Fanfic:Sarkaska's Raising
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I: The Summons - Come As You Are
They said lightning on rain-drenched ground couldn't leave a scorch mark, but the torrential early spring rains had begun just a few weeks before and there was undeniably a large and unmistakable burnt radius in the center of the Training Yards. Sarkaska joined the milling, excited crowd, stared hard at the supposed impossible, and shrugged. The heavy rain had slicked his long dark hair to his face and neck, making it too heavy for the leather thong he wore to control it. The hood of his cloak served to keep it from becoming a hazard in the muddy wrestling match of a Drin'far'ji lesson in unarmed combat, but the rest of him clearly showed that he'd seen better days.
Someone behind him said his name: he turned, watching a lad clutching a note press through the throng. Perhaps as a testament to how long he'd been a Yards fixture, the lad didn't need to check the faces of the other tall Borderlanders: he stopped in front of Sarkaska, dropped him a hasty bow that he didn't quite deserve and never insisted on, and grinned conspiratorily. Noticing that the sealed note had been inexpertly opened, he growled. Some of the lads would do anything for a prank, but the seal was unmistakable. His heart skipped a beat and he berated himself for hoping.
A raising? He was probably about to have the stuffing beaten out of him for getting Corsedai pregnant. Or worse, Ysolde. That had been a fool's paradise, and one enjoyed too long ago, besides. Grimacing, he reread the short, curt missive, and sighed. You could put off fate, and run from destiny, but they never stopped chasing you. Best to give in, trust in hope, and remember that courage was fear that had said its prayers. Giving the blackened ground a last glance, he wondered if he'd be envious of it by this evening. After all, it could grow back, and it would always be part of the Tower. If he were cut down, he'd be replaced, and if he were thrown out, he would go forever without the sense of belonging that the Tower gave him.
Well, worrying never got work done. In fact, it often prevented it. Breaking into an easy lope, the sheath of his longsword slapping him companionably on the bottom with each step, he turned toward the southern corner of the Yards. He was only a few minutes away. There was a building set across that corner, and it prevented him from seeing who might be waiting for him. That was the worst thing about being called to that corner: you had no advanced warning. Often, they used the corner as practice in stealth and obstructions, but it had other purposes. One that was whispered about was raisings, but Sarkaska figured it would do for a semipublic execution as well.
"You're late," snapped Mairem, a tall Gaidin with a single eye. Sarkaska gave him the ritual bow.
"Peace on your blade, Gaidin, but I..."
"Am late," the Gaidin snarled again, gesturing Sarkaska on. "Come on, lad, it's worse if you wait."
"On what?" Sarkaska asked, warily, his hand falling to his dagger, tucked in his wide leather belt. The Gaidin didn't answer, but instead set a faster pace. Sarkaska kept up, but had no breath left to waste on speech. Was that on purpose? His dark eyes fastening on the man's head, he realized that he was working out how best to kill the man quickly. As they ran, Mairem pulled ahead: Sarkaska thought - just two strokes with the blade.
The thought was so mind-shattering that he paused, wheeling for balance.
Mairem glanced back, a knowing, amused smile on his mouth. It was painful to expose his back to the man as he gestured Sarkaska ahead, into the Channeling Yard. Oh, for the Light's sweet sake, was he taking a bunch of raw green idiots to the Citadel? That would be more than a fair punishment for Ysolde and Corsedai, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy thinking about the possibilities.
The Gateway opened before his startled dark eyes, and the hard, solid shove of the Gaidin's hands gave him barely enough time to be grateful that there was no bottom edge to shear off his legs. The small room around him was a surprise: nowhere he'd expected to be. The Gateway closed silently, and Sarkaska stared at the space where it had been. Revelation dawned in his mind, and he realized that he'd always thought he'd be happy on the day of his raising trial, but he wasn't.
There was so much at stake. Turning woodenly to the table, he began his preparations as dutifully as any Lady at her toilette.
