There is so much honey around I feel like I'm in a beehive!

That's right, despite the ridiculously lax temporary raising requirements I went ahead with my plan anyway and now I am here. And I feel the love.

Laughing, Michael prodded Tigara with the stick. “That nicely brings me to your next lesson. Channelling has limits, and if you go beyond your limits of strength or endurance bad things will happen. Like that, only lethal. Congratulations are in order. You managed to not completely screw up and in a way that I’ll accept as a pass, completed your assignment. You’ve had enough for one night. Go get some rest and you’ll be here the same time tomorrow and we’ll continue. If you are late, I expect to find you a stain on your chamber wall. Clear? Good. Go.”

Michael wandered off to do something more important: comb his hair.

The next day Tigara was again in the courtyard before him. Thankfully, despite Michael’s misgivings the boy had not given into temptation and gotten himself killed. It was a nice start. Now if the boy could continue that same trick for the next five years he just might have a shot at survival. For a time.

“Yesterday you channelled fire. Today you will channel the other elements. One of, maybe two, but no more. Do not be worried that you tire easily or that your stamina is not what it should be. Familiar territory for you, I’d say. And thankfully, unlike your other problem, this one will go away with time and practise.

“I think to start with we will go with water. I do not have a cup so you are going to use your hands. Watch me, and do what I do.” Michael channelled another simple weave, that of water, into a cupped hand (one of his own, of course), showed his student and then let the water run off his palm. “Males are naturally weaker in the elements of water and air. This is a general rule like the colours of the elements. There are exceptions. Do not feel bad if this one is harder than the last, though it seems simpler.

"And I still have my stick.”

A channeller who pretended to be a Queen of Illian even when she wasn't. We had to kill her in quite a battle. The expression on Emelia’s face halted, her body ceased all movement. For but a flicker in time she appeared to consider, watching Arette intently. The hair upon her head began to waver, the hem of her dress caught in breeze without source. No breeze; heat. In that moment Emelia struck.

A sphere of heat, discernable as ripples in the air, expanded around her. The roar from her mouth was accompanied by a raw of whooshing fire as the sphere combusted with a surge of flame. Arette, standing too close, was tossed like a child’s doll, as was anything else caught in the blast. The ground around Emelia had been blasted smooth, and in places, glassy.

Emelia scanned the area but was unable to ‘spot’ her foe. She could, however, sense the signature of power and knew her to have survived. That was no concern. Emelia didn’t really like this part of the city any way. Through experience she knew that there were only so many places for an enemy to hide, and that those places weren’t nearly as attractive while burning.

Random buildings, objects, and even empty spaces, shook with sudden and violent flame. Emelia could reshape the city afterwards if she had to, but she would not be stopped. More fires erupted; magical in nature they could be tied off and required no fuel to burn. Like an abstract painter she splashed red everywhere until wherever she looked was smouldering flame, burnt ash, dripping iron and puddles of stone.

She felt desire as the flames rose behind her eyes, awakening her. She wanted to flee, to revel in the shadow of fire alone and without audience. She was not that kind of girl. But before she could give in, bathe her pale limbs in orange glow, she had to eliminate certain threats. Emelia laughed, though she knew the situation was not funny.

“ Nonsense, lad.” Whack! “If you cannot maintain your grip on saidin because of a stick then you aren’t going to be much good anywhere else. Not unless target-practise is an option . . . is it? No, no I didn’t think so. Holding saidin is draining in many ways and it will be some time before you may gain control, safely, for an extended period of time. You are welcome to practise in your room. The walls are very thick. But as my life is infinitely more important than yours, we are going to play it safe for now.”

Michael could not trust that the boy would be too tired to speak. They never were.  Talk, talk, talk without the age or wisdom to just stay quiet. Michael was not about to have his beloved silence intruded upon by a neophyte. No. He’d ruin it himself, first. There was no reason to waste precious moments of what-could-be-solitude if he could shorten this lesson further by speaking now.

“Your next task—no, not yet—is to separate the power into its five basic elements: earth, fire, water, air and spirit. This is not as difficult as it sounds . . . for most people. You, though . . . hm. To make it easier the elements will appear to you in colours and there is, believe it or not, a standard pattern that tends to emerge. Be forewarned that to you this standard may not apply and they may to appear to you in different hues. “

Michael embraced saidin—more like a bear hug and with deliberation wove a simple light. “This is what you want, fire and air. Together they create light. We will build up to this. For now we will try something simpler."

