frowned… sarcasm from an Ogier was certainly unexpected… "I care not!" she snapped, "I have been preparing for my doom since the day I spoke my Oath to the Empress, Might She Live Forever… I am a Bloodknife!"

"You keep saying that…"

"So what if this is a suicide mission?" Mitsu growled, in no mood for Feren's argumentative defeatism, "that is what I have trained for and am fully prepared to face… I do not fear death!"

"Even if you succeed, they will only build more catapults," Feren muttered stolidly. Mitsu scowled, opened her mouth to demand that he be silent- but then; they both heard the wild, mournful sounds, coming from just beyond the borders of the stedding… the howling...

---

Tamei, the golden-eyed wolf-maid, knelt in a sunlit glade to the north of Stedding Dashai, cradling in her lap the head of the dark-furred wolf she called 'Night.' His full name was much longer. The glade was divided by a small stream and Tamei supposed that the black wolf had come here seeking a cooling drink of water before he died. Blinking back tears, she gently stroked her fingers through the coarse fur ruff about Night's neck… her hand came away bloody.

Ice approached soundlessly; the big, white-furred she-wolf nuzzled Night, but received no response. She whined softly. Tamei guessed that Night had not been dead long, his body was scarcely stiff and still retained some heat. She tenderly lowered Night's head to the grass and rose lithely, looking sadly down at her dead friend. He was wounded with stab and bite marks in a number of places, but it was the deep spear thrust in his side that had finally killed him. Though Night's muzzle and fangs were stained with gore, indicating that he had given as good as he got. This offered scant comfort. Ice sniffed at the long grass where Night had left a blood-trail leading back into the trees and made an interrogative, whuffing sound.

"Yes, Ice, we'll see if we can find the rest of the pack," Tamei agreed, fearing the worst. A last regretful glance at Night and she turned, running gracefully up the glade toward the tree-line, Ice loping at her side. She did not consider burying or burning the black wolf's corpse, but left it where it lay for the forest scavengers to find. It was not the custom of the people Tamei had been raised amongst, but it was the wolf's way… and therefore, it was now also hers. A short distance from the glade, the trees opened out into a large clearing, a great oak looming at the centre.

Tamei stood, staring and breathing heavily. Both she and Ice had travelled far in the preceding days, were extremely weary… the Aes Sedai, Rashiel Tamor, had channeled strength back into them, but now that added stamina was almost gone, leaving them twice as tired as they might otherwise have been.

A battle had taken place in the clearing; a dozen dead wolves lay scattered about amongst a like number of the large and savage hounds used by the evil ones to hunt down their victims. There were several slain soldiers of the Laughing God also, Tamei was pleased to note, though a thousand fallen masked villains would not atone for their crime, nor assuage her anger at seeing her pack slaughtered. Tamei walked amongst the wolf corpses sorrowfully, recognising faithful companions of many a hunt, good friends who had served to ease the desolation and loneliness that she had suffered when her people cast her out, declaring her a Witch because of her eyes changing their colour and the wolves speaking to her… for these reasons, she had been banished from the village.

Chaser lay on his side; the big, grey wolf feathered with several arrows… Moonlight was slumped nearby, the slender, dappled she-wolf killed by a club-blow to the skull, from the looks of it… and cunning old Sky was locked in death with a large dog, his teeth sunk into his opponent's throat as the hound's were sunk into his. Tamei looked down at him sadly… Sky had been the oldest wolf in the pack but also, the smartest. Except for Ice, he had been her favourite companion. The she-wolf in question moved to stand beside Tamei, her cold, blue, lupine gaze fixed upon Sky. She growled softly. Tamei well-knew how Ice felt… she could feel the wrath building up inside herself, also. The evil ones would pay for this, if it took the rest of her life to avenge the wolves she had called friends.

Then, Ice threw back her head and howled, long and loud, a mourning call. Tamei did likewise, the twin howls merging together into a wild lament for their slaughtered pack. Eventually, Tamei lowered her head, taking account, golden eyes scanning the large clearing swiftly, prowling around the oak to make sure that she had not missed anything. Not quite the whole pack, by the looks of it… Blaze, Smoke and Tracker were not present amongst the dead. Tamei refused to allow herself the hope that these three young wolves were yet living, they could have fallen in the fighting elsewhere, but even so… it came as a small measure of comfort, that not all of her companions had perished here.

Tamei angrily wiped away hot, salt tears, then glanced down at Ice, ruffling the fur at her friend's neck affectionately. "We're still alive, Ice," she reassured the she-wolf, "and where there's life, there's hope." Abruptly, a hint of danger came to Tamei on the breeze; she sniffed the air warily, as did Ice.

"Hope is a highly overrated sentiment," a bleak voice drawled.

Tamei whirled around as Ice circled and crouched, growling warningly. A squat, broad-chested Souvraniene was leaning against a willow tree at the edge of the clearing, tattooed, muscular arms folded, murky green eyes watching them through the holes in his red, smiling mask. Tamei jerked the dark, obsidian blade from the belt of her tunic and assumed a knife-fighting stance, fully prepared to defend both herself and Ice from this unlooked-for danger. The male-channeler made no immediate move to attack them, however, simply ran his gaze over Tamei's athletic form in a way that she certainly did not care for. Ice snarled threateningly, starting to stalk forward until Tamei placed a restraining hand on the she-wolf's head.

"So, you're the Wolf-Witch?" the red-masked Souvraniene commented, "I've heard tell of you…" He made a lewd, whistling sound behind his mask. "You certainly are a pretty little thing."

"Why don't you take off that foolish mask and show me what a big, ugly thing you are!" Tamei spat.

The Souvraniene chuckled softly, unfolding his arms and taking a measured step towards them. In addition to a ragged pair of britches, he had a faded wolf's pelt slung over his broad shoulders. The dark fur looked rather old and musty. The red-masked channeler produced a flint-bladed skinning-knife, waving it at them tauntingly. "I came back here because I was minded to get myself a new wolfskin," he confided to Tamei, before his cruel gaze shifted speculatively to Ice. "Pure white fur!" he exclaimed, "now that will look uncommon fine on me!"