The Citadel: The Best of You
He knew where he was before the door opened. It was hard not to know, if you'd ever been to the Citadel. His eyes trained on the wood, he waited: he had been mostly prepared before he'd been brought to this antechamber. All he had in life and all he cared for were his uniforms, his weapons, and his warhorse, Cueran Ayende, a blood bay mare he'd trained since her birth. She was a strong, spirited warhorse, much as her dam, and with the good features of her sire. He was proud of her breeding: he'd chosen her line himself, cared for her dam and been rewarded with a horse as intelligent as she was beautiful.
Doing his best not to gawk, Sarkaska followed the servant into the courtyard. His eyes fell on the Council and he swallowed: it was Jip who drove the message home. The man never left the Yards - some joked that he did not even sleep, he'd drown weeping - and yet here he was. For him. He'd barely met the Master of Arms and never met the Gaidin Captain at all: he knew her name, but only because he'd carried messages to her office. They had never been part of his life, not the way Jip had, and their presence did little more than make him uncomfortable. Two Aes Sedai stood in the courtyard: pretty Storm, who he knew, and a dark-haired sister with the most vivid blue eyes he had ever seen.
Storm could kill him at fifty paces: the Creator would not be so kind as to let his first Aes Sedai be her. It was the other girl - and a girl was all she appeared to be. Taking a breath as he realized that he was missing the ceremonial questions, Sarkaska stammered out the response to Kailitha's inquiry.
"Who comes before the Warder Council?"
"I, Sarkaska Jinlo Ji'alantin of the Grey Tower, come before the Council."
Jip stuttered his response: "You have trained in our ranks and have been deemed worthy of a final assignment, Ji'alantin, and you are called to prove yourself worthy of the fancloak in the wilds of the Blightborder. You have three chances to approach this task. If you choose to step down today, you may come before us twice more. Once you agree to continue your test, however, you may not turn back without immediate failure. Once you accept your test, you must complete the test or you will be put out of the Tower permanently. Do you wish to continue?"
He almost felt sorry for the man, working his way doggedly through that speech. It was the most he'd heard out of Jip since Isabel had died, and he didn't doubt that every word was indelibly etched in his mind. To save the man the hassle of repeating all that two more times, Sarkaska stole a glance at the dark-haired Aes Sedai and wondered what she had been offered to come here, for him. Had she been offered him? He had his own thoughts on that.
But this was neither the time nor the place for his questions.
"I do," Sarkaska murmured.
The quiet was nerve-wracking, and he knew what would come. "You are called to protect this Aes Sedai, the symbol of your desired duty."
"Return with some token of your struggle; do not return to this fortress until you can bring some proof of your protection before the Council," Jip stammered. "If you return without such proof, or if you fail in your protection of this Aes Sedai - if she falls under your defense - you will be put out of the Tower permanently."
If he could not succeed, he'd die before returning. If he could not protect a woman he didn't know, he'd never be able to trust himself with the one he yearned for. Jip was the example he followed: Jip, who had come to this test, given that indefinable portion of himself into another's care, and returned...empty. It hadn't been his testing that had killed Isabel, but surely, the man regretted that bond. Fully, terribly...how empty he must be. And yet, they had to continue acting out this charade.
No one tried to stop him from pledging himself. No one pointed at Jip and told him again how high the stakes would be, and what the risks truly were. Sarkaska pulled himself upright, and pushed the morbid thoughts from his mind. It didn't all have to end in tragedy. There was at least half a chance that this could be the stepping stone to the most important day of his life.
Again.
"Light guide your sword, and may your test be one of enduring strength."
He wanted to tell Jip not to worry, but Sarkaska had never liked to lie. Instead, he turned to the impossibly lovely Aes Sedai and bowed.
