Fanfic:Valadin's Great Stair

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Valadin's Great Stair
Author(s)
  • Sean
Character(s)
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Master Elonid had warned him the night before, but seeing the man in his doorway now, grim faced and somber brought reality to the experience that Valadin felt uncertain about upon first glance. Of course he’d been ready—for longer than he cared to admit for the ceremony, but it was night and it all seemed so unexpected. “Come, child,” the Master of Soldiers ordered, motioning for Val to follow and instinctively there was the unspoken expectation of silence while following instruction.

The Tower had instilled dedication, a sense of duty, and respect for chain of command; when it was necessary. Endurance with utter calm was the key; never lagging nor rushing ahead.

After climbing many stairs to a level above even beyond the Triumvirate's offices, Elonid brought Val through a broad set of double doors. Stepping into the room beyond led to a large, round, domed chamber ringed with stand lamps. Blinding light shone off the polished walls making it difficult to see after the long stretch moving in darkness.

"Attend." Eight Asha'man, one from each Ajah, stepped forward to stand in a ring around him, each with pins and shoulder cords displayed against the blacks of their garb. The Master of Soldiers turned to the nervous Val and said these words, "You came here in ignorance. How would you depart?"

"In knowledge of myself," Val replied.

"For what reason have you been summoned here?"

"To be tried."

"For what reason should you be tried?"

"So that I may learn whether I am worthy."

"For what would you be found worthy?"

"To wear the Cord."

"Therefore, I will instruct you. As you ascend the Great Stair, you will be tested in both weaves of the One Power, your knowledge of the Ajahs, and your suitability to join our brotherhood. When you have passed, the torches on either side of you will blink out; this is the sign for you to continue on. Go forward until you reach the top and all of the torches are extinguished behind you."

"Remember what must be remembered." A Grey Asha'man stepped forth, somber in expression while laying a complex Weave upon Val. Even as the Power settled into Val’s skin, the man dipped his thumb into a small wooden bowl and smears a dab of sandalwood-scented oil on his forehead. "When you see the sign, you will ascend at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor hanging back."

"Remember what must be remembered." This time a Brown brother spoke in a monotonous drawl whle again laying a small Weave on you and offering a few words of advice. The oil used to anoint Val smelled of bergamot, an odor foreign to his nostrils. "When the step is complete, you will see the sign again, marking the way you must go. You must go at a steady pace and without hesitation."

"Remember what must be remembered," each of the eight Asha'man reminded him while placing a word that settled upon Valadin in turn, each reciting his portion of the age-old ceremony and each admonishing to maintain a steady pace. One by one, they anointed with oil; jasmine for the Indigo, violets for the Blue, and lemon blossom for the Yellow. The cold, sharp winter mint of the Green contrasts sharply with the sweet rose of the White. A gentle scent of poppy for Red was as subtle as the others were strong. "Go steadily, and hold fast to your equanimity."

"If you are ready, you may begin," the Master of Soldiers rumbled, voice echoing throughout the sacred chamber. The squat man gestured toward a new opening on the far side of the chamber from where you entered. Val knew what it was without needing explanation and the opening is suddenly lit with a pair of yellow torches, showing the beginnings of curved passageway. “May the Light illumine and keep you."

Nodding again in absent acknowledgement of his blessing, Val advanced toward the passageway. To hesitate or lose composure now would mean being turned out of the Tower, and so he pressed the fear aside, burgeoning his spirit with the calm of the Void. One foot in front of the other, and the test began in earnest; he was inside the Great Stair.

YELLOW STEP

A wave of exhaustion nearly crumpled Valadin as he surveyed the procession of herbalists, Wisdom's, and Healers. Weaving Flows of Air and Water cooled the heat of the day in the air surrounding him. He’d learned to ignore the seasons as well as any Asha’man, but today the heat sapped at his energy. The last of the procession was the rarest of the numbering: a feeble two men accompanied by a sturdy woman of unknowable age. Channellers, thought dourly.

Caught up with thoughts of the previous day's battle he nearly tripped over a young boy reclining against the outer wall of a shelter. "My apologies," Val offered quickly.

The only answer given was a weak shake of the tin can were not a single coin resided. Noticing the child hadn't even bothered to look up raised unwelcome suspicion. Kneeling Val rested a hand upon the youth's shoulder, "When last did you eat, boy?"

If a reply had been intended it never made past the youngling's lips as racking cough convulsed his body with such force the can fell from grasp and rolled away. Bearing witness to this unfortunate casualty of the war between Light and Shadow stirred something in Valadin. Hadn't he committed himself to preventing such things in this world?

Tired as he was, Val took the boy in his arms and followed after the gathered that now surrounded the healers who had already busied themselves with the administration of triage. Few wished to give way for everyone had problems; this was the Blight. Suffering was as likely as happiness on a given day. This had made people callous to the needs of their fellow man, a crime Val himself was guilty of. Only the strong survive this fight. Only the strong. It was a lesson learned time and again, one that had slowly shaped the way Val viewed the world.