Michael raised his stick and wove fire around its tip until it caught fire. He then tied the weave off.

“This one is easy but still may be beyond you on your first day. You may try it, but don’t get too hopeful or over extend yourself, and  do not be surprised if you cannot do it now, or tomorrow, or even in a week from now. These things happen; the first steps on any journey are the hardest. Unless there is a very steep hill involved. Or a long swim.”

OOC: He thought it would be funny joke to play on the rest of us.

(Yes, you know what this means)

“Are you sure?” Michael was unconvinced and knew how to find out. The stick whirled like a marching band baton: thwack, smack, pow. Okay, 'pow' may have been a slight exaggeration, he isn’t Batman. When no wincing, withdrawing or cursing occurred, Michael was satisfied. “Well, what do you know, you aren’t completely useless . . . or your head is really thick.

“Regardless I want you to explore the void. You will find you are not alone. Without giving you any clues, that other presence is saidin: male half of the source that only we may touch without fear of contamination. Thus does the Great Lord protect His faithful. I’m not sure why he bothers, really. Your first task will be to seize it. Unlike our female counterparts who submit to saidar, we must wrest saidin under our control; force it and direct it. This will not be too difficult for you, I don’t think. You should be used to wrestling barmaids by now.

“Have a care for the lure of the source is strong. You must fight and win or be swept away. And since I am standing close to you, I’d prefer you not do something rash like blow up. You would stain my clothing and it would take many washes to come right. Never attempt to seize the source without the shield of the void or it will destroy you. Try to and you will die. and worse, be in too many pieces to hear me gloat about how right I was. I also won’t be sweeping you up.

“Once you have successfully taken control of saidin I will give you further instruction. Do not be afraid to fail, or to let go. Your survival is more important than immediate success—apparently. Be patient. I will give you what aid I can, but in the end it must come from within yourself. On the bright side, if you fail utterly, you can go back to your little on-foot tour of the blasted lands.”

OOC: James went and broke every computer he has access to at once, so for at least this post you are stuck with me. My name is Sam, g’day, pleased to meet you and let’s get going.

(Anything that follows is in character, naturally.)

Strolling out to the courtyard, Michael thought his self to be early; apparently he was not early enough. His latest charge—Tigara, was it?—was already waiting for him. Fantastic; he loved the eager ones. They were the first to blow an arm or a leg off in their haste for competency, and that was if they were lucky. The unlucky ones . . . weren’t even going to be spoken about, chiefly because it is two am in the morning and my imagination went to bed a few hours ago.

Michael swung a stick about in one of his hands, one of those few innocuous items The Blight could produce. He had checked earlier. With a spare boot. When the stick had not melted the boot, attempted to eat the boot or molest it in any other way he pronounced it safe enough for use in this next lesson. The Flame and the Void. I know: you wanted to know what a stick that can’t even bite has to do with the flame and void exercise; the answer is nothing, actually.

“Good morning, . . . Tigara.” He said, “You have had plenty of time to rest this morning, waiting for me, perhaps? Good. That means we can get down to business. Notice this stick. It is an extension of my hand. You will close your eyes and if I catch them open I’m going to hit you with it. You would think I could use my hand, right? Wrong. My hand feels pain and your head looks incredibly dense. Thus: stick. Close your eyes.”

“Imagine a flame. No, I don’t care what colour, nor what size—and don’t think I won’t notice your eyes open. I am paying attention.” He gave his charge a quick rap on the pate. Tigara’s eyes weren’t actually open, but now he knew Michael meant business. And it was fun. “A flame, picture it. The first thing that will go into the fire is the pain where the stick struck, not that I am convinced you felt anything, but I am certain you didn’t like it all the same.” He thought for a moment. “You will tell me if you enjoyed that, won’t you? I’ll know not to do it again then. Now, feed the pain to the fire, let it be consumed and disappear. Now imagine the fire consuming you dislike of the fact that I hit you.”

