02-01-2024, 11:15 PM
Enough time had passed. The emotions stirred by her visit to Ebou Dar had resettled, leaving a fine mist of impartiality in its wake. Routine without Kasimir had continued; her studies, alone and with her ajah, her visits to the city, and her deep contemplations. The morning had seen a combination of those already, including a particular interesting meeting in one of the Brown’s alcove common rooms, which had left her with a parchment scribbled with notes to follow up. These she deposited by her favoured armchair, where she would not forget them. A netted shawl of cream and white slipped from her shoulders, and was laid idly on another piece of furniture – an armoire, she thought vaguely in passing, since the shawl had been a gift and one she would undoubtedly feel indebted to wear again.
Her soft footsteps had purpose, but her mind still lingered with the meeting. If any had been present to witness her expression, it was the epitome of Brown stereotype, brows gently drawn, gaze caught in an intensity that lacked focus in the physical world. Fortunate, then, that she could navigate her rooms with her eyes closed. Her left palm pressed again her bedroom door, and saidar brought tender flame to various ensconced candles within. It was the only room in her apartments she would feel uncomfortable letting another see, the only part of her sanctuary she had made any effort to make her own. Convincing herself she had the right to do that – to put her physical mark on an actual space – had taken time, and made slow advances even now. One might struggle to see how – it was still very much generic – but to Malaika’s sensitivities, it was like a portal to the most private recesses of her mind.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and retrieved the key from her pocket. There was no hesitation; Malaika had made this decision, and arduous though the decision-making may have been, once it was made she did not balk. The ward about her bedside cabinet unravelled at her touch, the faint traces of saidar wrought by her own hand yielding to its mistress. The key turned, the drawer pulled out, and the envelope sat in the shadows within. She pulled it out, memories simmering at its touch, and flicked it open. The page within was folded neatly, and she smoothed it out on her lap. The script at its centre was in Chakai’s utilitarian hand; to the point, nothing extraneous but for the few details he had imparted from his sick bed, perhaps to remind her that the longer she let the wick burn, the less time before even this information would be useless.
She read it twice in quick succession, words carved in mind as if on stone, then the glow inflamed her and the paper burned. She watched impassively as it curled and blackened from the edge, and caught the ash in her right hand, where the heat found no purchase on pain.
Now she knew, and now there was a bigger decision to be made.
It was difficult to train her thoughts to the idea of time, to ingrain within her mind that – if she was going to do this thing – then she was going to have to work to a schedule. There was no leeway to spend a few days contemplating, as she would have liked, because if after her slow and laborious meditations she decided yes, then it would leave her no time to prepare - and that would simply be suicide. So she must organise herself and consider whether she did the right thing while she did so. There was no commitment; she could change her mind – come to her senses – even up until the last minute. It felt rushed, terribly rushed, but she had needed the last few days to steel herself to open the envelope, and the deadline was a thing outside of her control.
It will be what it will be. The Wheel Weaves as it wills… The thought calmed her, at least a little.
The only thing she wished for was an ally, someone she could trust enough to divulge what she was thinking and why. She thought of Byron, probably because he had a knack for making the crazy sound sane. No doubt he would even be able to convince her she was doing the right thing, which would have been welcome amid the flurry of her fears. And, well, if he told her she was stupid, then she would know her plans really were crazy. But she didn’t have the luxury of an outside opinion – not his, or anyone’s. She didn’t trust her sisters to advise her in this matter, because she doubted a single one of them would understand, or would be able to give their advice without salting it with their own interests. And Kasimir? Even if he was not in Ebou Dar, she would not involve him in something so risky. She was truly alone in this.
It was not so bad. Though she wished for someone to talk to, she also knew that an Aes Sedai ultimately made decisions for herself, and she could not expect someone to shoulder the burden for her. She considered this as she sat at her desk, quill held aloft in her hand, head tilted to one side. It was truly strange to not have to answer to someone anymore - to truly be able to make decisions for herself, and reap either rewards or consequences. There were her Ajah Sitters, of course, and the Council, but there was also the fact she was Brown. How many women snubbed their noses at the Ajah because of its reputation for being cloistered and fusty, when it truth it was perhaps the most free Ajah of them all. Even Blues, who travel the world on whim, must rationalise their Causes, must ground themselves in morals. A Brown's only fences were the pursuit of knowledge, and that was such a vast and uncompromised field that Malaika did not think she could detect the fences at all.