Ice growled, hackles raised, and Tamei shouted; "if you try to harm Ice, I shall cut out your evil heart and feed it to your filthy dogs!"

"You have spirit," the Souvraniene remarked, "I like that… to a point. But you won't be cutting out anyone's heart this day, my sweet, I can assure you of that… and besides, the hounds are all dead, the wolves killed them…" he glanced disparagingly at the torn bodies of the hunting-dogs littering the clearing, then at the slain masked brigands that lay amongst them, "…and their handlers… what a mess!" He laughed again, the mirth containing a trace of madness.

Tamei wondered whether it might be worth their while running for the trees, but knew that the Souvraniene would only use his channeling abilities to strike them down before they could cover half that distance. With luck, she would be killed outright and not taken alive, since she clearly saw in this brute's lecherous eyes what he intended for her… death would be far preferable to that.

Slowly, the red-masked Souvraniene raised thick-fingered hands and though she could see nothing, Tamei knew that he was gathering his dark powers, preparing to do… something. Desperately, she reversed the obsidian knife in her hand, steeling herself to plunge the blade into her throat. It seemed the best and only way to avoid capture. But even as Tamei prepared to take her own life, she felt invisible bonds wrap securely about her wrist… the knife trembled violently in her grasp, but beyond this, she could not move it an inch. Further ropes of air whipped about her ankles, securing her in place.

"Now, now… none of that," the Souvraniene chided, "suicide is the coward's way out, after all." He laughed cruelly, before confiding; "and besides, it's not all bad… after Singer has delved inside your mind and rearranged a few things, you'll find being a slave of the Laughing God quite agreeable, I do assure you!"

"Never!" Tamei screamed, struggling furiously to free herself, but to no avail. Beside her, Ice crouched, preparing to rush the Souvraniene, though he yet stood several paces away and would assuredly kill the she-wolf with his channeling powers before she had covered a fraction of that distance.

"Never?" repeated the Souvraniene, shaking his red-masked head slowly back and forth, "never is a long t- urk!" He stared down at the foot of curved blade projecting from his sternum and touched a wondering finger to the blood-stained, Power-wrought metal. The sword abruptly withdrew, leaving a deep wound that pumped blood vigorously, and the Madman fell heavily onto his face in the grass, dead before he hit the ground.

Mitsu stood just behind, poised on the balls of her feet, bloody Heron-mark blade drawn back in a two-handed grip. Her dark, tilted eyes were glaring furiously, but her expression softened at the sight of Tamei, who was gaping at her in surprise.

"Mitsu!" Tamei cried delightedly, discovering that she could move once more and racing toward her lover, leaping enthusiastically into her arms. A little too enthusiastically, in fact…

"Oof!" Mitsu gasped, toppling backwards at the impact of the overly-energetic wolf-maid. Tamei landed atop Mitsu in the grass and began to kiss her exuberantly, whilst Ice dashed around them in circles, whuffing excitedly. "Slow down, chalinda," Mitsu protested when eventually able to get her breath back, "for all that it is most pleasant to see you, I am a little the worse for wear at the moment…"

Tamei obediently rolled off Mitsu, allowing her to sit up. The Seanchan assassin nodded at the dead Souvraniene. "That Madman makes the second of his foul kind that I have slain in as many moments, though he went down easier than the first one, certainly. Well-done for distracting him, by the way."

Tamei smiled, wrapping her arms happily about Mitsu's shoulders, not quite managing to avoid the blood-stained bandage, so that the hug made Mitsu flinch. "Oops! Sorry, Mitsu, I didn't notice you were wounded… what happened? Did the red-mask do it?"

"He did."

"Well, I'm glad you killed him then, and even gladder you slew that one there…" Tamei jerked her small chin at the dead Souvraniene and sniffed disapprovingly, "…though I would that I had done it myself, he deserved to die. He was a real pig!"

"But of course," Mitsu agreed, rolling her eyes, "he was a man, was he not?" They both sniggered, then Mitsu leaned in toward Tamei for a more sedate kiss.

"Help!" boomed a deep voice from nearby, "anyone! I require assistance!"

Tamei glanced into the trees, ash-blonde eyebrows raised in surprise. "That sounds like Feren," she mused.

"It is Feren," Mitsu confirmed, "he was right behind me when we came to investigate the howling noises, but-"

"Help!"

Tamei sighed and rose smoothly, extending a hand and helping Mitsu to her feet. "That foolish tree-creature is always bloody interrupting us!" Tamei grumbled. Mitsu retrieved her sword, knocked from her hand by Tamei in her enthusiasm, and they both wearily hastened toward the deep cries for aid, Ice trotting between them, helpfully providing a snow-furred back on which to lean.

Twenty paces into the trees, Tamei and Mitsu discovered Feren. The young Ogier was backed firmly against the wide trunk of a sycamore, held at bay by a trio of young wolves. One was a reddish colour, another light, smoky grey, the third dark brown. The wolves were snarling and baring their teeth at Feren… he poked ineffectually at them with his sung-wood club, but the weapon was promptly seized in powerful jaws by the red-shaded wolf and torn from his grasp. The brown wolf bit into the other end of the club and there ensued a brief tug-of-war, before the heavy wooden weapon was dropped and the wolves returned to menacing the Ogier.

Feren's ears drooped and he blinked rapidly, pressing further back against the tree. He noticed Mitsu and Tamei. "Call them off!" he implored the wolf-maid.

Tamei did not immediately comply with Feren's wish, so great was her joy at seeing the missing wolves of her pack yet living and seemingly unharmed. "Blaze! Tracker! Smoke!" she called, "it is so good to see you!"

The three young wolves turned and grinned at Tamei and Ice, their tongues lolling out, making whuffing sounds of greeting… then resumed their threatening behaviour toward Feren, who moaned, flinching away from their snapping fangs.

"The wolves don't even look hurt!" Tamei enthused, smiling up at Mitsu, "isn't it wonderful?"

Mitsu blinked. "Um..?"