“Next allow your ambition to become a dread lord to burn. Imagine it, too, being consumed by the fire; then your pride in your own abilities. Firstly, because you don’t have any, or you wouldn’t be here, and secondly because until you can give these emotions up you won’t ever be a dread lord.  Feed every emotion to the fire: fear, anger, excitement; let it sear through your mind until all that remains is the empty void. This will take time, but I have do all day.”

The shining walls of Tar Valon were magnificent, breath-taking, awe-inspiring—rotten and corrupt. Talon observed them as he again walked through the streets of one the great city, openly and without fear. Tar Valon was the audience chamber of the ‘light’, the White Tower its throne: two symbols of the endless disease aes sedai represent. They were meddlesome and manipulative in ways he might only dream of doing. He admired them in a way: they would commit the ultimate sins to preserve what they believed in and so would he. Only the veneer of righteousness and truth displeased him. Why hide?

He knew the Jester was here, through the dream he had observed that much. Where precisely was unknown to him, and after scouring Tar Valon in the dream turned little up in the way of information, other than an enjoyable distraction, he chose to come in the flesh. For all its gifts Tel’aran’rhiod did follow certain unhelpful laws and principles, which he himself was unable to breach. Not a complete loss, he would not attempt to kill Jester in the dream again, but in the flesh, and this pre-emptive arrival saved him some time.

Tar Valon was more than Cairhein in every way, bigger, more populated, and wealthier, not to mention the distinct lack of Aiel presence but it lacked a certain something: the smell of home. He could not help but long for the humble streets of his upbringing as he travelled further into the town, his disgust for its opulence growing. As they said: there is no place like home.

Jester was an extrovert with a strong personality. Talon doubted that he would attempt to remain hidden for long, if at all and suspected that he would be housed in the most obvious of places. He would be well-known, well-liked, and no doubt have a string women. It was only a matter of time before Talon found him, and when he did, his quest for vengeance would be completed, more or less with the frustrating exception of Rakel, whom he could not discover.

It was only too likely that he would eventually find someone he would recognize, but who that person was, was definitely a pleasant surprise: the woman from Tel’aran’rhiod, the meddlesome one who took it upon herself to ruin his fun—and with children! It made sense that she would be here, though she was clearly no aes sedai, else she would have brought the power against him; they always did in the dream, at least once. Foolishness, really. Talon decided he had time for one more distraction, and so he followed her home.

Slipping into a house without waking any of the occupants was not difficult. Two main things were required, good planning, and luck. He could have waited outside the house for a week without sleeping and it would not have increased his chances of coming upon them in their sleep. Instead, he waited until he judged the hour most likely favourable and stole into the house.

Mother’s were the most difficult to fool, the births of their children heightened their awareness and they could wake at any moment, their minds finely tuned to wake at the smallest sound of disturbance. This did not worry Talon, who was more than secure in his own capabilities.

Navigating through the house in darkness was not difficult. There was less variation in the layouts of buildings than people imagined. More often than not furniture was arranged more or less in the same way as anyone else might do it, centred on a room’s dominant feature or set for a specific purpose. A good assassin remembered this. Self-control was also essential to maintain silent footsteps and balance and remain consciously aware of each forward movement.

He heard the children first and waited. No companioning mothers’ breath came too. He crept closer. His intention had been to simply kill the mother and leave the children to whatever fate The Great Lord granted them, but she was not in the room, and he now had the opportunity to teach her a far greater lesson.

They lay before him, their bare cots emphasising fat, pink bodies wrapped in swaddling. So young and inviting that it made him smile. His hand hovered over the smallest body first, his hand fastening on its throat. There would be no opportunity to scream. Small, pink fingers grasped vainly to his wrist, the tiny body trying to fight off his invasion. It was useless and already he began to feel the struggles easing, the life energy of the boy being released into the cool night air.

The other took no more energy than the first. Although his struggles were greater, Talon’s body weight pinned him to cot, while his powerful fingers squeezed every last ounce of life from him. The most notable feature of this young death was the way the boy’s lipped drooped as he tried to cry for his mother. Tried in vain.

The deed was done and the mother did not stir. He could kill her too, if he wanted to. No, better that she happens upon the lifeless, self-soiled, corpses he left her to find; yes, the greater lesson. There would be no clues. Once she was given enough time to properly exhaust herself with grief, in Tel’aran’rhiod, the truth would be revealed.