The Sister: Whatever Lola Wants
The courtyard was empty when he straightened, the Gaidin vanished and even Storm gone. Perhaps she had Gatewayed them away. Sarkaska didn't know, and they certainly hadn't left clues. All that remained in the cobblestone yard were two horses, laden lightly with supplies. One was his mare: she was a weapon in her own right, perhaps the most valuable and important he had owned or trained in. He crossed to her quickly, keeping his head down and not glancing toward the Aes Sedai, who remained nameless, silent, and still.
"Aes Sedai?" he inquired, politely, knuckling his forehead in the most subservient posture he knew. "We have a long way to ride and the trip is deadlier by night. Would you come?" Realizing that he knew neither her name, Ajah, or reason for accompanying him, he wondered if he'd get honest answers for honest questions. For all that he'd been within arms' length of the Tower for the better part of a decade, he knew as little about Aes Sedai as he did about the gross national product of Tarabon.
"I am Sarkaska Jinlo," he repeated, trying to gently remind her that he knew nothing about her. "I suppose you heard why I am here. Is...there a reason you've come? A reason I should be endebted to you for?"
She turned her brilliant eyes to him, and he found himself holding his breath. Her skin was a rich Domani olive, her hair dark and long, in large, loose waves. She wore a gown divided for riding, but that was the only concession she seemed to have made for the Blight. Even so, the gown was neither green, grey, nor brown: it was a rich indigo, to match her singular eyes. If she had been a Green sister, he'd know her name and that of all her Warders, and he'd know that they'd pound him into gelatin the moment she got so much as a scratch.
Her voice was soft, breathy. It caused a flutter in his stomach, but little more: he was too focused on keeping her alive to do more than detachedly admire her beauty. "Courisain Anshere," she told him, in a voice better suited for a bedchamber. "Of the Indigo. I had thought to ride out to a site you visited some years ago: the quarters of..."
"The dreadlord," Sarkaska grunted, in surprise.
"Merek Samosa. Yes. The Darkfriend."
"I can find that again," Sarkaska said, with a confidence he didn't feel. It was north and east of the Citadel, Jerid had said when they had Gatewayed. Sarkaska knew the tower had fallen, though: surely the Indigo did as well? The Asha'man had brought it down. He had heard that Regan Sairetus had been one as well. Knowing he'd fought to save the man, trusted him to guard his back, made him feel sick inside. Truly, the taint of the Dark One was everywhere, and there was nothing to do but stand firmly in the Light.
For was it not said, if you walked in the Light, you would cast no shadow?
Courisain strode to her mare, accepting the cupped hands he gave her as a step into her saddle. Surreptitiously rifling the contents of the mare's saddlebags, he blinked to find Domani paints mixed in with rations and a large waterskin. She had some other oddities he couldn't name in her things, but the horse had apparently been packed by someone expert in survival. He could see that they had all they needed, in abundance, and he was grateful. Checking Cueran Ayende similarly, he noted unguents and balms, food, water. Someone had packed clean clothing for him: the precision in the folds made him think of Jip, who might be so far from himself as to weep, but never appeared without a pressed uniform.
There was grief, and there was responsibility. You could only respect those who forgot the first to fulfill the second.
Offering a short prayer to the Creator, he used the stirrups to slide into Ayende's tall saddle, and turned her to the northeast. If He were listening, Sarkaska and the beauty beside him would see the Citadel again, and soon.
II: Into the Woods
Three Days' Ride: Give Me Novocaine
The Blightborder was unchanging: dead brown dust that stuck to the horses' sweating flanks, hordes of buzzing flies, and the relentless sun, hot even at winter's end. Here and there, desultory patches of sere brown grass grew: not enough to feed a horse, and the mares shied away. He had seen limited food for the horses in their kit, but he hadn't wanted to depend upon it so soon. There was good grazing at some of the clean lakes at the fringes of the Blight, he had been told, but would that be so at the end of winter? Hoping that it would work out, he consulted the map inside his mind. The angle of the sun told him the direction and also that he had lost several hours of daylight in moving from Andor to Shienar.