"If they don't stop trying to bite me, I can assure you that they will get hurt!" Feren warned, adding plaintively; "why am I being bullied and intimidated by your beasts? I have always been kind to animals, but in the case of these wicked wolves, shall certainly make an exception!"

Tamei glared at Feren, placing her hands on slim hips… she opened her mouth to protest this prejudicial attitude, but Mitsu intervened. "Perhaps you should send the wolves away, chalinda?" she suggested, "they do not seem to like Feren…"

"Well, I don't particularly like them either!" Feren shouted, exasperated.

Tamei sighed. "Stop trying to eat the Ogier," she scolded the trio of young wolves, "he probably doesn't taste good anyway… go find a safe den, I will join you later." Blaze, Tracker and Smoke made whining, obedient noises, gave Feren a last suspicious stare, then turned and trotted soundlessly into the woods. "Go with them, Ice," Tamei told her she-wolf companion, "try to keep them out of trouble." Ice whuffed in agreement, then obligingly loped into the trees on the trail of the younger wolves. Tamei watched them go.

Feren, after retrieving his club and shaking his head over the teeth-marks that now marred the fine-grained wood, did likewise, observing the wolves depart, though much less fondly. He muttered something in the convoluted Ogier Tongue that was doubtless far from complimentary. Then, Feren eyed Tamei in a decidedly unfriendly fashion. "Well met, Wolfsister, I do not think!" he declared with heavy irony, before demanding; "where is the aid that you promised to bring to Stedding Dashai? I count only you, Tamei… you and your mangy, needlessly-aggressive wolves!"

Tamei scowled darkly. "Thirteen of my friends, much of the pack, have died defending your precious stedding," she cried angrily, "I don't see any of you tree-folk doing ought to protect yourselves from the evil ones!"

Feren's long brows drew down over huge, cold eyes and his tufted ears flattened against the sides of his skull. "Is that so?" he rumbled, dangerously calm.

Mitsu touched her young lover's arm. "Tamei, several Ogier Guardians have fallen to the Madmen since you went to fetch help, including Feren's uncle, Balal… he was recently slain, I was there, I witnessed his death."

Tamei's mouth fell open, golden eyes widening in shock; she then turned to the Ogier youth, touching his arm in gentle sympathy. "Feren, I am so sorry, I did not know…"

Feren shrugged his massive shoulders, ears lifting… he blinked his large eyes, then a wide, rueful smile all but split his face in twain. "That is quite alright, Tamei. I also spoke in haste, as a human might… I am glad to see that you are yet safe, and I am truly regretful about your wolf companions, in addition. I am sure that you did your best, to find those who might help us, it is not your fault that-"

"But I have come back with help for your people!" Tamei protested, "why, I brought the F-" Her mouth snapped shut and her golden eyes widened.

"What is it, chalinda?" Mitsu enquired, concerned, "what is wrong?"

"The wolves… they are talking to me!"

"Can they do that?" Feren wondered curiously, "speak inside the Wolfsister's head from afar?"

"Presumably," Mitsu drawled, then asked Tamei; "what are they saying?"

Tamei sounded distracted. "Hold on, I'm telling the others to shut-up, I just want Ice to speak…" She concentrated, gold eyes narrowing, blotting out the swirling imagery from the vision of the three younger wolves, who were less skilled at these things, undisciplined… their perceptions were harder to focus upon than that which Ice was seeing…

about a dozen men wearing red, laughing faces, running through the forest… moving rapidly in the direction of the clearing where they stood… hunting them..?

Tamei gasped. "Oh no! Madmen are coming this way, and fast!"

"How many?" Mitsu demanded, urgently.

"Too many for us to handle!"

Feren moaned loudly, whilst Mitsu seized the wolfmaid's wrist, tugging insistently. "Come, Tamei, back to the stedding… now!"

The three of them set off swiftly through the trees, soon reaching the glade where Night lay, running amidst the long grass, splashing through the stream… but as they reached the trees at the far end, Tamei's steps faltered and she lingered, staring back the way they had come.

"Why do you stop?" Mitsu gasped, looking rather winded.

Feren loitered at the edge of the forest beyond the glade, clenching and unclenching large fingers about the grip of his sung-wood club, eyes wide with alarm, which since he was an Ogier, meant very wide indeed.

"I…" Tamei hesitated, "…the wolves say…"

A harsh death-scream erupted from the woods that they had just traversed, followed by another, even louder.

"What was that?" Mitsu wondered, drawing her sword.

"Should we not be going?" Feren mumbled, but was ignored.

Tamei continued, less haltingly; "Ice says that the red-masks aren't chasing us… they're being chased, by…"

"Whom?" Mitsu demanded. More fatal screams sounded from the trees.

Tamei grinned wildly. "Her! The one the wolves name; 'She-Fox!'"

"She-Fox?" Feren muttered, doubtfully, "surely that should just be 'vixen?'"

"Who-?" Mitsu began to ask, but then five men burst from the trees at the opposite side of the glade, running hard. They wore red masks and rough furs, their chests and arms tattooed with ochre designs, and were apparently unarmed. Though these dread Souvraniene were always armed, possessing as they did the fearsome Power of saidin. There seemed nothing particularly fierce about this quintet of Madmen, however, their panicked movements and haste suggested the frantic terror of hunted beasts.

"Watch," Tamei urged, with predatory satisfaction, "this is going to be good!"

The five Souvraniene were but a dozen paces beyond the tree-line when something dressed in loose, dark garb blurred out of the forest after them. It seized the rearmost pair of red-masks to either side of their skulls and swept their heads together with shocking force; even from afar, Tamei could clearly hear the sickening crunch as their craniums fractured. The Madmen fell limply into the long grass and their black-clothed killer sprang nimbly over the corpses, darting after the rest of the running prey, sliding between two more of them.

One of these Souvraniene turned desperately, making a futile gesture… a fireball sprang into being before him, shooting toward the unknown assailant, who avoided it with ease, rolling beneath the burning orb with inhuman speed and dexterity. The flaming sphere struck the Madman opposite; he screeched in agony as he was immolated, reduced to an ashen skeleton in seconds. The Souvraniene who had cast the ineffectual fireball blanched and attempted to resume his futile flight, but the mysterious attacker slipped into his path and leapt high, spinning and lashing out with a bare foot – the vicious kick all-but took the Madman's head off.