Aha! “It do be the face, right? It always do be the face. You be getting used to it eventually. Took me the longest time myself. The short answer to your question do be ‘longer’. How much longer do be depending on you. Me? I be making life difficult for as many people as I could and it do be taking me . . . a while. I be realising once I was lucky enough to wear the banded hem—I be getting to that in a moment—that I be needed to knuckle down. Heh . . . well, Darienna do be teaching me that, anyway. I think I do be taking somewhere about fifteen years?”

“Now, now, no need for that face! Most everything you be learning you be learning while a Novice, they be the ones in the plain white dresses. Once you do be passing that stage to Accepted you be setting your own areas of study and specialisation, doing most anything you be wanting so long as it no do be cross-graining The Tower’s policies. You be able to write home to your parents and family, and if you no do be able to write others like I be able to do it for you until you be learning. You will also have people like me about who be pestering you a lot of the time so you no be bored.”

“It do be a long time, but the share amount of things you do be learning take time and you no do be sorry at the end of it. I be finding it hard at the start to be separated from my parents, Creator knows, but if I do be realising a thing or two in the beginning it no be nearly as hard. There do be reason that you be separated from your family, though they do be hard enough to swallow until you be old enough to understand.”

“Enough Tower talk, we do be here to share a nice meal and you be having an exciting few days. When you be finished we be walking back to The Tower and I be finding some place to put you for the night.” Rory made sporadic conversation while the girl (hah, I’ve never been able to say that before. For once I’m not the ‘girl’; it’s you, you! Girl. Girl. Girl!) ate her meal, so as not to create any awkward silences. When the girl was finished, she and Rory returned to The Tower grounds and . . . did stuff. Namely finding a place for Miya to sleep as that was oh so important to young people.

OOC: I now pronounce this thread completed because yes.

Computer is broken, no access, not sure how long. Just giving you all the heads up.

Naughty. That was what she was being. Naughty. Having been warned to stay away from Tar Valon she simply had to see it, if only because she had been told not to. So far the experience was underwhelming. It may have been huge, filled with brilliant buildings and antiquated architecture that made you want to stop and stare, but you know, there was altogether far too much water. And if there was one thing Emelia truly disliked it was a lot of water.

It was unnerving, almost frightening to be surrounded by so much water. Sure, a person needed to drink a measure of it to remain healthy, that is to say distilled with hops and yeast, but that same person didn’t need to surround him or herself with it. There was enough there to positively sink the city.  It was not very warm hereabouts, either, although that may have had more to do with the season than the monopoly of water. She didn’t know about such things.

Emelia wore a heavy cloak even though her forehead was wet with sweat. She was nice and toasty inside it; the water wouldn’t grip her through the layers of wool and leather. She looked the same as she always did, her curly hair falling in ringlets, her hands gloved and her sword swinging obviously from her hip. No purpose in having a sword if no one could see it.

She stepped into an inn, the sign of which read, ‘The Golden Crow’. She was hungry and thirsty and cold. It would be nice to warm her hands by the fire. And, she added to herself, if there were no fire present she could always make one. Emelia sat down at a bench as close to the fire as she could manage without dislodging another occupant. While she waited for someone to offer her some kind of refreshment she took off her gloves and pressed her finger tips into the wood . . .

. . . Smoke meandered across the table.

OOC: Sorry about the delay, couldn't hit it up last night so I had to wait.

“Whatever you say, Master Aran.” Rory wandered off shaking her head, laughing and swinging the stick about. Aran was without a doubt one of the most difficult people she had ever met, and she could tell that one right off having been considered rather difficult herself at one point. At least he was going to give her training. That was a start.

What the whole stick thing was about she didn’t know, but there was no sense in complaining. Certainly she would learn something from it and maybe it was all a test to see if she really wanted training, or something. She doubted it though; he did seem very genuine in his wish to be quit of her. This wasn’t too big of an obstacle for her.

If Aran handled a weapon in the same manner he handled trying to get rid of her she couldn’t help but learn something useful. There were some sisters who would not have ignored his jabs so easily. Aes Sedai had a tendency to believe their own mystique and consider themselves above other people, above being criticised, insulted or taunted. Rory considered herself a very lucky woman who was given a gift and then taught to use it.

