Fanfic:Ascending Tradition
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THE YELLOW STEP
Although it wasn’t particularly ‘politically correct’ for him to feel it, Derren Jolstraer had always felt a little...strange around any of the Cairhien nation. The thing of it was that he wasn’t entirely sure why that was. Since coming to the Grey Tower to follow in the steps of his grandparents, he’d had to interact with many different people of many different nationalities. Of course, every one was different and some meshed with each other better than others...but for some reason, he was just uncomfortable around the Cairhienins.
That’s why it was particularly annoying that he had to be here now. Stuck in the carriage of one of the insufferable nobles, riding outside of the capital. This was, apparently, the only time that this man had "free" for the delegate of the Tower. As a relatively low-ranked (read: young) member of the Grey Cord, Derren only had so much clout to throw around. Being a Jolstraer meant very little outside the Tower walls, and less so when that "outside" was not the Borderlands.
What I wouldn’t give for Saldean or Shienaran to be sitting here with me, he thought, forcing his icy blue eyes to show none of these thoughts.
The man--a fat little pompous ass named Noren--was talking. He had been talking non-stop since they had boarded this carriage, and he barely stopped for breath. He only paused, briefly, to mop the sweat off his brow with a truly girlish handkerchief. Again, exposure to so many members of the Tower had taught Derren more tolerance and acceptance, but that frilly little square of lace would look just barely suited to a five year old girl rather than in the hand of a portly, grey-haired noble who said everything like he was speaking in code.
The bloody Great Game, Derren thought. He knew that Aes Sedai and Asha’man were supposed to be as good at it as any of these nobles, and there were and he would be, but it didn’t mean that he liked it.
"Please, sir," Derren finally cut into the constant monologue.
The little fat man stopped and blinked large dark eyes, looking shocked that he had been interrupted, but then Derren realized that there was...something else. Something in his eyes brought Derren’s attention swiftly away from his annoyance and to concern. "Are you alright?" His tone, as ever, was blunt.
Noren bristled and huffed and puffed. "Of course I a--" Then he stopped and mopped at his head again, only this time he looked at the kerchief and realized that it was dry. He wasn’t actually sweating, he was just hot. Derren threw his "correctness" out the window and leaned forward, pressing his hand to the man’s balding head. He grabbed Saidin and used the most rudimentary of Delving weaves--he was not at all skilled with it, but could do enough to confirm what his touch told him.
"Sir, you’re burning up with fever," Derren declared, pushing back to his seat and banging on the roof of the carriage. "Pull over!" he shouted, knowing his voice would carry. It did. He felt the wheels beneath him slow down as the horses were steered to the side and the driver and footman hurried to the door, opening it with concern upon their faces. "Your master is ill," Derren said. "We need a healer."
"There is one in town," the driver said.
"I will go. You two know your master best, so you tend to him." In truth, Derren had a sinking suspicion that Noren would be a terrible patient and he didn’t feel like staying to find out. He was a man more suited to action than nursing. Stepping out, he let the others move in and tend to the noble while he unhooked one of the horses. His grandmother was amongst the best riders in the Tower, and he was no different. The lack of a saddle or truly proper bridle was not at issue, and he’d ride back into town far faster than the carriage would make it and with less hazard for the ill man.
Leaning forward over the large grey gelding’s neck, he urged him to speed. He passed a few other travelers who were moving at a far more meandering pace, but reached the city boundaries swiftly and hurried in. He asked the first man he saw--a baker--where the nearest healer was and made his way to the small house.
Dismounting, he carelessly tied the line to the hitching post and burst through the open door.
"I have need of a healer," he said without wasting any time.
"What’s the problem?" the man on the other side of the room asked as he stood from his desk. He was a willowy thing, like if Derren sneezed on him, he would break.
"I was traveling with Lord Noren outside the city, not far, when he came down with a fever."
The healer’s open, concerned expression shifted in a moment. "Find another healer."
Derren’s impassive demeanor cracked for the knitting of his brows. "Excuse me, sir?" he asked, certain that he had heard wrong.
"Do you know what that man and his house has done?" the healer asked, waving a hand angrily. "Too much for too ill. Why should I want to do anything for him?"