The final fleeing Souvraniene almost made it as far as the stream that bisected the glade before he was caught as surely and lethally as a chicken in the jaws of a fox. As the male-channeler approached the water, the stranger in the dark garments pounced on him from the long grass, clasping his head to either side and using the momentum of the jump to swing about the Madman full-circle, twisting his neck around with a fatal snap. The channeling victim had time to utter a brief, choked scream, abruptly silenced. The killer landed in a crouch on all fours while at the same moment, the dead Souvraniene collapsed bonelessly to the ground beside her.

Tamei raised a hand in greeting and the deadly personage responded in kind, waving back with long-nailed fingers before brushing a lock of russet hair out of her pale and predatory eyes, which watched Mitsu and Feren unblinkingly. Then; she smiled slyly, sharp teeth flashing in her fine-boned, slightly vulpine face.

"Who is that?" Mitsu demanded, surprised.

At the same time, Feren gasped; "what is she?"

"Oh," Tamei replied unconcernedly, "that is actually the help I fetched, to come and save Stedding Dashai…" she grinned wolfishly, "…that is Feir."

---

Denouement : "I would be free…"

The Gholam slipped silently through the heart of the Ghost Forest, enhanced senses attuned for any hint of danger, though there was practically nothing within the Land of the Madmen of which it needed to be wary. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It moved as soundlessly as ever, not disturbing so much as a single dead leaf or dry twig beneath its bare feet… just as it had on the many occasions that it had been sent into the strongholds of the enemy, to take a life and subsequently drain its victim's blood. Good times… excepting that final mission, when the Gholam's intended target had been waiting for it, when the trap had been sprung and everything had changed.

The Gholam frowned, its cold and inhuman mind veering away from something that it detested thinking about. Though an image remained, unbidden, as it always did; the face of a very old male Aes Sedai, with a hairless skull and dark, almond eyes filled with dreadful knowledge, while betwixt twin tufts of white, twisted hair, a thin-lipped mouth smiled goadingly. The Gholam knew it would never be able to excise those arrogant, superior features from its memory, and that knowledge tormented it to the depths of its soulless, evil core.

The Gholam narrowed its blank, empty eyes as it scanned the surrounding forest… it had begun to recognise certain trees and other landmarks, its destination was close. It took another quiet step, but the fact that the footfalls treading behind were continuing to tramp carelessly and noisily through the undergrowth, completely negated its surreptitious movements. The Gholam turned, irritation evident upon an ordinary, unmemorable visage. "Cease making so much sound!" it hissed in the Old Tongue, "pick up your feet and set them down with more care!"

The young woman who had been shuffling wearily along in the rear, her dull brown eyes averted, looked up and gazed upon the Gholam with open terror. Her round face was dirty and obscured by untidy, dark locks, she wore a simple deerskin smock patterned with beadwork, her careless feet shod in leather sandals, and seemed altogether unremarkable… but for the fact that she was able to channel. The Gholam could detect this negligible ability in her with ease, it was the sole reason that the captive Witch was still alive. For now… The prisoner swallowed nervously, then hesitantly nodded. "I shall try," she whispered in the same ancient language, her words tinged with the local accent.

The Gholam stared coldly at the youthful Witch, ensuring that she was properly cowed, then proceeded on its way, giving the rope it held in one pale hand a forceful tug. The other end of the short length of twined hemp was bound about the Witch's wrists, held 'prisoned before her; at this impetus, she stumbled forward, following in the Gholam's noiseless footsteps, gamely attempting to cause less commotion as she walked… and failing miserably.

The Gholam scowled. Really, it blamed itself for this dissatisfactory situation. Had it not slain the Darkfriend Da'shain male-channeler, then this tiresome errand should have been entirely unnecessary… but the red-veiled, Shadowrunning fool had made the profound mistake of attacking, and the Gholam's instinctive response to any perceived threat was invariably to kill first and feed later. Certainly, the saidin-cursed Aielman's Tainted blood had held a savour that the Gholam relished, but even so, it regretted the deed. Having to locate and capture the Witch had wasted valuable time.

As for the young Tuatha'an assassin… well, he had better have successfully accomplished his own task in that same period, or there would be trouble. The Gholam was in no mood to excuse failure in its new-found confederates. Not that it exactly had moods, as a human might understand them… but one could not live amongst people for more than a millennia without acquiring a few bad habits.

After advancing a further fifty paces through the tall trees, leading its prisoner along like a lamb to the slaughter – an obvious but appropriate analogy – the Gholam paused, its dark, soulless eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I know that you are there," it called out in its customary malevolent tones, using the Vulgar speech, "show yourselves!"

A brief moment passed, then three Friends of the Dark revealed their hidden presence by reluctantly emerging from the concealing depths of a thicket. The Gholam ran an assessing gaze over the trio of roughly-clad sentries – two armed with short horse-bows, the third with a large crossbow – then dismissed them from its concerns. The Darkfriends were all big, dangerous men, no strangers to violence and murder, but they had seen what the Gholam was capable of doing to an enemy who confronted it… and so they watched the Shadow-spawned killer wide-eyed; frightened mice in close company with a hungry lynx. The captive Witch risked a brief glance around herself, taking note of the picket of archers, but clearly had no idea who they were or what they were guarding. "Where are we?" she wondered, hopelessly.

The Gholam ignored its prisoner for the time being, whilst one of the Shadowsworn bowmen turned, putting two grimy fingers to his lips and producing a piercing whistle. The Gholam scowled. What was wrong with an imitated bird-call? If there were further Hawx scouts lurking in the vicinity, then they had just been alerted to the enemy's position… why did the fool not just sound a Trolloc war-horn while he was about it? It fervently wished that it could kill the imbecile for his stupidity... but unfortunately, in its current condition, could not. This, essentially, was why it had allied itself with these Shadowsworn humans... for the time being, at least.