That was that, then. She would return tomorrow, early enough to make sure Aran actually showed, otherwise she would go look for him and she certainly wouldn’t wear anything fashionable, not that she intended to anyway. What a strange thing to say. It was definitely time to grab ale and maybe tell Saline all about her first encounter.

Rory held no such preconceptions as Rory had no idea what weapons training entailed, other than the use of a weapon. Somehow, though, she concluded that a branch picked up from the wet earth was not the commonly used substitute for any kind of weapon, except maybe a broom or a mop. On the chance that she was wrong she phrased her question very careful so as not to cause offence. “This . . . ah . . . this do be what I am going to use? I no do be thinking I be using a stick; possibly a lathe . . . ?”

Rory smiled helplessly. There was not a lot she could do without calling Aran on something she wasn’t even sure he had done and she couldn’t really do that without risking more difficulty. She did not need any more difficulty. Rather, an expression born of both utmost confusion and gratitude passed over her face. “Thank you. What type of oil do I be using to keep it, anything in particular or do it no be mattering?”

The question was a little pointless but she felt herself compelled to say something and it was the only think coming to mind that didn’t sound ridiculous. She certainly had not expected to be given a stick, and definitely not one picked up off the ground that she had to prepare herself. No point worrying about that though, she wa here for training, after all, and couldn’t be expected to understand everything.

“I be having one other question, yes. What next . . ., sir?"  Rory had a sudden prophetic realisation: Aran was going to be the death of her if only he could; she hoped she could avoid giving him that opportunity.

“Oh ho. I do be answering that just as soon as we be finding some place to eat. The first rule of alehouses: no do be eaten where you be drinking. They do be offering food, sure enough, but only so that you do be drinking more. I always do be wondering if they no do be slightly resentful than ale no be enough for anyone. I do be understanding that as it do be fantastic. I do be knowing just the place. Come along!”

Rory Sedai (yes, yes I do enjoy saying that), dropped a few coins on the table and headed for the door. She may have left a little more than necessary for whomever was quick enough to claim it; . . . wasn’t as though she had anywhere else to spend it. Some of her sisters never had enough money, others like her always had too much; she considered it something to use once and a while and to weight her pockets.

A brisk walk and the pair was sitting behind another table waiting for a lot of food. You may wonder what the name of this place is but I shan’t tell you. Frankly, it is not my job to be creative and make-up Tar Valon landmarks and inns and such, for that is surely someone else’s responsibility. However, if you choose to content yourself with the knowledge that they serve bloody fantastic food here, which is the important thing, well done!

She, Rory, was not hungry; this would not stop her supplying food to her new charge, who clearly was.  That would be easier in some ways: she could speak while Miya listened, she wouldn’t be interrupted nearly as often by excited responses and it would be conducive to Rory’s over-all health and well-being.

“Now, I do be coming from one of those Southern lands. You be correct there. Illian; now I do be calling Tar Valon and The White Tower my home as do my sisters.  When I be younger I lived, and worked, in an inn. No surprises there.  I know my way about the taps good as any. The call of home no do be as strong as it once was. The taverns and inns and alehouses of Tar Valon be just as fine in their entertainment and better in their fare . . . nice to travel there once and awhile, still.

“Your meal do be well?”

Mocking her accent was one thing, but doing it that badly was altogether another. She winced as he pronounced every deliberate syllable. Rory had expected trouble, she had been warned specifically that there would be trouble and wasn’t so much fazed as amazed that he would continue to try have her on.  Terribly persistent he was. Now, if only he would teach her with the same level of commitment displayed here.

She grinned again at the second part of his monologue; especially, flailing it about like an idiot. She fully intended to do that, but again, that is why she was there to be trained. For that little remark she would make sure to come off as useless a student as she possibly could, not that this would be hard. Spite was a wonderful thing if used in constructive ways.

When he at last fell silent she simply stared. The last line in particular was somewhat out of place and Rory was unable to decide whether to laugh or . . . what. She chose a middle option, to wear a very genuine bemused expression bordering on a frown. Such a strange thing to say, no doubt said for that reason, as well as the belief that it would be difficult for her to respond to it, which held some truth.