The Grey could not believe what he was hearing. He stepped in like a gathering storm. He didn’t like the noble any more than the healer, apparently, but he was not about to let a man die because of it. "You, sir, are a healer. You have an obligation to treat the patients that come before you whether you like them or not. So you will get on your horse and come with me, and do your oath-bidden work or I will tie you up and drag you with me."
So, Derren wasn’t as good at politics as some others. He would improve. In the meantime, he got the job done. The willowy man glared at him, but the pinching of his lips suggested he realized that he had a duty and would follow it. Without a dimming to the glare, he hurried around the small room, gathering things into a leather bag and asking questions about what had happened. Derren answered them all as best he could and then rode with him out of town...
THE GREEN STEP
Truly, Derren had no idea when he had attained the Cord, just how much of his time would end up being spent in bloody carriages.
If it were up to him, which it seemed to be only about half of the time, he would have done everything on horseback. When he had the chance to travel alone, or just with people from the Tower, that’s what he did. But it seemed that, as a Grey who had many "important affairs" to manage, he often ended up with his meetings in carriages. There were a certain logic to it, as it could be very secluded and private. And privacy could be very useful.
Still, he felt like a bloody ponce whenever he rode in one of these things.
He had spent much of his time during the lulls in conversation looking out the windows, observing the landscape. The one definite positive to this moment was that he was home, back at the Blight Border, and like all children of this place, it sang to him. It was in his blood and even if all his blood were drained, one drop would be left to bring him here.
"Truthfully, I believe that--" he began, turning back from his latest gaze out the window, but he was interrupted by a shout of alarm from the hired guards surrounding their carriage.
The dark eyes of the Saldean lady sitting across from him flashed with her own notice and alert. Her eyes and nose and cheekbones all reminded him of his grandmother, which had been a little disconcerting for a time.
"There is a pack of trollocs spotted ahead," the driver called down to him. "We can’t outrun them as we are."
"So we must fight!" the lord declared, sounding like a true son of the Borderlands.
Derren couldn’t help a faint smile. "You must remain hale if our meeting today is to bear good fruit, sir," he said. "But I am a child of the Tower. And of the Shienar." He looked at the lady. "And Saldea." To ones such as these, he didn’t need to offer any other explanation. They looked unhappy with the idea of remaining in the carriage, but they were a practical people. Both nodded reluctantly and he hurried out to survey the area.
The scene was laid out quite quickly, with the pack--about a dozen full but at least with no Fade in sight--soon to be upon them. Even with his talk of being a child of the Tower and the Borderlands, he was no Green. Oh, how he wished for his grandmother to be there then!
Still, he was a smart man and an observant one. He let the ice and flame of Saidin course through him as he looked behind him. The road they had taken here was too winding. The driver was right, there was no way they could go back. The forest, whose trees looked dead this far north but were large enough to barricade, kept the sides of the road like a fortress. The way ahead had...well...Shadowspawn.
No escape, so they had to fight.
"Someone needs to watch our sides and flanks so that they don’t surround us," Derren said with pragmatism to the leader of the guards, whose grizzled head nodded his agreement as he dispatched two men to hang back and keep their attention as lookout at the carriage.
The other guards formed at line on the road, swords out. There were no archers among them, which Derren found to be poor planning. (But this was hardly the time to say it.)
Battleweaves. The Oaths allowed him to use his power against Shadowspawn, he knew that, but he wasn’t as skilled in these. He feared too much fire or else he might light up the entire forest. The strength of the One Power was great in him, he knew this, but it was more like a club one size too big for him in his hands.
Air, however, he was good with Air. He shifted to the side of the hired guards so that he wouldn’t catch any of them by mistake. He channeled a great battering ram of air that drove into two of the beasts as they charged, brainlessly head-on. It knocked them down and he tried to narrow the Air into wires, like his grandmother had taught him to do. The dexterity required was not his best, but he managed and sliced them up.
Leaving piles of gore, even Trollocs, was not something he aspired to or was even comfortable about, so the steam rising off the severed flesh into the dull shadows was almost enough to turn his stomach.
No time for that.