Someone knocked into him and the child's whimper pierced through the thick of shouting voices and stampeding feet. A growl as fierce as any loosed in battle brought about the giving of a wide berth as nervous eyes tracked Valadin's unimpeded advance to the cots where the Asha'man, one with a Yellow cord hung from his coat while the other was decorated with Blue; his distrust for women had not yet left him. A thought for Nykkolaia Zeran flickered through his mind, "Brothers, this child needs help."

The Yellow didn't look up from where he worked to reset a bone before Healing. The Blue favored Val with a hard glare.

"Everyone here needs help, brother."

"True word, yet they had the strength to seek out." Holding the boy's limp body made the emaciated skin that stretched uncomfortably over visible apparent for all to see.

"There's too many..."

"I talk of one and I ask only you preserve his life." It seemed the Blue wished to debate further so Val shifted his gaze to the Yellow who now listened to the conversation with half an ear. "He will die before long."

Meeting the Yellow's eyes as he faced Val fully now, there was much youth in them. The kind that was rarely found among those in the Grey Tower. There was also a question in that gaze: Why are you doing this?

"We all have our duty,' was all Valadin said aloud and it seemed enough. The young channeller reached out to accept the dazed child, eyes never moving from Valadin's face.

"We all have our duty," the Yellow agreed finally in a detached voice as he turned to set about his work.

GREEN STEP

“I always thought I couldn’t leave mah family’s home. Never set foot beyond the Dark Forest since I was a lad,” the town crier crowed, face aged by lines of sorrow. Kindred voices mimicked the sentiment like ripples in still water. “These’re the last days though. The Dragon’s returned an’ that means we’re doomed. Think of what ya’ve heard happened at Dumai’s Wells. Channelin’ men! Men, who broke the world! Now they’ve come back to finish what they started! Look! Our village has been in peril since the blighted Dragon returned! Everythin’s been tarnished by those rogues! I say we all flee an’ leave the bandits to their cursed work!”

“Cowards.”

The gathering parted to give way to a tall young man whose hood was drawn over his head. He stood out from the rest. Tall and his clothes held vestiges of a former glamour foreign among the patchwork cloth of the village inhabitants. When the cloak’s hood revealed his face they found it remarkably young. The eyes though—those were old beyond years’ counting. “That blood is shed on your behalf just north of here is a waste,” spat Valadin, words filled with an anger that flashed in his eyes.

Disapproval ran through the ranks of the people and dark fury skittered in answer against the Void’s surface. Fortunate thing for them that the Oneness had become his way of life. Another man of his strength would’ve considered taking action, Oaths be burned.

Marching to where the crier choked on his indignation Val’s glowering look was enough to force the withered pest aside. The Grey Tower taught that channellers were meant to serve mankind. Some believed this more than others, but to his mind people were not meant to be served; they were meant to be given a choice: live or die.

“You would leave your homes because of a few men who come for your valuables under the cover of night? Men who can’t face you with honor? That is the terror that sends you scurrying from your home like ants?!” he boomed. Saidin had threaded its way into his blood, stirring a storm within. Seizing the Power to Weave Flows of Air and Fire made his voice roll further than should’ve been possible. Even those not present in the square would hear his words—as they should; if they wished to save themselves. “Why not give yourself to them entirely? At least then you’d be allowed to keep what land they would leave to you.”

“You know nuthin’, boy!” a voice cried from the faceless mob.

“I know what it is to have your fate dictated to you one command at a time!” he thundered back, furious at the challenge for it struck close to his past. Slowly calm returned to him as the Oneness settled his emotions, “As sure as I stand here before you…I know this lesson well.”

The crier’s hands suddenly clutched Valadin’s cloak. They were gnarled stubs telling the epic of a menial life—a life lived in tedium; a survivor’s tale. “What…what would you have us do then? Fight like an army? Race off to the choppin’ block ‘cause you want to play hero? Eh?!”

“No, I don’t ask that.” The wrinkled lines of the old man’s face softened in surprise at that. “I expect you to fight like men and women whose blood is in this soil.” The hands fell away and Val took it as a sign that he was finally getting through to them.

Now there was something in the faces that stared back at him when he looked out over them. Where there had been resignation, curiosity and flicker of hope brightened once dim gazes. “You don’t need to be a warrior to resist evil. You can train a soldier to swing a blade. You can train him to charge the enemy and take a hill, but you can't train him to defend his family’s homeland. You can’t train him to give everything for his family.”

The square was still as the townspeople regarded him with varied reactions. Inspiration guided Valadin’s hand to his sword and when the steel leapt free from its sheath, point aimed to the heavens a lone cry rang out in response. Whomever it was kept yelling, their shout wordless as their voice filled the clearing. Then another shout rose to join and not long after another. Soon the square had come to life with the war cries of a frenzied people.