A flash of movement in the trees ahead, approaching swiftly, and a lanky, dark-complexioned Friend hurried into view. He wore a faded, striped uniform and had a long, straight sword strapped to his back. The Gholam vaguely recognised the gangly armsman as one of the Tuatha'an assassin's lieutenants, but was uncertain… and did not care, in any case. Humans more or less all looked the same to it; walking bags of blood, mere pathetic cattle, the lot of them! The tall swordsman came to an abrupt halt a few paces away, regarding the Gholam nervously, though a small, ingratiating smile twitched his lips. "Ah, you're back… good…"

"Which one are you?" the Gholam enquired, with soft menace.

"Chuan, third-in-command… um..?" This Chuan was evidently unsure what to call the Shadowspawn he addressed.

"Gholam," said the Gholam.

Chuan blinked. "Oh? That is your name also? I thought it was your… um… race?"

"It is both."

Chuan's dark eyes shifted to the bound Witch. "Who is she?" he wondered.

"I shall ask the questions, not answer them!" the Gholam hissed, before demanding; "has the Tuatha'an returned yet?"

Chuan nodded jerkily. "Aye, Mistress Gholam… the Killer Tinker… that is to say, Ranim, he got back a brief while ago and awaits you at the camp."

"Good," the Gholam muttered, stepping sinuously forward, tugging the roped Witch along behind. As it pushed past Chuan, the Gholam made a further demand; "did this Ranim locate that which I sent him to find?"

Chuan shrugged bony shoulders as he waved for the sentries to conceal themselves once more, before trailing after the Gholam. "I know not, Mistress Gho-"

"Cease calling me that, you befuddled loon! Just say Gholam without the 'Mistress!'"

"Sorry… um… Ranim did not tell me ought of his mission so I cannot say if he met with success…" Chuan hesitated, then reluctantly added; "I do know that he and his men encountered some trouble on the way back from… from wherever it was you sent them. Not all of the lads returned."

"In the Land of the Madmen, danger is never far away," the Gholam commented, evincing little in the way of commiseration for these fatalities.

"In the land of the mad, the sane man is King!" Chuan quipped, unwisely attempting a rather weak jest.

The Gholam promptly stopped walking and turned, eyeing Chuan dangerously. "Are you attempting to be amusing, human?"

Chuan swallowed nervously. "Um…"

The Gholam smiled nastily. "Should you have the misfortune to meet the King of these lands, then you shall soon discover to your cost that he is the maddest one of all!" It thrust the rope-end into Chuan's hand. "Here, make yourself useful and take charge of the prisoner… I grow weary of leading this trembling heifer to market…" Chuan held the rope gingerly whilst the Gholam turned to the young Witch. "Look at me," it coldly commanded, shifting back to the Old Tongue. The Witch reluctantly raised her gaze, fear-filled brown eyes meeting soulless black. "If you attempt to channel, I shall snap your spine like a straw," the Gholam warned.

"I won't!" the terrified Witch assured her captor.

"She can channel?" Chuan croaked. It seemed he understood the Old Tongue.

"Not near to me she cannot," the Gholam growled, "so stay close, jester." It resumed its progress, Chuan following-on with the captive, who he watched over his shoulder with exaggerated caution, as though afeared that she might sprout fangs and claws, or breathe fire. The Witch did none of these things; simply walked along, resigned to an uncertain fate. Her spirit was broken. The Gholam had broken it.

Up ahead; the trees opened out to reveal a large clearing thronged with Darkfriends; the scorched skeleton of a small ship languishing at one end, an ancient, grey column set at the other. The Witch stared at this crumbling artefact, which had a double row of arcane symbols carved about its circumference. "The Everstone!" she gasped. The Gholam eyed her warningly; her mouth snapped shut, eyes swiftly lowered to her feet.

Untidy piles of blanket-rolls were stacked around a dozen scattered cook-fires, while a big tent had been erected beneath a towering tree at the clearing's centre. The same tree that the gold and silver chest had been buried beneath… the Gholam frowned. It did not know what had been inside that ornate box, the channeling human paramour of the Mistress had not revealed the contents within its hearing. Like its former Master, the Traitor Chaime Kufer who had caught and reconditioned the Shadow-spawned assassin long ago, the Gholam had never liked to not know things...

Chuan led the way toward the tent, awkwardly towing the prisoner along behind him. The numerous Shadowsworn brigands loitering about the clearing watched the Gholam warily as it stalked past. Some of these Friends of the Dark appeared to be wounded, the Gholam disinterestedly noted, brows and arms swathed in crude, gore-soaked bandages. The sweet scent of the blood hung tantalisingly in the air… the Gholam inhaled slowly, savouring it.

Within the large tent; the Tuatha'an assassin, Ranim, now clad in more muted shades than the clownish colours he had worn when the Gholam first encountered him, knelt beside a log serving as a bench. A big, thickly-bearded Darkfriend sat upon it, a great brute of a man whom the Gholam vaguely recognised as Ranim's second, though it did not know his name or care to discover what he was called. The hulking Darkfriend had his shirt off, revealing a broad, overly-hairy chest and bulging biceps, one of which was marred by a deep gash, blood running freely from the wound. The Gholam inhaled again; the injured oaf was foul-smelling, true, but the aroma of his blood was certainly appetising. Neither of the Shadowsworn killers immediately noticed the Gholam, standing at the tied-back tent-flap, watching them…

Ranim was actively engaged in plying a curved needle and dark thread through the sliced skin in his comrade's arm, closing the wound up. The burly lieutenant had his eyes squeezed tightly shut and was making loud, groaning noises in response to this painful procedure.

"Quit whinging, Vaale!" Ranim chided, "I am nearly done."

"It flaming-well hurts!" Vaale gritted between uneven, yellowing teeth.

Ranim scowled, viciously digging the needle in unnecessarily deep. Vaale yelped. "You are a big baby!" Ranim declared scornfully, tugging the thread taught, knotting it deftly and leaning in to bite off the end. "There. Finished."