The others were nearly upon them, and the guards surged into their ranks. He didn’t want to risk harming the men and he was caught in the indecision when he heard the guards at the carriage yell. He spun to see one beast coming in from behind. He brought his hands around before him, driving his column of Air into this beast until it hit a tree.
He kept pushing, feeding his adrenaline into it, pushing so hard that the bones of the Trolloc could be heard to snap until the tree itself broke, and the guards killed those before them...
THE BLUE STEP
The world was a big place.
Despite the dozens of events that took place every day that made it seem smaller, or bigger, it was never anything other than a "big place." The simplest of phrases derived from one’s youth remained the truth. Derren never contradicted that, even in his mind.
From this fact of the largeness of the world came the ease at which every Aes Sedai and Asha’man could have their own Eyes and Ears Network of informants scattered throughout every country known and some that rather wouldn’t be. These networks did not overlapped, and only occasionally collided, and although no Ajah had anything on the Blue, every member with a Shawl or Cord had their own.
Derren was no different. That was why he was in Hama Valon that night, at one of the lesser known (and lesser respected) taverns in the city. While he rather would have been there for pure pleasure, it wasn’t to be the case on this day. If it had been the case, he certainly wouldn’t have chosen this place. It reeked of the perpetual discomfort and ill intentions of its usual patronage.
He sat at the bar, very slowly drinking his mug of ale while he waited for the man he was meeting. Still young, the agelessness of a channeler had not taken hold of him and that made it easier to blend in. He would take advantage of this for as long as he could.
"You stupid b--" The epithet to follow was drowned out by the sound of flesh colliding with flesh.
Instantly concerned, Derren turned and saw the barkeep--a burly man with an apron tied around his waist who had served Derren his ale upon arrival-- with his meaty fist gripping the wrist of a serving girl who had been moving in between the tables. She was a little thing who looked like she needed to eat more often, and he was a hulking form that looked like he ate the food she didn’t. She cowered before him as his rage dominated the air surrounding them.
Brute.
The word bounced around in Derren’s head in just an instant.
This Grey was a man with a temper. He’d always known that. He’d gone head to head with his twin brother often, and even got into fights with his parents. It had gotten him into trouble a time or two in the Tower, but it had never been like that. It was never him exerting power over another in such a way, and he didn’t approve of it.
It wasn’t right.
He was on his feet and moving towards the barkeep before he even realized what he was doing, the aforementioned temper coming swiftly to the service. The girl was chittering something unintelligible and trying to yank her thin wrist out of his grip. Whatever the bully of a man said back to her was equally unintelligible, at least to Derren’s inflamed ears. What he did fully understand was the way the man’s arm rose for another strike.
A strike that never fell, even as the serving girl cringed.
Derren’s own fist had caught it and his deceptive strength stalled the flight, although it took more effort to do so than he wanted to show. The barkeep was thick, and strength to match. But that knowledge only made Derren hold it more, because he didn’t want to think what might happen to that poor girl’s face if his hand landed.
"What’s your problem?" the barkeep spat, looking at Derren.
"You," the Asha’man returned flatly. His temper simmered just beneath his skin, barely controlled and desperate to break free. It had been too long since his rage had been allowed out to play, so contained in his Asha’man coat like it was tied down with that grey-colored cord. "Let her go."
"What’s it to you?" The big man spoke with a low-class accent. The two men were nearly eye to eye, and stood in their stalemate.
"Just do it," Derren said, his eyelids almost twitching.
Something in that icy blue gaze must have convinced the larger man that he was still outplayed and his other hand released the girl. She didn’t say a word as she gathered her skirts and ran off, leaving the sounds of stifled sobs behind her.
Derren let the man go, the muscles in his forearm thanking him for ending the war. No more words and the barkeep huffed, stomping off. The Grey watched him go, assuring himself that the barkeep didn’t go in the same direction as the girl to finish the job. Once he felt safe on that matter, her returned to the bar and let out a long breath. His temper still prodded at his skin.
"There a problem here?" A thick-set woman walked up to him from the other side of the bar.
"You’ve got an unchained dog on the loose in here, Mistress," Derren replied with a mirthless smile as he looked at her. He knew she was the owner of the inn.
She raised her dark brows in her wide round face. "Who, Melrel? He’s got a bark, but ain’t no bite."