“. . . If you do be referring to you teaching me, then I do be supposing you be right in that I want it. If you do be meaning that in any other way I do be having to tell you: there no do be anything you have that I be wanting. You do be having at least one added appendage that I be preferring to do without.  Good? Good.

“I could be going and speaking to the Mistress of Trainees if I be wanting, that’s fact. But I assure you I no be asking for a replacement, no sir, you no be that lucky. I be telling, maybe, some of the things you do be saying while you do be teaching me. That way I do be getting to watch and enjoy whatever punishment she do forcing upon you.

“Shall we begin now?”

Asking a question without waiting for the answer reminded her of someone she knew, and she grinned against her better judgement. Well, well, well. Rory listened with amusement as the spiel continued; her smile infectious and warm as heat lamp. She was not going to like this girl, she wasn’t. There was absolutely no way! Tough words, but her foe was too mighty and her resistance was slipping. Fortune prick me!

Kicking some shadow butt toppled her, who couldn’t enjoy hearing something like that? It was a perfect reflection for how Rory saw it, with small adjustment that Rory was now more aware of little words like, ‘repercussions’, ‘consequences’, ‘and that light cursed fool head of . . .’ hers. Impulse was great, enthusiasm priceless. Miya not really knowing the full implications of her words was not really a problem for Rory, who wasn’t about to ruin that spirit.

“Hah! I do be Rory Sedai of the Green Ajah sure enough,” she pointed to the green sash she wore around her waist. Conspicuous against the brown of her leggings, “but what that do be having in common with my thirst I no be knowing. Just wait until you be meeting Lillian Sedai of the White Ajah. One of the worst hangovers I ever do be having was a night cradled in the arms of one of her wine bottles. I do be sticking to ale now, thanks much.”

She thought for a moment, phrasing her next words to get the girl’s interest without illuminating on the full danger of the situation. “I do be travelling to the borderlands now and again, almost every year. (It) do be a nasty habit Lillian inspired, I do be travelling with her, as fact, and it do be even more thrilling than you do be thinking. If you do be making it to the shawl, and I no do be doubting you got the stuff, no doubt you be able to come along. We be living a long time, you and I, the time it takes to reach the shawl only do be seeming long until you get there.

“Kicking shadow butt be what we be all about. There be nothing finer than a cool glass of ale and a fallen enemy in the morning, at noon, in the evening—Creator’s bed—there just no be a thing finer. Typical Ajah chest thumping aside, now. As a sister you do be doing most anything you be wanting so no do be limiting yourself by Ajah choice; they do be a good guide but a rough one.  Some of the meanest beatings I ever do be witnessing came at the hands of a yellow sister, the healing Ajah.  And if you do be wanting to see a battling spirit try arguing with a one of the browns.  You do be finding that they all be overlapping and you be free enough in all of them.”

Rory could have told her of the different Ajah and their professions, but she knew there would be enough recruitment pressure to come as Miya progressed and refused to divide separately what was part of a single whole. Another sister or an Accepted would be more than happy to point the pros and cons of each, no doubt. Rory refused, indefinitely.

“I am glad you do be looking forward to your learning, it certainly do be making things easier. I don’t suppose you do be hungry?”

OOC: Bah, James got all pouty so I chucked in the green dialogue.

Rory was grinning so hard that her mouth hurt; the last comment made her laugh loudly, and merrily.  It took her several minutes to compose herself from his initial outburst which had been, without a doubt, impressive. Her laughing pains travelled down to her chubby lovehandles. She wondered if he’d made it all up on the spot of if it was rehearsed. Aran almost earned his freedom with that performance. Almost.

She may have been twice as old as he was but she still had no idea how to respond. What did a person say to something like that? Uppity like only a sister can was a possibility, as was giving in to his demands and visiting the Mistress of Trainees with a complaint or six. Neither of these options would hasten the training she was really quite certain she wanted.  No, she’d decided: stuff him.

“I cannot be saying I no do be warned about you.”  She raised her arms, looked at her belly and then behind at her own backside to make sure Aran was talking a lot of rubbish—he was. “I do be sorry my body no do be pleasing you, but look on the bright side: you no do be doing a lot for me either.  Do be working out for both of us that, as I no do be here for you to look at, and besides, you no do be my type. Sorry. Don’t worry, even if you know do be used to talking with a woman you no do be paying for, I be sure I can run you through the basics.”