Courisain rode in silence at his side, and the mares made good time in matched cadence. Her horse was a bay as well, although without the stunning shade Ayende boasted. There was nothing to speak of as the miles slid slowly past: the flies were thick and to open your mouth was to risk swallowing one. When they stopped for luncheon, he noticed that she drank through a thin silken cloth: grateful for the solution, he mimicked her. Ayende ate a wizened apple from his pack, and he scouted for Trolloc sign: droppings, tracks, even campfire smoke, although the sun was far from setting.
"Try and sleep in your saddle," he suggested to the Indigo. "We're safe while on the move, but I can't guarantee you a restful night." It was a kindness, but she took it with an enigmatic half smile that called him a fool. When he glanced back, she was still awake, her eyes fixed on the horizon with a small, troubled frown. He kept close, even when he rode Ayende into the dunes and hills to scout ahead. The Blight was preternaturally still: he realized that he had been hoping to run into a few scattered, abandoned Trollocs, win his souvenir, and turn back right away, but alas, it wasn't so.
They continued on until night fell around them in a thick blanket, obscuring vision. By pure chance, he found a small, brackish puddle: exploring it with a tent pole, he declared it clean. The horses drank thirstily, and the grass, while clipped low and brown from the weather, seemed palatable enough. For their part, Sarkaska and Courisain dined on rations: tough salty meat, dry bread, and a waxy chunk of cheese. He had not been watching for rabbits or other small game, and he feared a campfire. In this flat, low tableland, the smoke could be seen for miles.
He set up the tent as she washed the utensils they'd used. She did it without asking him, as easily as if it were something she did all the time. He stowed them silently in their places as he pushed thin pillow and blanketroll at her, nodding to the low tent. "I'll wake you to stand watch?" he asked, his voice low. He could sleep some in his saddle, but no one had ever told him how much sleep an Aes Sedai needed.
Could he care for her so she could, in turn, care for him?
He woke her when the night was calm and still, sliding gratefully into the place she'd warmed, his nerves on alert. His sleep was thin and sour, and he was grateful when she shook his shoulder to signal dawn. Saddling the horses and striking the tent was quickly done, and before the sun was well over the horizon, rays spreading the pink sky like veils, they were on their way. He did doze in his saddle in brief spurts, but lunch left him feeling grey and disoriented. The search for a rabbit occupied most of the afternoon, but to his surprise, he bagged two fat hares as the sun sunk down into the west, a red bead dipped in glowing honey. Courisain had been silent, but then, he had been ignoring her.
She was no longer a woman: she was a grail. She was no longer a partner, but a treasured possession. He fed her regularly, insisted she drink often, and buzzed around her so much that he overheard a comment of the opinion that the flies had been easier to deal with. Rising from breaking the second hare's neck, as his arrow had not done for it, he bagged his kills. Sheltered in the curve of a hillock, he made a fire and roasted the rabbits on green sticks, prowling their camp for unwanted company as well as the impending signs of Trolloc attack. Nothing appeared, but this far from Shayol Ghul, he would have seen signs of a massive encampment engaged with a Ringfort.
Merek's keep had that much to say for itself: it was so remote that nothing wanted to be there.
Night fell as he was beginning to wonder if he had known what he was doing. Their northern creep had begun to put them in an area he dreaded, out of the border and properly into the Blight. Fifty years ago, this had been Shienar, but it was alien ground now: once the fire was doused and the tent upright, the Aes Sedai walked the camp, doing something, as he washed the utensils from their supper in a canteen's flow. Watering the horses sparingly, he attached feedbags and left them hobbled and saddled, ready to run. He could do without the tent, but the saddle and its panniers were their key to surviving this trek.
