Filling the Days

[Morven]

Devika Sirideán

Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah

✥

Though Devika was determined to hold herself unreadable inside, as unmarked as cold steel, Jole provoked a fury in her chest that darkened the ire in her eyes. He didn’t deny his intention, and his goad suggested he thought her lacking; that she must be further led towards the judgement that Arikan must be dealt with, one way or another. Oh, she had no intention of leaving the dreadlord free on his merry way, now that she knew not only that he lived but that he was integral to the Shadow’s plans. But while Jole could be relied upon for his docility when it suited him for survival, Arikan had nothing to recommend him to their cause. A weapon that could not be used must be destroyed for precisely the reasons Jole so blithely stated – to prevent it falling into the hands of another.

But she realised the slippery creature in front of her was her best chance of finding the light-forsaken man in the first place. A man who evaded both Light and Shadow this past decade and longer.

And Ashtaroth knew it as well as she did.

She considered that any of the Forsaken could grant him at least part of what he apparently wanted – the return of his gift. Should any of them find the motivation for it at least, and that seemed unlikely after thirty years abandoned as the Dragon’s lapdog. But none of them might grant the latter of his desires – the freedom to renege on his dark oaths.

Only the Dragon’s victory could do that.

It did not safeguard her life, of course. Nor did it mean he would not betray her should he find a better way to achieve his ends. But use worked both ways, and Devika’s life was a paltry thing when compared to the fate of the world. Arikan was a single man, and one made weak enough by circumstance that he’d been driven into hiding. The Tower would condone none of this, not even if the Dragon demanded it, and he would not. Jole’s allies were few and thin, and for now Devika was the best shot he had.

She gave a short, irritated sigh.

“I cannot protect you in the world of dreams,” she said eventually. For all her fieriness she was not without calculation. Jole was unlikely to risk himself; she trusted that was true, even if she didn’t trust anything else. The words were a wrench, but they were blunt. Even with a ter’angreal to enter, she would not risk the disadvantage – she had no power there, no experience. Bait or bargain, she didn’t enquire which Jole intended – she would not believe whatever yarn he spun anyway. Whichever it was, once Arikan realised someone was on his tail, she did not imagine he would ignore it. 

Her thoughts instead moved to her own plans. She needed to speak with the Highest. Light how she hated Tar Valon. Jole would feel the shift in her emotions, the sense of focus. The anger eased away, replaced with her habitual sultry manner. “I want you to enjoy what's left of your evening, Jole. A bath would indeed not go amiss. Tonight we finally put you to work, and you prove your worth.”

[Sámiel]

((Continued from Triumph))


The gold still weighed warm in Roedrick's pocket as hurried through the Stone. This part of the fortress was quieter than the rest: thicker floors, fewer guards, the kind of quietude that came with guest quarters.

He reached the door and hesitated only a moment before raising his fist and rapping twice, firm but not aggressive.

Moments passed.

Then the door cracked open.

Master Jorin stood in a tunic and no pants, eyes bleary, dark curls tangled from sleep. He blinked down at the servant with the slow irritation of a man pulled from slumber.

“What is it?”

“Begging your pardon, Master Jorin,” he said, bowing low. “There’s a man at the South Gate. Says his name is Cassius Grimwood. He told me to tell you… he brings word of your mother. He said you’d want to hear it.”

Jorin’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Now? In the middle of the bloody night?”

“He insisted it was urgent, sir.” The servant hesitated, then added, “Paid double just to make sure you came quick.”

That gave Jorin pause. “What’s he look like?”

The servant swallowed and tried to find the right words. “Pale. Too pale. Hair like white ash, high-cut and wild like he forgot what a brush is. Dressed in black from throat to boot. Gloves, too. Tall coat, real fine. Looked military, I'm not sure. And he’s got these dark round spectacles like he’s hiding from the sun.”

Jorin stared at him for a moment, all sleep gone from his face.

“Fine. Wait here. I'll put on some bloody pants," he said.

The servant bowed again, waiting.