“My name do be Rory Sedai, but you be calling me Rory if you be of a mind to, or I be tempted call you Aran Tower Guard, maybe.”  That being said, the young Aes Sedai extended her hand on the off chance that her new mentor, and he was going to be whether he liked it or not, we take it and they could get something done.

Rory Sedai. Fantastic. She didn’t feel very Aes Sedai though, nor Accepted, nor Novice. No, she was the same Rory she had always been with a few minor lessons learnt along the way. Something grander was supposed to have happened, she was sure, some kind of inner transformation upon ascending to the level of full sister that would . . . do something. Instead, Rory Sedai went along as she always had, only now no one told her what to do except for Rory Sedai, which was nice. Oh, and Darienna, but then, some things never changed.

All by herself she decided to pursue training in the combative arts and all by herself she had done so. Not quite all by herself she chose Aran. He appeared to know what he was about, and he was a guard of the tower, warder material or some such, not that Rory really wanted one of those, a lot of added responsibility; a lot of added bother. No, she and Saline together could face most anything and they had Lillian if they couldn’t.  What need did she have for an over-bearing and mothering individual with a sword? None, that’s what.

Melee combat was attractive in its own way or Rory would not in the yards now waiting for her first training session to begin. She supposed that is what they were called, training sessions. Saidar was more powerful than anything shaped from the bones of the earth, stronger than most things, yet she really wanted to have that, too. She was not the most powerful member of the Green Ajah, far from it, and the more skills she possessed the better she could compensate for this deficit.

It was winter still; the air was cold. Rory did not have to see her breath rising to know that, the prickle against her skin was more than adequate proof. She was dressed in pants, sweet, glorious pants, as well as a blouse and shoes and that was pretty much it. A jacket would have been nice but if she were going to be doing anything physically strenuous she would only regret it later; therefore, she decided not to bother.

Saline was a little concerned about all this, she knew that. Saline did not trust this Aran fellow, having heard some less than savoury things about his relations with the tower.  She would not give her anything to worry over; there was no reason to do that. Having made a deal with Aran she would see it through and so would he and that would be that. It needn’t be complicated further. It was nice to know that Saline would be looking out for her, or more accurately, keeping an eye on Aran.

Aran was late: an excellent start. Where was he?

When Rory glared, and she did, she made sure that Darienna was far enough away not to notice; then she snorted and finally looked at her new student. “That be that then, I expect. My name do be Rory, you needn’t bother with the ‘sedai’ unless we do be in public. Other sisters do be expecting that kind of thing and too much change be frying their noggins—your hair do be looking very nice, by the way.”

Rory was not thrilled with the prospect of being responsible for anyone who was not Rory, especially after her own paragon behaviour as a novice and later an accepted. Zalena’s involvement would remove a lot of the pressure from her small shoulders. They weren’t made for this sort of weight. In the mean time Rory had a few uses for her new ward.

“Come along, then. I do be instructed to show you around and that do be exactly what I am going to do . . . starting with an alehouse.” She led, pointing out anything of interest along the way; admittedly there wasn’t a lot that Rory found interesting. The bells in Miya’s hair made pleasant, musical notes as they walked. Light, what was she going to do with a novice?

When at last they reached the alehouse, one of Rory’s favourites, she could not have been more pleased. Not only did those bells make little bell sounds when Miya walked, but they also did when she looked: up, down, left, right, back, forth. It was a nightmare! She was ready to cut them off herself, or the head to save time.   

Rory sat Miya down at a table and ordered two foamy mugs of ale, which she cooled herself. At first determined to drink in silence, she reneged when the tinkling bells continued. She sat her mug down softly, “How about you do be telling me a little bit about yourself. What do you be leaving behind to come here, and do hoping to make it to the shawl?” If she couldn’t drink in silence, she could keep enough of the girl’s attention to silence those damn bells.

Emelia smiled with a small glimpse of sharp, even teeth. It was not a pleasant smile. Emelia knew a game when encountered one. Emelia liked games. She did not remember how many people she had killed in Illian so far, nor how many she allowed to speak first, but not one person had treated her with courtesy or respect. No, and when a porcelain witch was the first to do so, one was bound to become suspicious.