The sound of the bully’s name even irritated Derren. "Ask the young serving girl and the bruise across her cheekbone about that tomorrow. I wouldn’t keep a rabid beast like that in my employ if I were you, Madam," he said, keeping his town flat and even. The intensity in his steel blue gaze never wavered. "What if he took that anger out on a patron?"
The Inn Mistress looked disgruntled. "He wouldn’t do that."
Derren resisted the urge to curse at her ignorance. "Can you be sure of that? He always hit your serving girl in the middle of a crowded common room."
"Looks like Melrel needs a new job," the mistress said tartly. "Can’t be having this, can we?"
"No, Madam, I do not think you can."
THE INDIGO STEP
Derren had by now been told, and more than once, that he should really seek out a warder.
Although it seemed counterintuitive for a Grey, the Ajah of Peace, warders could be very important. A Grey would often go into situations that could be contentious or downright hostile, dangerous even, and trickier yet, made up of people. Another Ajah may go into danger, but against creatures of Shadow that there was no doubt in attacking. It was different with people. And, unlike his lineage, Derren was not a martial man.
It wasn’t that he had anything against the Tower’s battle-bred, far from it. He thought them remarkable. Still, he had yet to meet one he got along with for a potential bond.
That was why many of his Brothers and Sisters had been telling him that he was foolish to make this trip alone, but he was also a stubborn man. Just because he hadn’t met someone to bond didn’t mean he didn’t have a duty to the Tower and tasks to attend to. Thus he had mounted up and departed on this particular mission, which is what found his presently riding through Andor.
He was riding through a town come late evening and decided that a real meal was more called for than the travel rations he had stuffed in his bags. They were tolerable, but could hardly be called good.
It was a good-sized town, although not one he knew the name of off-hand. It was big enough that he felt safe enough to stop. He knew that the reputations of and welcomes given to channelers was varied throughout the nations, so it was something that one always must be wary of. Although he didn’t much look like a channeler yet, so he felt well enough about his decision.
Taking a seat at one of the numerous small tables, the Grey ordered a meal from one of the serving girls who passed by. She flashed a bright smile, which he returned with a polite one of his own. They usually seemed a bit flirtatious, which he could understand with the usual clientele, but he never assumed it was personally for him.
He was just turning his attention inward when someone suddenly dropped into the chair across from him. Derren lifted his eyes to see a young man, probably about fifteen, sitting there were a very worried look in his eyes. Pale brows were drawn hard together as he stared unblinking at the Asha’man, who returned the gaze intensely, but otherwise unreadably.
"Can I help you?" Derren asked slowly, eyeing him.
"You’re from the Tower, ain’t ya?" the young man asked, pitching his voice low and wary.
Derren didn’t know how the young man could tell, but he didn’t think the boy was any threat. In fact, he thought that the young man looked at Derren as the worry. The Grey considered the usual obfuscation tactics of his kind, but he decided to be straightforward. (It was generally easier, after all.) "I am."
The stranger cracked his knuckles in what was an obviously anxious gesture. "I’m hoping you can help me then," he said, still pitching his voice low.
"Help you with what?" Derren asked cautiously.
"There... There’s something weird going on with my brother." He leaned forward, crossing his arms across the tabletop. "I don’t think it’s...natural, you know?" He paused and his eyes widened like he realized that what he said may have been offensive to a man of the Tower. "Not that I think you’re not...natural, you know, but... I mean that..." Sighing, he dropped his head on the tabletop. "It’s just things I don’t get, yeah?"
Derren couldn’t help a small smile of pity. "What’s your name?"
The young man lifted his head again. "Wentin," he said. "My brother is Cortin. We’re twins."
That definitely got Derren’s attention, and he thought back to his brother in Shienar. Kerren was married now, and had two children. Yet Derren felt like he was both much younger and much older than his twin, with their experiences being so divergent over the past decade and a half.
"My name is Derren," he replied. "Why don’t you tell me about these strange occurrences?"
It seemed that the question was all the boy needed. He took a deep breath and then didn’t stop to breathe again for probably ten straight minutes, letting this litany of events pour forth: from floating objects, to items that would go missing only to appear in the strangest places, odd pieces of good and sometimes bad luck...