I have to know. The mantra of any true Brown, and she wrote it at the head of her parchment, above all the pros and cons she had thus far ordered into neat columns. It someone negated everything she had just written. She had spent years under Broekk Sedai's wing, had even considered White at one time, and it showed in the logical progession of her thought patterns - even in her habitually chaotic way, she liked order and reason. But this... this feeling washed away logic. I have to know...
How time passed quickly when you willed it not to – when you were counting on those seconds and minutes to prepare. She had poured over maps, practised weaves with a precision and diligence she had not needed since the one hundred weaves, researched every obscure eventuality she could think
of – and all the while she maintained her usual appointments and gentle mannerisms, despite the blooming uncertainty and late nights contemplating.
Two weeks had not been long enough, not for everything, but it would have to suffice.
Her dress was unusual, more fitted and practical for travelling. A belt cinched her waist, Kasimir’s daggers sheathed on either side of her hip. A thick cloak negated any self-consciousness she felt over her figure, so uncommonly blatant (by her standards) in these unusual clothes. It felt conspicuous, but in fact cut an ordinary, plain figure. The serpent ring she kept on her finger, for now at least, and she twisted it lightly around her finger, her only outward concession to the tight ball of anxiety she felt within. Her gaze took in her rooms, shadowed in early morning light, and she wondered if she had remembered everything.
A finger strayed to the hilt of one dagger, its weight unfamiliar despite being balanced on both sides. Kasimir had warned her against carrying weapons you were not one hundred per cent proficient with, because more often than not they would be used against you rather than serving for your protection. She understood that, but it was better than nothing. Where she was going, she might not be able to rely on the One Power, and this was as close to a contingency plan as she had. She might have gone to the Master of Arms for aid – one did not have to bond a gaidin or gaidar to benefit from their assistance – but she had been loath to share these plans with anyone. They were too personal, too close to her heart, and she did not want to share them with a stranger. Even if it put her person at additional risk.
The Light send she did not live to regret it.
Do I have everything I need? Her heart quickened in these last moments. A mental check, the rote of it intensifying that flutter in her stomach. Her purse, filled with far Tar Valoni coins, hung a heavy weight in the deep pocket of her skirts. She had checked her satchel a thousand times, unpacking and repacking it with everything she could imagine needing. It lay at her feet, neatly buckled, waiting. Eyes half lidded she counted the contents twice in quick succession, and then her eyes opened, steely in resolve. If she had forgotten something, it was not going to come to her now; she was ready, as ready as she could ever be.
She considered the planes of her furniture, the velvet fall of her curtains, the fresh cut flowers of her sideboard, and wondered if she would ever see any of it again. An Aes Sedai wanted for no luxury, and sometimes Malaika felt a burrowed guilt for how little she noticed the lavishness. She was not vain or proud or over-indulgent, but sometimes ignorance seemed as bad; to not notice when servants scented her bedsheets with lavender to help her sleep, or when they tidied the debris of living without prompting; whisking away empty plates, bundling laundry and plumping pillows – the smallest kindnesses, and that was how she thought of them, despite knowing it was a servants job. How much she had to be grateful for, and she was risking it all on the whims of her heart.
She wondered if she should say goodbyes, then wondered who she would say it to if she could. Some sisters were close, but her life was sometimes… lonely. That feeling had been nestling in her soul since Kasimir left, haunting her nights and urging her thoughts to her sister. Her damane sister, she knew now. That song of sorrow captured her heart, her thoughts, her everything; like calling to like across the distance. Foolish, selfish… human. She was stalling, thoughts running in melancholic circles with all the philosophic meanderings of a White. Allowing her lips to purse, to steel the evanescent emotions within to something sturdier, harder, she lifted her bag and settled it on her shoulder. She turned her back on her room; it was filled with things, trappings of a life that meant nothing if she could not put the power she had built to use. The door to her study opened with a click, and saidar flooded her aspect – bringing certainty and beautiful calm.
The space behind her desk split like molten silver, then widened, shimmering the air like heat. Malaika did not look back when she stepped through.