He paced through the night. For a time, she watched him, but he made it clear that he wouldn't - couldn't - speak to her. He had to protect her, and he was as anxious as a long-tailed cat: did that mean he wasn't meant to be Gaidin? Was he failing his test right now by showing less than total confidence? Checking the horses, he curried both thoroughly before resaddling them, but there was no one to calm him. He almost wished Courisain were Ysolde, but here in the Blight, that kind of distraction would cause her death. His too, but that hardly mattered.
At midmorning on the third day's ride, a hill in the distance changed shade and became the curve of something familiar: a tumbled keep, raining stones like tears of rock. Feeling a surge of relief, he led the way carefully, knowing that caution would be his savior if he could but cling to it.
The keep had known darkness before, and the taint of true evil never left.
The Tumbledown Keep: Last Resort
He drew rein before they reached the courtyard: throwing Ayende's reins over her ears, he slid from his saddle and pulled Courisain from hers without so much as a "by your leave." She didn't protest: if anything, he thought she was deliberately dangling her ankles, which was an odd idea considering that he just needed to keep her safe and scout on foot. Anyway, this was where she wanted to be: he could make a grand show of checking the lintel for the House crest, but he didn't think he could ever forget this building. And before he dared the main entrance, he wanted to examine the sides and the back.
Couldn't leave her alone: something might spot her so close to the horses. Clasping her by the elbow, he crouched low, moving quickly and silently behind broken rubble and fallen pillars. Once this manor house had been grand, built between Ringforts in a brave statement that had fallen to the corruption of the Blight. Vines and plants crossed it now where they hadn't a few years before, and the Indigo sister slipped his grasp to examine them closely, withdrawing a dagger. Hoping that was safe, Sarkaska watched, scanning the ground. There were disturbances farther away that looked like footprints, but it was impossible to tell how long ago the rain had come for them to be baked into the earth as they were.
She took her cutting, stowing it in a small leather sack, which she tucked into her pouch. Sarkaska took her arm again, resolving to use her as a saddle all the way back to the Citadel if she escaped him again. So much rode on her survival, and even he was exasperated enough to consider killing her. This morning, in camp, she had come out with rags in her hair - curlers! They were in the flaming Blight, and he'd spent the night pacing out his terror, and she was painted like a porcelain miniature with perfect curls cascading down her back! It would be funny, he knew, if he wasn't living on raw adrenaline.
Silently pointing toward the baked footprints, he pressed her back to the wall as he moved forward to explore. She said nothing, thank the Light, only held still. They had both been surprised by how fallen and collapsed the keep was now, and he didn't think she could get inside. As he edged around the back of the building, bending down to study the footprints, he noticed something that made his stomach clench in dread. Debris had been heaped to make a ramp into the second story, where the collapsed first supported a wide platform. And although he was doing his best to be silent, whatever was up there was not.
He gestured frantically to Courisain, but she ignored his hand. Frozen in place, he tried to melt to the wall, work his way backward. The ground was littered in rocky scree and his bootheels caught, sending rocks tumbling down in a noisy cascade. A sharp exclamation from above had his heart pounding and his sweat running cold rivers. Tension in his stomach was his first cue to reach past the flame and Void, reach into that last reserve. He pushed it away. Going berserker on the Aes Sedai would not guarantee her survival.
They came down the ramp and over its side like a flood, four - no, six - Trollocs, and worst of all, the cold, tingling dread that signaled a Fade. Sarkaska backed up rapidly, pushing the Indigo sister into the wall, and wondered what the flaming hells he was supposed to do. It wasn't just the icy fear of the Eyeless' gaze, but rather, the combination of so many foes at once. When they turned the corner, Courisain's lightning speared through two Trollocs. He looked back over her shoulder and saw no more, but he would not leave his Aes Sedai. The trouble was, from here, she was protecting him, and with so many opponents, the Trollocs - and the Fade - could afford to flank the rubble and pin them.