After listening for a time, Derren began to notice something.
"Wentin," he interrupted gently, "have you actually seen any of these things yourself?"
"Well, of c--" Wentin began, affronted until he really thought through it. "I... No. I haven’t, but my brother wouldn’t l--" Suddenly his nervous body deflated. "He’s been putting me on, hasn’t he?"
Derren smiled slightly, but sincerely. "I have a twin brother too."
Wentin’s face screwed up. "I’m gonna kill him."
That made the Grey shake his head. "Don’t. He’s the only twin brother you’re ever going to have, but if you want some suggestions for how I used to get back at my brother..."
THE BROWN STEP
"Derren, you know you chose the wrong Ajah," Lilla Sedai said with humor flickering in her gaze.
He met her eyes with some warmth in his. She had been the woman who had helped him all those years ago, and who he had seen many a time when he had come to the library. He did enjoy being here, because it was so quiet and peaceful. It had been his haven as a Soldier, as a Dedicated, and now as an Asha’man.
"How can you say that when you were the one who showed me to the door?" he asked.
"It was a joke, Asha’man," she said with a chuckle. Now that they were both fully raised, they could--as the say goes--let their hair down a bit with one another. "You just spend so much time here, I sometimes wonder if you second guess yourself."
He peered across the desk. "No, of course I d--" He paused and narrowed his icy blue eyes. "You’re joking again, aren’t you?"
Lilla smiled. "Yes. Now, what can I help you with?"
"I’m looking for a book." (She gave him A Look. It took him a moment to figure out that this was painfully obvious. He was in the library.) He looked at her dryly. "I’m looking for the biography of Jalien Amersson."
That brought the smile off her face and she blinked. "You know, I haven’t heard of that."
Derren’s brows rose. "There exists a book in this library that you don’t know about?"
"Are you sure it’s in the library?"
Now it was his turn to blink. "This is the library of the Grey Tower. Of course it does."
Lilla rubbed the bridge of her nose in that way she did when something perplexed her, which true to her Ajah, many a puzzle seemed to find its way to her metaphorical doorstep. Her eyes drifted and as she lowered her hand, he saw that she had left an ink smudge on the tip of her nose. It made a nice complement to the one on her cheek.
"I really don’t know, Derren. You’re free to look for it." She waved to the shelf labyrinth that was laid out behind her.
"Thank you," he said with a sigh, having hoped for more help than that.
He moved past the desk and into the familiar lines of tomes. Pausing at the mouth of this particular dilemma, he thought it through: he knew where Jalien had lived and what time. There would be a section of that particular time and place, or the general area. That was the place to start and so he climbed the stairs to the second story, and realized that this was indeed a more obscure focus. The second was towards the back. If Lilla didn’t know about it, that meant that no one had been after it for a while. So as he walked, he looked for dust. He wanted to find the dustiest section of this, well, section.
That wasn’t too hard to find, as he sneezed when he walked past it.
Stopping in front of it, he looked up the line of books. Unknown, it likely wasn’t at eye level, so it was either on the shelf near the floor on high up. Kneeling down, he surveyed all of the books but didn’t see it, so he found one of the ladders and climbed up to the top shelves.
And there, at the very top shelf with a layer of dust so thick he almost couldn’t read the spine, was the book he wanted. He wrestled Saidin into his grasp and released a small blast of air, sending the dust scattering aside and showing him the title. He grinned...
...and then sneezed. That was not a well thought out plan.
THE GREY STEP
At this particular moment, Derren was grateful to his own unknowing foresight in keeping his hair shorn short. Because otherwise, he would have been pulling it out by the fistful.
Derren Jolstraer stormed through the halls of the Tower like rolling thunder, scattering servants and Soldiers alike as he did. Fericia practically had to jog to keep up with him. She wasn’t really any more pleased than he was, but she didn’t have his black-cloud demeanor.
"I’m going to have someone’s head on a stick," he declared, but he didn’t shout. His thick voice growled through his slight underbite, which made his teeth look perpetually clenched. The low pitch belied calm in such a violent statement. Derren didn’t always have the best patience in the first place, but mistakes aggravated him. Stupid mistakes upset him. And stupid mistakes born of presumptuous idiocy put him right over the edge.