Malaika blinked, gripping the edges of the basin, droplets of water pooling on her lashes. Cold water slid down her nose, down her cheeks, and trickled from her chin. She watched each droplet as it hit, contemplating the tiny ripples as they spread outwards, before she finally pressed her palms to her face. When she looked up, the face that greeted her in the mirror opposite was not her own. The eyes were dark and unremarkable, the nose stronger in profile. The hair brown, straight, and pulled back in a braid that tucked round and tied at the base of her neck. Over the past weeks she had worked hard on that face, hoping to create a physical representation of the strength and determination she would need. And to erase any trace of her ancestry; that was imperative.
She turned away. The cold water hadn’t eased her anxiety or cleared her head, but it had been better than brooding – better than worrying. It was a strange sort of stasis up here, counting the moments before she would descend to the common room below, and then her thread in the pattern would play out its fate. In these last moments of calm she paced. The room about her was small and serviceable; thin mattress, warm blankets; a water basin and mirror, an antiquated chest of drawers. No hearth, but a thick, well-worn rug over the floor-boards. The shutters fit well, preventing any draft, and there were no unwanted guests. It was far from the comforts she was used to, but it was the least of her thoughts.
She was at an inn on the edge of a merchant route in rural Altara. At this time of year it was near vacant of patrons, but there were enough that she didn’t feel isolated or overwhelmed. That had been part of Chakai’s criteria in establishing this meeting; somewhere out of the way, alone. She was not sure how he had managed that, and kept herself from wondering too deeply. All her brother had been willing to impart was that she was to be representative of a party interested in seeking a sul’dam’s aid. The Empire must have changed much if sul’dam were open to such private persuasions, but it had been many, many years since Malaika had shared anything of Seanchan but her blood. It was enough that the meeting would take place at all, and should she find herself in a dangerous situation as consequence… well, she had been aware of the risks before she had ever woven the silvery Gate to Ebou Dar.
She had arrived early with thought to steel herself, but now that she was here she only felt anxious impatience. It had taken three days to travel from the Gate she had opened outside Ebou Dar, to here; she had planned her route carefully, and had encountered no problems. Everything had run smoothly. Too smoothly, if she was going to be cynical, but she choose to believe in her own control of the situation. She wondered if that control would fall apart when she saw the collar about her sister’s throat. Sweet Zurafai, the single hope that had comforted her for most of her life since the collar. Anger swelled, and hope and despair and determination.
I am coming for you Zurafai, I am coming.
Her soft footsteps had purpose, but her mind still lingered with the meeting. If any had been present to witness her expression, it was the epitome of Brown stereotype, brows gently drawn, gaze caught in an intensity that lacked focus in the physical world. Fortunate, then, that she could navigate her rooms with her eyes closed. Her left palm pressed again her bedroom door, and saidar brought tender flame to various ensconced candles within. It was the only room in her apartments she would feel uncomfortable letting another see, the only part of her sanctuary she had made any effort to make her own. Convincing herself she had the right to do that – to put her physical mark on an actual space – had taken time, and made slow advances even now. One might struggle to see how – it was still very much generic – but to Malaika’s sensitivities, it was like a portal to the most private recesses of her mind.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and retrieved the key from her pocket. There was no hesitation; Malaika had made this decision, and arduous though the decision-making may have been, once it was made she did not balk. The ward about her bedside cabinet unravelled at her touch, the faint traces of saidar wrought by her own hand yielding to its mistress. The key turned, the drawer pulled out, and the envelope sat in the shadows within. She pulled it out, memories simmering at its touch, and flicked it open. The page within was folded neatly, and she smoothed it out on her lap. The script at its centre was in Chakai’s utilitarian hand; to the point, nothing extraneous but for the few details he had imparted from his sick bed, perhaps to remind her that the longer she let the wick burn, the less time before even this information would be useless.
She read it twice in quick succession, words carved in mind as if on stone, then the glow inflamed her and the paper burned. She watched impassively as it curled and blackened from the edge, and caught the ash in her right hand, where the heat found no purchase on pain.
Now she knew, and now there was a bigger decision to be made.