One jumped the fallen bodies of his companions, leaping and rushing at the man and woman against the tumbledown tower. Sarkaska leapt forward, Low Wind Rising sliding under battered armor, evading the hacking downward slash easily, retaliating with Soft Rain at Sunset. It fell, and he jerked his blade free with a foot in its chest, lifting an arm to defend his face and head as another Trolloc roared its bestial fury and charged. Courisain stopped it with a howling ball of fire, but Sarkaska pushed the sister back into the wall. "Watch the rear," he snarled, jumping forward to clumsily execute a coup de grace.
One by one, the Trollocs finally fell, but Sarkaska knew they had to leave. Stopping, he ripped at a shoulder pin that declared pack allegiance, cutting the fat curve of his palm. Ignoring the sting, he moved in, the Aes Sedai at the center of his path. He could not leave her, and she would not move. Was it fear, or did she have some other purpose for staying in one place? All he knew was that the hair on the back of his neck was standing stiffly, his stomach was wadded up with dread, and his bowels were as water.
"Get the horses," the Aes Sedai snapped, and Sarkaska broke into a shambling run.
The Forgotten Army: Bleed for Me
The horses whickered as he neared, Ayende crowding him as if he were here to give her comfort. Holding a pair of reins in each hand, he raced back toward the side of the keep, knowing the Fade was still present, knowing that its threat must be neutralized. To kill an Eyeless was to weaken the Shadow: he wanted to find it. Wanted to sink his blade into its black heart: wanted to be tested and win. Nothing had gone the least way he'd imagined it: he was bleeding from a dozen small cuts, his Aes Sedai was unguarded and alone, and she had sent him, like the flaming stableboy he was, to fetch the horses!
Well, she would not be rescuing him again. Wasn't it about time he got a turn to rescue her?
The horses were as happy to see the Aes Sedai as Sarkaska himself was. Putting their fleshy barriers between the delicate beauty and the threat, Sarkaska shoved the reins into her hands. "If I fall, take my horse: she obeys commands, she's war-trained. "
The sister nodded, and then every hair on his body came to painful attention, standing erect. He did not need to hear the low, rasping laugy to know that it had come: his death was here at last. Thankful that Courisain was not Ysolde now that the end had come, Sarkaska ran to meet his foe, keeping it as far from the woman and the anxious horses as possible. If she survived, it was all worthwhile. Creator let her live.
Their blades met in a hail of sparks, the dull black of the creature's Thakan'dar forged steel twisting under Sarkaska's Cutting the Clouds. Parried out of The Grapevine Twines, he leapt at the Fade for space, and it retreated - but only a step. Feinting high with Seamstress Skills, Sarkaska executed a fierce Lizard in the Thornbush that slid into the Cat Dances on the Wall.
As he spun away, the Fade's blade shot out, slicing his thigh. His blood ran to ice. The touch of the blade was slow death.
Roaring, he let himself go: the Tower of Morning met Low Wind Rising and its blade flew from its hand, dissolving on the ground as no steel should. Unaware of the phenomenon, Sarkaska gutted his quarry, then fled: it would thrash until nightfall. It was still lethal.
Courisain couldn't know.
He fished in his pouch, stumbled and staggered back toward her, trying his best to run on a leg that wanted to buckle. She was in combat, huddled behind the horses, lightning that would only call more flickering from her fingers. They needed to go. And he needed to die.
Unless...
"There you are," she said, as if he were late with something she had been expecting. "Hold the horses," she added, in her next breath. Sword out, dripping, he warily eyed the area: bodies littered it. Aware that he was limited in forms with a single hand, Sarkaska turned his head to snap at the Indigo and nearly fell to his knees in gratitude. She could Travel: she had made a Gateway. More than that, she seized his head in her hands and rammed Healing down him, cold ice that left him gasping.
"You can't leave the area and still learn it to Travel," she explained, pushing him, stumbling and trembling, back into the courtyard of the Citadel. The horses flooded past him and then she came, and it was a good thing most of the rest of the ceremony took place while he was on his knees.