"Derren," Fericia said, trying to be soothing although the jostling of her footsteps made it hard. "These things happen--"
"These things happen?" he echoed incredulously, stopping his long strides to turn and look at her straight on. "No, they do not. There was no reason at all that Mison Asha’man should have had any hand at all in assigning rooms to guests of the Tower. The place has a chatelaine for a reason!" He felt his voice rising and he had to stop, inhaling slowly through his nose. "It’s not like the Murandians are exactly known for their easy-going temperaments, and these particular noble families have been at one another’s throats for decades."
She too took a deep breath. "I know that," she said, "but--"
Derren held up his hand, interrupting her again. He knew he was being rude, but it was better than shouting. "Mison has had the cord for all a second--"
"Three weeks."
"--and he doesn’t know anything. Working with these families was not his place. He needed to just alert Mistress Wallen that they were coming and needed rooms, and she would’ve done fine. She knows everything that goes on here in the first place. But Mison jumped in and gave them rooms, and now they’re here and we’re like to have a murder on our hands."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he wasn’t wrong and they both knew it. They held one another’s silent gaze for a moment longer before turning on their heels and hurrying in the direction of the guest chambers once again.
By the time they got close and heard the shouting, both Greys worried that they were too late.
Two brawny men with their curly mustaches over goatees were separated by one harried looking Tower Guard. The shouting was too loud to distinguish one from the other, especially once it mingled with the voice of the guard. The guard looked young and the high-pitched tone of his voice seemed to prove that out.
Derren wrestled Saidin into his grasp to project his voice, "Silence, please!"
The sudden appearance of the loud voice was surprise enough to silence all three. Derren and Fericia waded into the mess.
"It’s an insult," one of the nobles declared. "I abhor being in the same country as this man, let alone in the room right next to him! I can see how little respect this place has for the people of--"
"Please, sir," Derren interrupted. He was doing that a lot today. "I assure you that the Grey Tower has its highest respect for its visitors. The room assignments were not made out of a lack of respect, but--"
The other man now joined in. The interruption epidemic was catching on, apparently, with Derren as the plague-bearer. "Then what else could it be? It is only with contempt that such a thing would occur as to put me in a room next to this goat-k--"
Blustering, the first man waved his hand. "You better not finished that statement!"
"And what will you do to stop me?!" the second declared, stuffing his fists against his considerable waist as he glared over the guard’s shoulder.
"It’s being taken care of!" Derren projected his voice again. He turned to the first noble. "We have new rooms assigned for--"
"Why should I have to be the one to move?!" the man demanded.
"--and for you," Derren finished, looking to the second man. The Grey was struggling to remember why it was important that these self-important buffoons to be here... "New quarters have been arranged for the both of you. They are well appointed, and no where near one another. The Tower supplying you each with a bottle of fine brandy as an apology for this oversight."
Both men looked like they wanted to shout more, but the idea of a "gift" from an entity like the Tower seemed to appease them. They shifted uncomfortably from stifling their shouts.
"Now, if you will follow me," he said to the first, and then to the second, "and you will follow Fericia Sedai, we will show you to your new rooms."
Grudgingly, they both nodded and followed.
As he walked, Derren debated whether he should even tell Mison that the bottles of fine brandy were from his personal stores or just let him find it out on his own.
THE WHITE STEP
"This man has been brought before the crown upon the charge of murder."
One of the more daunting tasks that a member of the Grey Ajah, or actually any Ajah, could be granted would be as advisor to royalty. In those nations where channeling was not considered a dangerous abomination, it wasn’t uncommon for a ruler to wish a member of one of the Towers to be at their side. Usually when a Grey was called, it was to aid in mediation and negotiation.
And that was why Derren had been in Kandor. The queen wished a representative of the Tower and preferred a fellow Borderlander. There were no Kandori available, so a Shienaran--and with ties to the famed Saldean Aes Sedai Miahala--was considered a good substitute, but this particular matter had turned into a sidetrack for his task.
Curiously, Derren looked upon the rough-hewn man that smiled slightly. The Grey leaned closer to the queen. "Your Majesty, does the crown always receive murder suspects for judgement?"