Is this why I should fear her? Unlikely, game-playing was for children. Children—and what was that word—bureaucrats? If that was where the aes sedai power lay, Emelia was going to be disappointed.  They were supposed to be like her, channellers, they called it. She remembered. The old one had harped on about saidar and taints and all sorts. Emelia had paid little attention.  None of that was important.

Her thoughts of the old woman led to her death, and awakened desire.  Her cheeks began to warm. Not here! Her inward message went unheeded and the heat spread throughout her body, causing her breathing to become shallow and rapid, her eyes to glisten and her hands looking desperately for something to occupy themselves with.  When her forehead became damp with perspiration and the heat of her body rose as steam into the air she knew she would have to move fast.

“Illian chose . . . me, of course. I do not really remember how I . . . got here. But now that I am here, I do not wish to leave.” She waved a burning hand in a vague direction, “They accept me here. I can be myself without anyone . . . chasing me. It is refreshing. There is no one else around, except for you, why should I not rule then, in the absence of all others? I would be a good . . . leader.

“I am not originally from here . . . no. I do not remember the city of my birth it was a long time . . . ago. My parents died in a fire, and I travelled a lot . . . afterwards. I may as well be from here as any other place. It makes no difference to . . . me where I hang my hat. Oh, darn. Where did I put that . . . anyway?”

Placing the quill down as though almost an act of worship, Damion pushed the open book forward, signaling that his attention was no longer upon it. Next, he placed the fingers of one hand through the spaces in those of the other hand, and rested the sides of his palm heels on the table. It sounded like a very complicated movement but is not. With his hands in this locked position he could resist the temptation to gesture when he spoke.

He smiled again, an action that came very easily too him, and spoke, his tone careful and well-suited for a library, “I suppose I became interested in zoology at about the same moment I became interested in most everything else, which was some time ago. I grew up as a harvester of sorts; I had my scythe, my clothes, my Bride and my crops. Life was my world view was much narrower than it became later, when I was introduced the idea of knowledge.” Yes, he even managed to pronounce the word bride with a capital letter. Now that is scholarly.

“I’m not in Tar Valon often, and so I take the opportunity, where I can, to visit this library. It is one of the biggest and most comprehensive I have visited, and enjoys certain volumes, such as this, that other libraries do not. And what is better is that you can have a discussion here and disagree without making an enemy who may one day try to kill you.

“I do have to make a certain admission: that I choose this particular book was part luck and part co-incidence. I knew I would visit but I did not know what I wished to read. On my way here I came upon a moth stuck in a spider’s web and decided that today I would be fascinated by arachnids. Well, I saw your book first and so here we are.

“And where does your interest stem from?”

Young woman. Emelia giggled. She was older than the oldest normal person, probably. She did not know how her age compared with others of her kind; she and they weren’t suited for each other. More often than not they would attack her without warning and she had no idea why. A burn first, question later policy would have been smart, yet she did look good in her dress and what was the purpose behind looking good if everyone died before getting a look. Her skirts swished several times.

Unfortunate events? The other woman looked strange. Some people may have described it as ‘ageless’; Emelia did not understand what an ageless person would look like. To her, the stranger appeared like a doll of porcelain, crafted, fake; unnatural; not a person at all. She knew then, that she looked upon an aes sedai. Having heard stories, but never seen one before now, Emelia always thought she would be afraid, or nervous in their presence. She felt nothing but curiosity.

What unfortunate events could the other woman be referring to? She was pointing towards her handiwork and nothing was amiss there. Emelia would know if there was. And then the realization dawned. The other woman was talking about her handiwork; she found this funny and began to giggle behind her hand.

“That’s not an unfortunate event, silly, that was me! I did that. Give me time and I’ll have a palace over there. You’ll see. A queen needed a palace, after all and it is a good spot.”

That's okay, don't all clamour with excitement at once. Just as well I'm not really counting on anyone of you joining per se, or I'd be rather disappointed.

The Red Ajah is about as useful as hitting a trolloc with a rolled up newspaper. And no, not a one-power wrought . . . though, this does give me a smashing idea for a weapon for a character.

And you know why the Green Ajah is green? Well, one day when you're all older, I just may tell you!

Hah, not to mention Abigail. Read the bio board and weep, cur!