"Good!" Vaale growled, opening his bloodshot eyes and producing a silver flask from which he took a gulp. He lowered the container and noticed the Gholam, observing him. Or rather, its blank gaze was fixated by the blood running down his bare arm. "Your friend is back, Ranim," Vaale reported, eyeing the Gholam askance as it stepped silently into the tent. Ranim rose smoothly, cold, blue eyes fixed upon the Gholam, betraying none of the fear that the other Darkfriends evinced.

"Trouble?" the Gholam asked, softly.

Ranim shrugged. "You could say that…"

Chuan appeared behind the Gholam, ducking his head under the tent-flap. "Ranim, Big Vaale," he acknowledged, sketching a salute, then tugged on the rope he held in his other hand. The captive Witch staggered into the tent behind him and stood meekly, looking down at her bound wrists.

"Who is that?" Big Vaale wondered, before taking another drink from his flask, then added as an afterthought; "if you're going to put her to the question and then kill her, I don't mind volunteering for the duty..?"

"Your enthusiasm is duly noted," Ranim commented sardonically, pulling a rag from his belt and making to wipe the wet blood from Big Vaale's arm.

"Allow me," the Gholam offered, slipping over to them and taking the piece of cloth from Ranim. The Gholam glanced at it, then dropped the rag onto the canvas floor and leant swiftly toward Big Vaale… he flinched away but not in time to prevent the Shadowspawned assassin from extending a long tongue and licking the blood from his arm with a swift motion. Vaale gaped up at the Gholam as it straightened, fastidiously dabbing a spot of gore from its lips, an expression of momentary satisfaction colouring its blank features. "Ahh…" sighed the Gholam, "a full-bodied vintage…"

Ranim smiled one of his rare, icy smiles at Big Vaale. "There, Vaale," he observed, "despite your base appearance and lowly origins, it would seem that you have a hint of something more exclusive running through your veins…"

Big Vaale ventured a sickly simper in response to this awkward badinage, but his murky eyes darted nervously toward the Gholam and he inched further along the log to put more distance between himself and the dread creature. He then produced a grubby handkerchief and began to bind it about his freshly-stitched wound.

The Gholam ignored Big Vaale in favour of staring expectantly at Ranim. "Well? Did you find it?" the Shadowspawn coldly enquired.

Ranim nodded, raising his left hand. The Gholam was aware that usually, the Tuatha'an assassin scorned all manner of rings, since they might tap against the hilt of a weapon and give him away to whichever victim he was stalking, but now he wore a platinum circlet about his index finger. "It was where you said it would be hid," Ranim confirmed, "but there were others already there, searching. We had to kill them before we could retrieve this device, but as we were leaving, many more came and attacked, pursuing us into the forest. We slew some and eluded the rest. I lost seven men."

"Nearly eight," Big Vaale grumbled.

"Burn my soul, Big Vaale, but I had no idea you could count so high!" Chuan joked, grinning in an addled fashion.

Big Vaale glared at the Shadowsworn Tairen swordsman, half-rising from the log, before sinking back down again. "My head is spinning," he complained, once more raising his flask to his thick lips.

"Then you had best stop guzzling that apple-brandy, Vaale," Ranim snapped, snatching the flask from his second-in-command, replacing the stopper and tossing it to Chuan, who dropped the rope-end and caught the container neatly, tucking it into his belt. Big Vaale frowned, then sighed mournfully, rubbing his head.

"This foe you encountered," the Gholam enquired, "did they have feathery designs painted on their faces, hawk-masks and the like?"

Ranim blinked. "No, not at all… they looked to be a large war party of the local savages, sporting tattooed features, with teeth filed into points. They wielded crude, flint-tipped spears mostly, with a few of those obsidian-bladed knives we have seen."

"Cannibals!" Big Vaale exclaimed dramatically, before adding; "I think they ate that short Domani cutpurse, Huiler!"

"Then I feel sorry for those poor hungry natives," Chuan remarked, "for knowing Huiler and his disgusting habits, I expect the little rat was rather poisonous!" Big Vaale made a snorting sound, then winced, clutching his brow.

Ranim regarded his overly-talkative lieutenants flatly. They nervously noticed and took the hint, Chuan helping Big Vaale to his feet and then assisting him from the tent. Vaale snatched his flask back as they did so. For such a big, lumbering brute, he had surprisingly swift hands. Ranim watched them go, shaking his head slightly, then turned back to the Gholam. "Shall we?" he suggested.

The Gholam placed pale fingers on the Witch's shoulder, causing her to tremble, then nodded. "We shall."

A while later; the Gholam stood beside Ranim, eyeing the ancient column of the Portal Stone. The Witch, her wrists now unbound, knelt in front of them, glumly staring up at the crumbling artefact and its double-line of faded, carven symbols. Big Vaale, Chuan and the rest of the Darkfriends, their numbers noticeably depleted now, lingered at a safe distance, watching the proceedings with wary curiosity.

"I do not see it," the young Witch mumbled, in the Old Tongue.

"What did she say?" Ranim asked the Gholam, in the Vulgar.

"She does not see the symbol," the Gholam translated.

Ranim strode up to the stone, pointing at a particular carving; an inverted triangle with an upward-pointing arrow running through it. "That one there," he snapped at the Witch, glaring dangerously down at her. She nodded hesitantly. Ranim returned to the Gholam's side. "That is the sign for the Portal Stone that lays beside the Dead Sea," he confided, "amongst the ruins of M'Jinn, once a city of the Age of Legends."

"I well-recall the razing of M'Jinn," the Gholam commented nostalgically, "the heat-blooms from the plasma bombardments lit the night sky as far away as Shayol Ghul… my Sisters and Brothers and I stood above the Valley of Thakan'dar, watching until dawn, alongside our maker, the Chosen Aginor … it is one of my earliest memories." Ranim eyed the Gholam sidelong, raising an eyebrow. The Witch had turned her head, peering curiously up at the Gholam. It glared at her. "Concentrate upon your task!"

"Why?" the Witch moaned fatalistically, "even if I aid you in... in whatever this is that you mean to do, you will only murder me when I am done, as you butchered the rest of my Coven!"