There was work to be done. Valadin knew the village had little means to defend itself, but at least those that lived here were ready to sacrifice to keep what was theirs. More than weapons, the will to fight was an irreplaceable resource—and now they had it.

BLUE STEP

Valadin had been watching the innkeeper from the time he’d had his first drink served to him. Thin to the point of emaciation and cruel as a Trolloc, the man loved to abuse those under his power. It had been hard work to stomach watching as serving girls and patrons alike suffered merely because there was no other tavern this far from the city. Many had chosen to leave, but some stayed; too many. The serving girls didn’t have even that choice.

One in particular was the subject of constant torment. Not overly pretty and widely spaced eyes, she was a gangly lass with a hooked nose and more than a little clumsy. Rivia was her name, Val thought. She’d been the one to bring him his drink. Nearly spilled the blighted mug into his lap, but her sweet temperament made it hard to remain vexed with her for long. Lank strands of brown fell in her face as she took another customer’s order, the knotted Blackwood planks forever her bane. She’d just left to gather a readied platter when the innkeeper called her to the counter.

Contempt curled his lips as he took the girl by the back of the head and drew her close, “Thought you weren’t supposed to make nice with first-time visitors? I’m sure I told ya make sure our regulars are happy. Now if you don’t git to it…I’ll bloody yer…”

“Another!” Val called out, making certain to get the attention of the room.

Conversation died as eyes quickly picked him out to be a foreigner. Val found that Murandian people were always quick to pick this trait out in strangers; it was the basis of their prejudice he assumed. “I’d like that girl to bring another. This wine is good.”

“Of course, ser. She’ll be right there, but you’ll wait ‘til we finish I talk, yea? Unless you’re in some sort of hurry?”

Arrogant son of goat, Valadin fumed to himself. It may have been the drink, but with every word uttered this innkeeper drew out a special kind of loathing in Val. “Aye, sorry ser. I am in a bit of a hurry. Might I have my cup filled soon?”

At this the establishment’s proprietor broke into a sinister grin that brought memories of Master. Keeping hold of the girl’s hair the two walked to Val’s table where the man beamed cheerfully.

“Serve the man, Rivenia.”

Trembling the girl tried to open her mouth to say something when the statement was cut short by a hard blow across the cheek that spilled her indecently onto the floor where her skirts flashed legs sporting bruises of diverse coloration. Two figures stirred near the door and Valadin knew them to be the guards of the establishment, but his gaze was for the innkeeper who lowered himself smoothly into the empty seat across the table. There had been no need to bring a sword, not that it would’ve been allowed. Taverns always made a fuss about bringing killing implements in a pub—anyone worth a rotten cabbage knew no instrument was dangerous unless the person knew how to use them.

Rivenia or Rivia whimpered when she finally stirred. Using the table for support the girl rose to her feet and in a quivering, lilting voice apologized for her inelegance and promised to return with a pitcher. She turned to head to the larder, but met misfortune again as the innkeeper aimed a kick to her shin and Val snapped.

This wasn’t the usual inferno of wrath that consumed all reason and made him near feral to any around. Valadin felt eerily cool while reaching across the table and throwing the vile wastrel to the floor. His ire was controlled, underscored by satisfaction each time his fist smashed into the small nose centering the innkeeper’s face.

The Void came to him unbidden, warning of the two guards, but he was already finished with the innkeeper. The first man tried to draw a dagger from his hip, but crumpled when a swift strike to the windpipe that made breathing difficult. The second man fared better, pulling his weapon free and thrusting with a modicum of skill. Valadin distantly appreciated his effort while snatching the attacking wrist and pulling the man in for a crushing elbow placed just beneath the ribs.

“Y…you bwoody idgiot!” the innkeeper wheezed. Val decided as he met the man’s gaze that the famed Murandian accent didn’t sound half as musical with a broken nose. “I have…friendsh in the gird!”

Rivia…or Rivenia as it were was up and staring at Valadin with gratitude in her eyes. He favored her with a stern look and said, “Know your worth. The time is coming when it will be tested…”

Seizing Saidin felt natural as he brought together Fire, Spirit, and Earth, touching the Power to where a shiner was already darkening the girl’s cheek. The girl’s eyes widened as the force of the Healing racked her body and nearly sending her from her feet again if not for Val catching her mid-fall. When it was over Rivenia—if that was her name—breathed hard, but the room murmured when her face became clear for all to see; nothing of the bruise remained. At least he’d managed to do that much with his feeble Talent for Healing.

Pulling back the leatherskin cloak as explanation revealed the Sword and Dragon pins marking him as an Asha’man of the Grey Tower. Both hired swords sputtered something before stumbling away, leaving their master to his fate without a thought. “…and those who’re unworthy will be culled with the rest of the chaff.”