"No," she replied, "but this was a...unique case."
"How so?"
The queen inhaled slowly, keeping her eyes on the man in the manacles. "He pled convincingly to the magistrate that his acts were the will of the Wheel; that it was written into the Pattern that he should so do these acts. As such, the question has been placed before us: if true, how can we punish him for the will of the Creator?"
Derren wondered briefly if the magistrate had been drunk, but this was a thought he did not voice out loud, of course. Logic and reason dictated that he consider the possibility to make a rational argument, and so he did. He considered it, wrapping his mind around the idea.
"How can we not?" Derren finally posed. "We do not know the will of the Pattern, and have only this man’s word for it that he does. Neither of us are the Creator, nor at his right hand. We are but human, and as such, we can only act according to what the laws we have created set out for us."
The murderer himself tilted his head. "If I answer to a higher power with a higher purpose, how can my actions truly be subjected to your law?"
Meeting his gaze, Derren held steady. "If you truly could read the Pattern to know that you were to commit murder, then you would have also read that we would judge you and punish you based on our laws."
"And what if you have to answer to the Pattern for your unjust punishment of me?" the man asked, the cocky smile he’d had before fading to something darker.
"Then that will be my business, much as this is yours," Derren replied flatly.
"The crown has declared you guilty based upon your own admission," the queen declared. "And that your defense is not with strength. You are returned to the magistrate to be granted your sentence." She nodded to her guards. "Take him away."
THE RED STEP
It had been late last night when Derren had left Fericia’s chambers, so no one had seen him. He had been getting very good at reaching and leaving her rooms. Not that there were any rules against their relationship, now that they were both fully raised, but they still had chosen to keep everything discrete. It was late again as he returned to her rooms, although this time he wasn’t expected.
He wanted to surprise her.
Little did he know that he’d be the one gaining the surprise.
As he walked through the dim corridors, he heard voices as he neared her door in the Grey Halls. He instantly recognized her voice, despite being muffled through the door. He didn’t know the other voice, however, but he knew it belonged to a man.
That brought him up short and he frowned. While they hadn’t exactly proclaimed their undying love for one another--if any love at all--he had no idea she would be meeting with some other man in her room at this late hour. Not even servants were up and about right now. Almost everyone in the Tower would be asleep, except for himself, and Fericia, and...the stranger.
He stood just before her door and debated knocking or leaving. She didn’t know he was coming, so did he have a right to interrupt?
While he was debating, however, a few phrases stood out. It was only bits and pieces, as listening through doors was not ideal, but they were enough to get his attention.
"...that old Green..."
"...Master wants..."
"...isn’t she...strong..."
"...you and the grandson..."
"...happen soon..."
"...dead..."
"...out of our way..."
"...shadow..."
Derren stood for a moment at the door, frozen in shock. It wasn’t until he heard footsteps coming near the door that he rushed away, running around the nearest corner. He paused, listening again.
"Did you hear someone?" Fericia asked. He’d recognize her voice anywhere.
"You’re just paranoid, woman," the man’s voice replied. They sounded like they were in the hallway now. Derren caught his breath and then ran off down the corridor again, this time moving straight from the halls of the Grey to the Green.
He knocked on his grandmother’s door. Of course, she didn’t answer the door. Her husband did. Caden Ives was a sight that one never got used to, especially without his mask. Derren swallowed hard but kept his composure. "I need to speak with my grandmother." The Freak of the Yards eyed him with his one green eye, but nodded once and let him in.
Thinking to the lesson of minutes before, he quickly grasped Saidin and wove a ward against eavesdropping, just in case...
Miahala was walking out of the bedroom tying her dressing gown around her, still managing to look all Aes Sedai regality even with just a robe and her hair loose. Despite being an Asha’man, Derren turned into a grandson suddenly scared for his grandmother when he spilled everything he had just heard. She listened intently and nodded.
Even were he not bound by the Oaths, she would have believed him. He knew this.
She lifted her eyes off him and exchanged a silent conversation with her husband. Derren didn’t see what Ives did, but did see his grandmother lean in and kiss his cheek like he was a child again.
"Thank you, Derren," she said. "Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it..."