"Coven?" Ranim repeated, "that does not sound like Old Tongue..?"

"It is what the Witches of this Land group themselves into, in stead of Ajah," the Gholam explained, in bored tones.

"I am no Witch!" the Witch denied, revealing that she understood and spoke the Vulgar, albeit with a thick accent, "I am Aes Sedai!"

Ranim and the Gholam exchanged sceptical glances.

"If you are Aes Sedai, then where is the shawl of your ajah?" Ranim enquired.

"And your serpent-ring?" the Gholam added.

"I need neither!" the Witch cried, placing a hand over her heart, "I am Aes Sedai in here, that is all that matters!" Then, the momentary defiance deserted her and she hung her head. "You will kill me when I am of no further use to you," she whispered dolefully.

"I shall not," the Gholam promised, "assist us and you will not be harmed by myself in any way… I swear it upon the Divinity of the Great Lord of the Dark."

After a moment, the Witch slowly raised her gaze, a trace of hope in her dull eyes. "What must I do?" she asked, tremulously.

"Channel as much Spirit as you are able into both Stone and Ring, whilst maintaining the requisite symbol uppermost in your mind," the Gholam commanded.

Ranim held up his hand illustratively, extending the index finger upon which he yet wore the ancient ring-ter'angreal that he had fetched at the Gholam's behest. "What was that place, where you told me to seek this ring-device?" he wondered.

"The Collam Aman," the Gholam answered, in noncommittal tones.

"Dragon College!" the Witch moaned, "tis cursed! None return from there..."

"I did," Ranim smugly pointed-out, neglecting to mention that seven of his men had not been quite so fortunate.

The Gholam eyed Ranim sidelong. "Incidentally, the Collam is where the Dragonspawn and its vile kin were created," it revealed, pointedly.

Ranim raised reddish eyebrows, then narrowed his predatory eyes. "What is the Dragonspawn?" he desired to know, "it is clearly no more human than you, Gholam… what purpose does it serve? Whyever was it made?"

"Why do you think?" the Gholam snarled, "set a Construct to kill a Construct! My kind were created to destroy Aes Sedai, whilst the duty of the Dragonspawn was to counter us, eliminate us, to guard against the Gholamin…" Its voice became reflective. "I recall the Dragonspawned creature, from my time inured within the Collam Doon, up in the north… it was young then, had yet to achieve its full potential… it used to come and look at me sometimes, staring through the view-slit in my cell door with its strange, beast's eyes. We never spoke to one another… what was there to say? And later, I sensed it when the Dragonspawn slew one of my Brothers, sent to assassinate the accursed Shadar Nor... even from afar, I felt the death of another Gholam." It paused, before musing softly; "until then, I had not thought that we could die…"

Ranim considered this, then suggested; "so… you would kill the Dragonspawn in revenge for your fallen kin?"

The Gholam shook its head curtly. "Vengeance is a human preoccupation, it holds no interest for a Gholam." It smiled cruelly. "No, I shall put an end to the Dragonspawn for one reason only; because its very existence offends me!" Ranim blinked, surprised. The Witch was staring at the Gholam, wide-eyed… the Shadow-spawned assassin scowled at her darkly. "Channel!"

For a time, whilst the Witch knelt before her captors with her eyes tightly closed, nothing seemed to be happening… then, slowly at first, but gradually intensifying, the Portal Stone began to glow. Simultaneously, the ring-ter'angreal upon Ranim's finger started to shine. "It does not look near so bright as when we were sent here through it," Ranim commented, gesturing at the Stone.

"No, it would not," the Gholam concurred, before explaining; "this procedure which we now attempt is merely a matter of communication, as opposed to transportation…"

"The strain…" the Witch moaned, her eyes snapping open, staring fixedly at the Portal Stone that loomed over her, "I know not how much longer I can do this..."

"Weakling!" the Gholam snarled, "maintain the flows or suffer the dire consequences of failure!"

"I believe that I hear something," Ranim muttered, holding the Call Ring close to his ear, "it sounds like… the beating of large wings?" His eyes widened; "it must be the Draghkar! The flying servants of my Mistress!"

"Quickly, speak into the Ring!" the Gholam urged.

Ranim held the ring-ter'angreal up to his mouth. "Dread Mistress? Are you there?"

Silence, then a reedy voice quavered; "Ranim? Is that you, my poppet?"

"It is!" Ranim confirmed, "none other! My respectful greetings, Dread Lady."

"How in the Pit are you able to contact me through my Call Ring, dumpling?" The disembodied voice of Arachnae Kirikil sounded insubstantial, muffled, as though emerging from underwater or through a thin wall… but then, she was very far away, both in space and time.

"Forgive me but I cannot explain all to you right now, Dread Mistress," Ranim hastily apologised, "we will likely not be able to maintain the link for much longer…" His voice became unaccustomedly excitable; "listen; I have found the Gholam!"

A pregnant pause, then; "the Gholam? You don't say… but why is it in the Land of Madness?"

"Madmen," the Gholam corrected, leaning close to the Ring, before adding; "how I came to be here is too long a story for now."

Arachnae's voice spoke rapidly, fervent with the desire to gain knowledge; "tell me this at least, Gholam; were you wakened from your ter'angreal-box by one Guaire Amalasan, the notorious False Dragon?"

The Gholam smiled faintly. "Yes, even he. Though Amalasan believed himself to be the True Dragon. Idiot! Not the worst Master I have served, certainly, though having to scribe his frequent Foretellings became tiresome… I am an assassin, not an amanuensis! But time is short, question me no further… and know this; I shall serve you well, Friend of the Dark. Should you but say the name of an enemy to me, then you may consider them already dead. But in return, I want something."

A shorter pause, then the faint, grandmotherly voice carefully enquired; "and what would that be, now?"

The Gholam scowled, evincing great frustration. "I wish to be me again!"

After a slight hesitation, the faraway voice responded; "I… I am not entirely sure what you mean by that, good Gholam… whatever can she mean, Ranim-dear?"