It was difficult to train her thoughts to the idea of time, to ingrain within her mind that – if she was going to do this thing – then she was going to have to work to a schedule. There was no leeway to spend a few days contemplating, as she would have liked, because if after her slow and laborious meditations she decided yes, then it would leave her no time to prepare - and that would simply be suicide. So she must organise herself and consider whether she did the right thing while she did so. There was no commitment; she could change her mind – come to her senses – even up until the last minute. It felt rushed, terribly rushed, but she had needed the last few days to steel herself to open the envelope, and the deadline was a thing outside of her control.
It will be what it will be. The Wheel Weaves as it wills… The thought calmed her, at least a little.
The only thing she wished for was an ally, someone she could trust enough to divulge what she was thinking and why. She thought of Byron, probably because he had a knack for making the crazy sound sane. No doubt he would even be able to convince her she was doing the right thing, which would have been welcome amid the flurry of her fears. And, well, if he told her she was stupid, then she would know her plans really were crazy. But she didn’t have the luxury of an outside opinion – not his, or anyone’s. She didn’t trust her sisters to advise her in this matter, because she doubted a single one of them would understand, or would be able to give their advice without salting it with their own interests. And Kasimir? Even if he was not in Ebou Dar, she would not involve him in something so risky. She was truly alone in this.
It was not so bad. Though she wished for someone to talk to, she also knew that an Aes Sedai ultimately made decisions for herself, and she could not expect someone to shoulder the burden for her. She considered this as she sat at her desk, quill held aloft in her hand, head tilted to one side. It was truly strange to not have to answer to someone anymore - to truly be able to make decisions for herself, and reap either rewards or consequences. There were her Ajah Sitters, of course, and the Council, but there was also the fact she was Brown. How many women snubbed their noses at the Ajah because of its reputation for being cloistered and fusty, when it truth it was perhaps the most free Ajah of them all. Even Blues, who travel the world on whim, must rationalise their Causes, must ground themselves in morals. A Brown's only fences were the pursuit of knowledge, and that was such a vast and uncompromised field that Malaika did not think she could detect the fences at all.
I have to know. The mantra of any true Brown, and she wrote it at the head of her parchment, above all the pros and cons she had thus far ordered into neat columns. It someone negated everything she had just written. She had spent years under Broekk Sedai's wing, had even considered White at one time, and it showed in the logical progession of her thought patterns - even in her habitually chaotic way, she liked order and reason. But this... this feeling washed away logic. I have to know...
How time passed quickly when you willed it not to – when you were counting on those seconds and minutes to prepare. She had poured over maps, practised weaves with a precision and diligence she had not needed since the one hundred weaves, researched every obscure eventuality she could think
of – and all the while she maintained her usual appointments and gentle mannerisms, despite the blooming uncertainty and late nights contemplating.
Two weeks had not been long enough, not for everything, but it would have to suffice.
Her dress was unusual, more fitted and practical for travelling. A belt cinched her waist, Kasimir’s daggers sheathed on either side of her hip. A thick cloak negated any self-consciousness she felt over her figure, so uncommonly blatant (by her standards) in these unusual clothes. It felt conspicuous, but in fact cut an ordinary, plain figure. The serpent ring she kept on her finger, for now at least, and she twisted it lightly around her finger, her only outward concession to the tight ball of anxiety she felt within. Her gaze took in her rooms, shadowed in early morning light, and she wondered if she had remembered everything.
A finger strayed to the hilt of one dagger, its weight unfamiliar despite being balanced on both sides. Kasimir had warned her against carrying weapons you were not one hundred per cent proficient with, because more often than not they would be used against you rather than serving for your protection. She understood that, but it was better than nothing. Where she was going, she might not be able to rely on the One Power, and this was as close to a contingency plan as she had. She might have gone to the Master of Arms for aid – one did not have to bond a gaidin or gaidar to benefit from their assistance – but she had been loath to share these plans with anyone. They were too personal, too close to her heart, and she did not want to share them with a stranger. Even if it put her person at additional risk.
The Light send she did not live to regret it.
Do I have everything I need? Her heart quickened in these last moments. A mental check, the rote of it intensifying that flutter in her stomach. Her purse, filled with far Tar Valoni coins, hung a heavy weight in the deep pocket of her skirts. She had checked her satchel a thousand times, unpacking and repacking it with everything she could imagine needing. It lay at her feet, neatly buckled, waiting. Eyes half lidded she counted the contents twice in quick succession, and then her eyes opened, steely in resolve. If she had forgotten something, it was not going to come to her now; she was ready, as ready as she could ever be.