INDIGO STEP

Seven days. Seven bloody days spent on the Sea of Storms.

Sure it had been nice the first few days. Topless dark skinned women glistening under the sun for the pleasure of any to witness. Had it not been for the unsettling feeling of the ship constantly shifting beneath him, Valadin was certain more than one dalliance might have flowered into bloom.

When tame the ocean was beautiful. It was the first time he’d ever been upon a boat or seen that much water in one place. Occasionally the water’s surface would be broken by a fin of sorts before disappearing into the waves again. Once the spray thrown up during these brief flashes of sea life was actually close enough to splatter Val and the thought that a creature capable of breathing underwater had been that close sent his heart racing with excitement. The charm had faded though. The need for solid land became an incorrigible ailment that usually left Val in no mood for conversation as he stared out over Breakstorm’s prow most days.

The Gift of Passage was supposed to be an opportunity for two cultures to exchange knowledge. So far the Indigo Aes Sedai who had come as delegates of the Grey Tower seemed to embrace the experience in quiet reverence. If the Sea Folk or Atha’an Miere as they were properly called noticed they kept their peace; a feat worthy of respect in Val’s judgement.

Finally the last day of the journey had come. All had gone well and Valadin looked forward to returning home where he could practice the sword. And hopefully steal Nykkolaia away from her projects. That woman’s been possessed by the reports coming in these past weeks.

No warning came when the tempest fell upon them. Winds that whipped at the skin with seawater swept across the deck as day turned to night before Valadin’s eyes. A few shouts in an incomprehensible vernacular set the crew to work. Women weren’t the only ones among the crewmen. Men, strong of body and spirit, worked alongside their female crewmates in perfect harmony. It was all Val could do to hold on to the ship’s side as a monstrous wave rose up. During this time, he recalled a lesson about the Sea of Storms. The winter storms were called cemaros. But its summer, Val noted detachedly.

A woman with strong cheekbones as well as a fair number of tattoos stretching over her back and neck emerged from the ship’s main cabin. Like the other women aboard she was topless, her skin bared to the elements with little concern, however this woman’s nose was pierced with a hoop of what appeared to gold. The Aes Sedai were shouting something to the woman, who Val now understood to be the ship’s Sailmistress, it’s captain. With a tone of authority only used by those familiar with it, an order was given to a woman of indeterminable age. Val knew of her by sight, but knew not her name.

She looked to her leader with uncertain eyes, but a quick rebuke was enough to set her task. Gooseflesh prickled the back of Valadin’s neck in the telltale sign that Saidar was at work. Saidin rattled against its cage to be free and Val nearly seized it as he watched the woman face the approaching stormwall coming at the ship’s stern.

Amazingly the winds began to lose their bite and the waves lapped over the ship’s side less frequently. For the first time Val wished he could see the flows of the female half of the Power. With a quick gesture of the channeling woman’s hand, the stormwall broke several miles from the ship and the darkened sky slowly gave way to the friendlier clouds of earlier. A few more breathless minutes passed as the mighty storm was not subdued without a fight. Winds still snapped the sails with more force than was comfortable, but the deck had ceased to rock to Val’s great relief.

Late hour had passed when the female channeller finally stopped channeling at the command of her captain. Even after hours of Weaving the One Power, the woman showed little sign of exhaustion as she returned to humbler duties. Unsurprisingly the Indigos were quick to fall upon the poor woman, requiring the Sailmistress to bark angrily at the Tower women in multiple instances. Val spent the final hours studying the calmness of the waters that now timidly carried them back to dock in Tear. Though he missed land, Nykk, and the Grey Tower a great deal there was a wish to learn more about these mysterious Sea Folk.

As he thought this, he turned to catch a glance of the channeller only to find her studying him with equal intensity. The One Power truly is a gift of the Creator, he decided.

BROWN STEP

Alshamz Sedai had not changed towards him in the least since his becoming Asha’man. Val confirmed this many times over while setting in place the tied-off Globes of Light overhead to keep away the musty archives’ gloom. Weaving Fire and Air again brought another Globe above the studious woman’s head though she said nothing in the way of appreciation—not that it was expected.

The Brown Sister had been one of his first teachers as a Soldier and had seen to his further education in speech, decorum, and had even given him lessons in cultures across the Westlands. To say that he owed the Brown a fair deal was not exaggeration.

This did not include rooting about amongst dusty tomes in the early hours of the day. “Can we not search for this tome another time? Maybe even solicit the help of others?” Val offered hopefully.

“No. I trust no one else with this. I mean to find the necessary volume before anyone else gets to my work!” the Sister called from behind a book pile to his left.

They sought an obscure version of the folklore tale, Lian’s Stand, but for what purpose Sister Alshamz vehemently refused to explain.