Ranim answered swiftly, his eyes on the shuddering form of the kneeling Witch who was clearly struggling with increasing difficulty to enable this conversation over great distances. "Dread Mistress; the Gholam relates that it was altered by that long-dead Aes Sedai who made the Dragonspawn, the one those ancient spy-reports you received from the Shadow Library termed 'Traitor.' Now, the Gholam cannot take a life except in defence of its safety or that of its Master or Mistress… it wants be changed back to the way it was before."

"I do," the Gholam confirmed.

"Very well," Arachnae agreed from the other side of the world, "I believe that this may be arranged… I shall send to you a certain Tool of the Shadow who might well be able to accomplish this feat. But Gholam..?"

"Yes, Friend?"

"I shall require more than mere service from yourself in recompense for restoring your true nature… you must grant to me a boon."

The Gholam bared its teeth savagely. "Would the Dragonspawn's severed head comprise an appropriate gift?"

A muted cackling sound echoed from the Ring. "Why, that will do nicely!"

The Witch was spasming now, her hands raised to clutch at her head as she moaned in agony; the glowing light within the Portal Stone beginning to flicker and fluctuate, the shining halo about the Call Ring fading steadily.

"Mistress!" Ranim cried urgently, "may I also please have reinforcements? There has been attrition amongst my command perpetrated by the local savages, who attack strangers on sight… several untoward incidents, including a running-battle through the forest this very day… no few of the men have been eaten…"

"Eaten?" Arachnae's voice was growing steadily less distinct.

"Yes indeed, cannibals abound here, not just Madmen, though some are both!"

"Dear me! How uncivilised! Personally, I have always imagined that the taste of human flesh would vary greatly, depending upon the habits and health of the food in question. I attempted to question some Trollocs on this point once, but they are such dim-witted creatures that it was impossible to obtain a concise-"

"Forgive my unmannerly interruption, Mistress, but this connection may end at any moment, the Witch does not look well…"

"Of course, sweetling, I do apologise… how I ramble on! Tsk! Very well, my caution, I shall transport the rest of the Shadowsworn armsmen to your location also… and good-riddance to bad rubbish!" The ancient Friend of the Dark's voice had faded even more by this, but the Gholam possessed senses which far exceeded that of any human, and clearly heard her mutter under her breath; "though it shall certainly be a punishing chore, to send so many through the Portal, all on my own… I really am getting too bloody old for this sort of thing!"

"My thanks, Dread Mistress," Ranim called, "we shan't let you down!"

"See that you don't, my honey-bun," whispered Arachnae's distant voice, "and do attempt to join forces with Duadh and his people… he and Milly and that peculiar, red-veiled lunatic should have arrived at the Land of Madmen by n-"

Arachnae Kirikil's voice cut-off mid-sentence as the Witch gave a loud, choked gasp and then toppled onto her side, lying still. Simultaneously, both Portal Stone and Call Ring went dead, the glowing light disappearing instantaneously.

The Gholam watched unconcernedly as Ranim lowered the quiescent ring-ter'angreal from his lips and took a step over to the Witch, turning her body with a crimson booted foot. The Gholam noted that whilst the Tuatha'an youth had swapped his brightly-hued clothing for something more practical, he had stubbornly retained these garish boots, in presumed defiance at having his wardrobe derided.

The Witch; the young channeler who had proudly named herself 'Aes Sedai,' rolled onto her back, sightless eyes staring up at the sun. Just to be sure, Ranim dropped to one knee, holding two fingers to the side of the Witch's neck. After a moment, he glanced at the Gholam and shook his head.

"Channeling into a Portal Stone proved too much for her," the Gholam surmised, then shrugged, uncaring. "She was not very strong in the Power, after all."

Ranim shrugged. "I think me that you would only have killed her anyway, Gholam, when she was of no further use."

The Gholam wagged a nugatory finger. "No, that would have been your task, Tuatha'an. I swore not to harm the Witch, and meant it. An oath taken upon the Great Lord is not lightly broken." The Gholam frowned. "Besides…" It closed its mouth, a ripple of something almost like embarrassment passing over its blank features.

"Besides what?" Ranim prompted, as he drew his dark, Thakan'dar-forged knife from its sheath.

The Gholam scowled. "My accursed reconditioning!" it spat, "I may not slay one who channels, unless they first attack me and threaten my person!" The Gholam nodded disparagingly at the dead Witch. "That craven girl cowered and hid whilst the rest of her Coven made their futile attempts to destroy me. I tore them apart."

"That must have been enjoyable," Ranim commented idly, dexterously flipping his assassin's blade into the air and catching it.

"Oh, but it was," the Gholam confirmed. It crouched beside the Witch's still corpse, eyeing Ranim expectantly. "Well, get on with it."

Ranim raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Waste not, want not," he muttered, then deftly slashed his Thakan'dar dagger across the throat of the deceased Witch. Blood welled up out of the wound and the Gholam took a deep breath; soulless eyes glazing over a little. "My Mistress shall reward you well for your leal service," Ranim encouraged the fell, Shadow-wrought creature, "she has ne'er failed me in that regard."

The Gholam blinked slowly, before focusing on Ranim, soulless eyes narrowing. "She had better be telling the truth," it hissed, "for should this Kirikil woman attempt to cheat me of my most ardent desire, I shall soon discover what her blood tastes like!"

Ranim shrugged. "You would have to find her first, Gholam," he pointed-out, "and that would only be the beginning of your difficulties… the Dread Mistress has not survived within this World of the Wheel for some eight centuries by making of herself an easy object for assassins."

The Gholam produced a contemptuous sniffing sound, evidently unimpressed by this assertion. "I would be free to kill again!" it declared, practically impassioned, becoming almost animated for a moment, "slaying whom I wish, when I wish… once restored to my original self, I shall shed rivers of gore, an entire lake of blood, from which may be born the next age… the Age of Shadows!" And with that dark declaration, the Gholam leant forward, placed its open mouth over the cut throat of the Witch, and noisily began to feed.

---

respectfully dedicated to the Mothers, Daughters and Sisters of this World... as well as Wives and Girlfriends...

(...may they never meet!)

GB