She considered the planes of her furniture, the velvet fall of her curtains, the fresh cut flowers of her sideboard, and wondered if she would ever see any of it again. An Aes Sedai wanted for no luxury, and sometimes Malaika felt a burrowed guilt for how little she noticed the lavishness. She was not vain or proud or over-indulgent, but sometimes ignorance seemed as bad; to not notice when servants scented her bedsheets with lavender to help her sleep, or when they tidied the debris of living without prompting; whisking away empty plates, bundling laundry and plumping pillows – the smallest kindnesses, and that was how she thought of them, despite knowing it was a servants job. How much she had to be grateful for, and she was risking it all on the whims of her heart.
She wondered if she should say goodbyes, then wondered who she would say it to if she could. Some sisters were close, but her life was sometimes… lonely. That feeling had been nestling in her soul since Kasimir left, haunting her nights and urging her thoughts to her sister. Her damane sister, she knew now. That song of sorrow captured her heart, her thoughts, her everything; like calling to like across the distance. Foolish, selfish… human. She was stalling, thoughts running in melancholic circles with all the philosophic meanderings of a White. Allowing her lips to purse, to steel the evanescent emotions within to something sturdier, harder, she lifted her bag and settled it on her shoulder. She turned her back on her room; it was filled with things, trappings of a life that meant nothing if she could not put the power she had built to use. The door to her study opened with a click, and saidar flooded her aspect – bringing certainty and beautiful calm.
The space behind her desk split like molten silver, then widened, shimmering the air like heat. Malaika did not look back when she stepped through.
Malaika blinked, gripping the edges of the basin, droplets of water pooling on her lashes. Cold water slid down her nose, down her cheeks, and trickled from her chin. She watched each droplet as it hit, contemplating the tiny ripples as they spread outwards, before she finally pressed her palms to her face. When she looked up, the face that greeted her in the mirror opposite was not her own. The eyes were dark and unremarkable, the nose stronger in profile. The hair brown, straight, and pulled back in a braid that tucked round and tied at the base of her neck. Over the past weeks she had worked hard on that face, hoping to create a physical representation of the strength and determination she would need. And to erase any trace of her ancestry; that was imperative.
She turned away. The cold water hadn’t eased her anxiety or cleared her head, but it had been better than brooding – better than worrying. It was a strange sort of stasis up here, counting the moments before she would descend to the common room below, and then her thread in the pattern would play out its fate. In these last moments of calm she paced. The room about her was small and serviceable; thin mattress, warm blankets; a water basin and mirror, an antiquated chest of drawers. No hearth, but a thick, well-worn rug over the floor-boards. The shutters fit well, preventing any draft, and there were no unwanted guests. It was far from the comforts she was used to, but it was the least of her thoughts.
She was at an inn on the edge of a merchant route in rural Altara. At this time of year it was near vacant of patrons, but there were enough that she didn’t feel isolated or overwhelmed. That had been part of Chakai’s criteria in establishing this meeting; somewhere out of the way, alone. She was not sure how he had managed that, and kept herself from wondering too deeply. All her brother had been willing to impart was that she was to be representative of a party interested in seeking a sul’dam’s aid. The Empire must have changed much if sul’dam were open to such private persuasions, but it had been many, many years since Malaika had shared anything of Seanchan but her blood. It was enough that the meeting would take place at all, and should she find herself in a dangerous situation as consequence… well, she had been aware of the risks before she had ever woven the silvery Gate to Ebou Dar.
She had arrived early with thought to steel herself, but now that she was here she only felt anxious impatience. It had taken three days to travel from the Gate she had opened outside Ebou Dar, to here; she had planned her route carefully, and had encountered no problems. Everything had run smoothly. Too smoothly, if she was going to be cynical, but she choose to believe in her own control of the situation. She wondered if that control would fall apart when she saw the collar about her sister’s throat. Sweet Zurafai, the single hope that had comforted her for most of her life since the collar. Anger swelled, and hope and despair and determination.
I am coming for you Zurafai, I am coming.
![[Image: cherry-blosson.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/cherry-blosson.png)