The air was thick and tasted of old books. Even those of the Brown rarely ventured here. Thumbing through the ancient text stoked a measure of interest as legend after legend regaled with the telling of fantastic heroes that would return when the Horn of Valere sounded for the Last Battle. Some of the stories were mainstay bedtime fictions for children. Val himself had never had anyone tell them to him, but often he would recline just outside the window of a home where a parent was tucking in their young.

Time passed indiscernibly entombed as they were in the room made of heavy blocks of stone. Many documents were amazingly well preserved—some of it the work of Wards Val yearned to learn for himself. Mostly time had simply been good to the endless writings on subjects ranging from the mundane to the fantastic in a single row. After slogging through his seventh novel, Valadin felt compelled to say something.

“Sister Alshamz, I’m an Asha’man now. I—” Val began, frustration reaching its peak.

“Found it!”

“Thank the Light…”

“You’ve been a fine help, Valadin. If ever you have a question on etiquette for an Illian lord’s ball or would like aid in the courtship expectations of a Domani dancer, I’d be happy to lend my aid.”

“Yes…I’m certain…in time I’ll need such advice.”

“The world is funny that way. Now, erm, go on. I need to…yes, here. And this too. Maybe if I…”

Leaving the basement gave Valadin a new respect for the plight of the Brown Ajah. Facing the Shadow himself was nothing compared to spending backbreaking hours poring over the tiny scrawling from a ages long past.

GREY STEP

The hallway rang aloud with the precise, even footfall of Valadin’s boot. Thankfully he’d been fully dressed when Benril found him in the mess hall. Cutting a sidelong glance towards the apple faced Asha’man he tried to understand his place in this mess.

“Misunderstanding between two of the Tower’s visitors in the guest wing,” Benril answered reading his mind with frighteningly ease.

They walked side by side towards the guest wing and a passing look at them would figure Val as the senior between them. Benril was of the Gray and despite being quite gifted in the craft of diplomacy handled himself like one uncomfortable with the act of conversation. Slouched shoulders that made his gait uneven helped punctuate the untidy nest of sandy brown hair tumbling to his shoulder, but no further; an unlikely ambassador. In truth the Gray was over seventy years old, nearly thrice Val’s elder, but whenever they were together people tended to address the younger man with more respect than was due his station.

Sounds of the disturbance reached them not long after they left the reception hall to enter the wing.

“This is important and I hate to point out such a mistake on the part of my Ajah, however these are nobles from Tear and Illian. They were…mistakenly placed in close proximity to one another…right across each from one another in fact.”

When it was obvious Val didn’t understand the significance of the revelation, Benril continued, “The two countries loathe each other and squabble over oil trade rights in a perennial struggle for dominance. Every meeting between the nobility conclude with heated disagreement if not declaration of war. Someone arranged the lodgings poorly, but that matter will be dealt with later.”

Suddenly Benril rounded on him. Ahead stood uncomfortable looking sentries who dared not break up a rather lively shouting match taking place in one of the rooms. The sounds of screeching women added a particularly unpleasant chord to the cacophony making Val wish to put an end to the matter crisply and quickly, “I would urge you not to handle things as you usually do. Lady Asegora of Tear can keep the Tower larders stocked with fish for years to come if plied carefully and Besean Gananeos of Illian’s Assemblage can offer fighting bodies—a country from whence the Hunters of the Horn hail would make for fine militia if gifted to the Tower.”

So that was why the Asha’man had been especially fidgety when asking Val for help; politics. “Of course, brother. I’ll be the very soul of temperance and moderation,” Val replied, a half smile pulling at his face.

The answering glower gave a good idea of how much Benril trusted his word, but there was no time as the shouts grew louder as two men tumbled into the hallway, red faced and cursing each other’s forebears for a being reared by a goat…or was it a sheep? Val always had trouble with accents and in their anger neither men made much sense. Reaching the scene in time with Benril they shared a look as they watched the struggle between the two men. Their wives remained in their respective rooms angrily glaring at each other, but blessedly their caterwauling had ended at the nascent of the brawl taking place. Now the proud noble ladies bitterly sipped at a goblet and watched each other.

Fodhr’s going to have himself another tavern story, Val grimaced inwardly, but hesitation would not solve the matter quickly. “If I may,” he asked of a pair of guardsmen observing the scene with obvious discomfort.

“Ser?”

“Hand over your blades—both of you.”

“Valadin…” Benril started to caution, but Val showed no intentions of stopping.

“Excuse me, Lord Asegora? Master Gananeos?” Valadin interjected the string of venom staining the ears of any within listening distance. “What seems to be the cause of strife here?”

Panting and perspiring profusely the lean young man was the first to stagger to his feet though his eyes never left the larger fellow whose physique bespoke time spent in the military in the past, but now had the luxuries of fine living soften much of what had once been muscle. “This goat’s piss, comes to the Tower whispering in my wife’s ear that he intends to secure approval for rights to trade oil to the Westlands—that she should flee a sinking ship for one destined for better fortune!” the young man hissed. Lord Asegora, then.

“I told you it was merely talk over too many goblets of wine!” the woman standing one of the rooms protested marking herself as the Lady Asegora. Val didn’t let his gaze linger too long, but a quick survey proved the noble lady to be worth of sharing too many cups of wine with.

“And you, Master Gananeos? How do you answer this?”

“I did no make such slights upon his lordship. I only did share with fine Lady Asegora things I were instructed to discuss with the M’hael and the Mother.”

Tapping a finger to the chin, Val pointedly ignored the narrowed cut of Benril’s Asha’man’s eyes while appearing to consider the matter. A quick conclusion was reached and the steel of both swords rang as they clattered against the stone floor. “This meaning is what?” Gananeos demanded, switching his gaze between the weapons and Valadin.

Offering a shrug for reply, Val casually countered, “Whoever’s right will be the one who’s alive. Solve the matter with blood.”

Everyone’s face blanched at the statement. Satisfaction warmed Val’s insides at their expressions; Benril’s especially was something he’d share with Kiellan when next he took meal with his friend. Outwardly he feigned innocence even supplying that in matters of such great importance no uncertainty should remain.

“I imagine the Grey Tower would endorse the victor, right Asha’man?”

Lord Asegora cut in quickly at that, “Has the Grey Tower no respect for consuls?! Is that all you people are?! Brutes and thugs masquerading as stewards of the Light?!” At this Val was quick to cover the space separating himself and the two lords.

He was more than a head taller than both and his width took up nearly half the hall. The fit of his coat foretold a body primed for the purpose of excelling in violence. Val needed nothing more than that to quiet the blue-bloods down, but to further make his point he took Saidin roughly, bringing the rough rivers of Power into subtle, yet effective Flows of Fire and Air. As the Mist of Mirrors settled over him, be became a bit taller and there were shadows cast ominously in his expression where the light shouldn’t have allowed for such. The sickly pallor of the two men made it clear the Weave had served its purpose.

“I would say that your speculation is wrong, Lord Asegora. Truly if we’re all thugs and brutes I imagine Asha’man Benril wouldn’t have asked me to refrain thrashing you both senseless on account of the prosperous relationship the Tower desires to have with both your nations. Can we agree on that?”

Their heads worked in a nod while both tried to keep their dignity and not appear to be shying away from him. “Good, good. Given everyone’s distaste for brutality I think we can say the night will end…quietly?”

Another nod, this one more emphatic than the last. “Fine, fine. Asha’man Benril will be able to seek different accommodations for you if you wish to change quarters—not that it’s necessary. We’ve all solved our problems, yes?”

This time a pause, but a glower from Valadin squeezed out the expected response. Turning on his heel Val saluted the guardsmen who watched him warily and bade them to retrieve their weapon with compliments of their work. Benril began to the task of soothing the wounded egos of the nobles with words of diplomacy as Val glided down the hallway with long, ground-eating strides. Oh, the Gray would have his neck on the morrow, but tonight all thoughts for the evening were for a private engagement with a beautiful woman to pass the time.

And people claim mediation takes a deft hand. Feh, I should’ve been of the Gray, Valadin chuckled to himself.

WHITE STEP

“…and so Manelle Asha’man if the pursuit of education is to provide knowledge then it makes no difference if it’s written or otherwise since I’ve received the gift, is that not true?” Malorn’s tone was gallingly devoid of the smugness the Dedicated no doubt felt. Since earning the Sword pin, years after Valadin, the estranged son born from wealth had been a thorn in the side.

Only the barrier of serenity gifted by one who knew the Void restrained the angry tirade that waited to be given life. The other students had already handed their assignments in, a dissertation highlighting the merits of capitalizing geography in warfare. It wasn’t expected that any theories presented would be particularly novel in their proposing, but Val looked forward to reading the ideas of his students all the same; that is once he dealt with Malorn. “Dedicated, knowledge gained is something tested by trial and experience. You can’t assume that you’ve gained it without demonstration under the appropriate conditions,” Val answered gruffly, his eyes roaming the scroll before him. No need to give the whelp the attention he wanted.

Just flog him or send him off to the Master of Soldiers. That’ll set him straight. An appealing thought if only it did not inherently feel like it proved the pompous scion of nobility right.

Asha’man,” Malorn persisted, seated with perfect uprightness in his chair. The Grey would benefit from having a bloke with his poise; man was irritating enough to vex stone. “We’ve shared personal experiences with one another in the arena of combat. You know well that I understand the lessons you give in martial practice; I’ve lived them.”

Another irritatingly true statement. Now Val’s head lifted from his work. The slight quiver in the Dedicated’s lip was a sign Malorn felt he was winning. Maybe he was. “You’re correct and wrong in equal measures. Whether I understand that you know what you know or not, authority dictates I have you prove it. This isn’t a matter of if you’re indeed knowledgeable as much it is a case where there is protocol to follow and rules are the guiding principles of order. On that basis alone if I ask you to write down your assignment, you should write it.”

“In other words, simply because there are rules for it, the course of action is justified? I wonder if the Shadow’s order can vindicated by such quims.” At that, Val’s brow arched reminding Malorn they were not of the same rank. “Of course, no disrespect was meant. I aimed to say that if rules are the sole reason to demonstrate my knowledge—which you know I have and that is the purpose of teaching in the first place—then education itself is an arbitrary thing that is neither necessary nor unnecessary. In which case nothing learned really matters.”

“Malorn, go sup with the others. I haven’t time for this.”

“Am I excused from the assignment?”

“No.”

“But I…”

Val cut in smoothly, but firmly in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “You demonstrated you’ve a quick tongue that would be better served towards the tasks asked of you. If my goal as a teacher is to ensure that you’ve learned what I’m teaching then in essence it’s my right to investigate such whether excessively or not. As you say…it is neither necessary nor unnecessary which means you will do it because we submit ourselves to such rules. Now see yourself to the mess halls, Dedicated.”

Ever elegant in his handling, Malorn rose with the precision of a Gaidin. Never did his expression waver or yield sign of frustration; it was commendable. Valadin watched him until the man exited the door before using a simple Flow of Air to slam it shut afterwards.

With time to think, Val found himself considering the conversation they’d had. It wasn’t long before with a grunt it was decided that the blade was a far simpler rationale that didn’t require discussion; one either lived or died by the sword.

A truth anyone could understand.

RED STEP

Beneath him the cart trundled on the way to the Haddon Mirk. Valadin itched with anticipation…and uncertainty. One never knew how things would end when chasing after a rogue channeller. Two Red Sisters sat across from him, their faces, smooth and wintery as ice. No one had said a word since setting out from Tear. What was there to say?

When the cartman was paid for his delivery he gave a silent prayer to the Creator for them before departed, an odd kindness for a commoner Val thought. “Before we begin this hunt we must decide what to do when we come upon this lad for I fear there will be little time to decide when we confront him,” one of the Reds stated. The rose buds of her cheeks made her pretty where the boniness of features may have otherwise gone unnoticed.

The other Red nodded her assent, but said nothing. Clearly this conversation was meant for him; they wished to assess his resolve. Keeping the inward exasperation from the surface he added a curt incline of approval before stating, “Shielding and capturing him should be enough until we return him to the Tower for the M’hael’s judgement.”

“If it is that easy I would agree, but he’s given in to his passion—likely he’ll be prepared to shed blood. Are we?” Another test.

“I do not hesitate to place my life on the line for the justice of the Light. Any who would do evil will face the full muster of my strength.”

“And if that justice need be swift? What then? Can you muster the strength to do what needs doing?”

At that Val stared the pretty Red fully in the face. Her shawl draped across her shoulders and her hands clasped in front of her, she looked every bit the pious Sister seeking only the path to righteousness. That sort of zealousness made the skin crawl. It wasn’t a long pause, but the gap between the question and response was enough that any playing a political game could twist it to their advantage; burn them if they tried. “If justice must be administered swiftly then the Creator will decide that. For myself I exist as an instrument of the Light. If the Pattern wills it, then it will be…Aes Sedai.”

Something changed in him with that statement. A sense of conviction mixed with the disgust of the task he was about to undertake. Shadowspawn and those who fought under the banner of the Shadow were one thing, but lost men and women who were more danger to themselves than others was uncharted territory. As they entered the tangled forest lacking villages, roads, or even paths, Valadin fought the bile fighting to rise from his stomach. His sword dangled at his waist offering a degree of comfort, but his heart now understood the plight of the Red Ajah. There was no middle ground, yet to be rash meant to be cruel. Stepping over a root, his eyes swept over the woods to make certain no one was in the area. A quick Weave of Spirit and Air cast a net that would ferret out any who stalked in the woods.

A disturbance to the east of their location made his stomach drop, but Val was calling out directions even as the sickness spread. They only saw the barest glimpse of him when a gout of fire streamed toward them only heartbeats after the menace of Saidin warned of the male channeller’s sortie. A blade of Air and Fire cut the Weave before the flames reached them followed by a cry of surprise as the women efficiently Shielded their quarry.

He was old, older than the Tower accepted to be taught. Weak too—the poor fool never had a chance. As they came upon him, Val was struck by the fury in his struggle. Air bound him, yet he fought and cursed, swearing that once he broke free he would claim the lives of those who took his family from him. Val knew it to be the sad rage of a pained man, but showed no sympathy for his behavior. The Sister shared a look and what came next was the very thing Valadin had been dreading…

That scream, that horrible, blood-deep scream, would forever haunt his sleep.


The final step came and went, suddenly leaving Val staggering into a round white chamber. The reflected light from several stand lamps were blinding as bits of jumbled memory flooded Valadin’s thoughts, nearly sending him to his knees. Unable to think clearly as events lived yet unlived pressed themselves to the forefront of his thoughts he managed a few more steps before stumbling to a halt. The experience was jarring. Living the disjointed lives that existed in between each step felt like seeing himself from several vantage points simultaneously; Val’s head spun trying to sort through the mess. Master Elonid was there waiting with the Asha'man of every Ajah, the men who had started him on his path to ascension.

"It is done,” the tweed man declared with a clap, expression solemn though not with hints of pride showing in his eyes. "Let no one ever speak of what has passed here. It is for us to share in silence with he who has experienced it. It is done." Again, a loud clap followed by another one equally so. "It is done!"

"Who comes here?"

The voice came from behind the Asha'man, the speaker remaining unseen for the moment. “I…It is Valadin Manelle, former Dedicated of the Grey Tower, humble servant of the Light.”

“For what reason do you come?"

"To swear the Three Oaths, and thereby claim the Cord of an Asha'man."

"By what right do you claim this burden?" the voice thundered, absolute in its authority within the chamber. Val had to keep his confusion from showing in his words.

"By right of having made the passage, submitting myself to the will of the Grey Tower."

"Then enter if you dare, and bind yourself to the Grey Tower."

During these final words, Valadin realized whom it was that had spoken; the M’Hael. Durent Antian himself had come to bear witness to his joining the ranks of the Dragon-proclaimed Guardians. The Asha'man made way for Val as he approached his long-time idol face devoid of distraction and his gait sure in its step, neither hurrying nor falling slow. M'Hael Antian waited calmly, the wide eight-striped stole about his neck stole attention until Val noticed the new Keeper at the man’s side.

Jaryd Kosari, the name flickered through the fog. A former M’Hael himself.

The Keeper waited holding ready the black velvet cushion that bore the Oath Rod. Behind them, along the wall, stood the Heads of the eight Ajahs, each bearing a small bundle Val knew to contain a shoulder Cord; the moment he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for finally stood, but a few short steps away.

Bending the knee before Durent, Val could feel the pride emanating from the older Asha’man’s carriage. They had shared more than one talk during the years—brief though they may have been.

As the M’Hael reached out to take the smooth ivory-colored Oath Rod from its cushion, Val vaguely recalled from studies that the Oath Rod was a ter'angreal that bound one to the Oaths and the Oaths to the man, but even now in this final moment what that truly meant escaped him. Durent held out the strange object of Power and Val obediently put out both hands where to receive the Oath Rod in upturned palms. Feeling as Durent Seizing the Source and Wove a thread of Spirit into the ter’angreal Val closed his fingers around the texture of the item akin to glass, but impossibly smoother than that.

"Repeat after me: Under the Light, by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I swear to speak no word that is untrue."

“Under the Light, by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I swear to speak no word that is untrue.”

Something settled over Val’s skin when the words were said. The thought of lying still remained to him, but without testing it he knew that his tongue could never give any untruth voice.

"Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I vow to make no weapon with which one man may kill another."

“Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I vow to make no weapon with which one man may kill another.”

Again Oath settled into Val’s skin, tightening as though an invisible garment had been slipped over him, binding him from the crown of his head to the soles of your feet. "Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I vow never to use the One Power as a weapon except against Shadowspawn, in the last defense of my own life, that of my Warder, or that of another Brother or Sister of the Grey Tower."

“Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I vow never to use the One Power as a weapon except against Shadowspawn, in the last defense of my own life, that of my Warder, or that of another Brother or Sister of the Grey Tower.”

The binding shrunk tighter still greater. Val wondered if this snugness would hold him so for the remainder of his years, but he didn’t give voice to an opinion. There was still more of the ceremony to attend.

"It is done. The Oaths are graven on your bones. You are bound to the Grey Tower," Durent announced both to Valadin and to the other channellers as he took the Oath Rod from Val, placing it upon the waiting cushion. Finally the Dragon insignia was pressed into Val’s collar just opposite the Sword pin earned years ago when he’d proven himself Dedicated. "Rise now, Asha'man; choose your Ajah and take your place among us."

Bowing and kissing the M'Hael's ring, Val rose, ready to make his choice. “I pledge my allegiance to serve as a brother of the Green Ajah.”

As good as it felt there was little pomp in the matter—far less so than while he’d been Dedicated. At the time a day wouldn’t pass where an Ajah member would petition for his pledge. The members of the other Ajahs made their obeisance to the Durent, before offering a quick nod to the Keeper, before quietly filing out. M’Hael Antian and Keeper Kosari followed shortly after, leaving Val alone with Captain General Malkom—another man he’d come to know well and respected greatly. At the man’s side was a Asha’man Val knew well; Garyas.

Kneeling once more to ask for formal acceptance though refusal of such had never been heard in Val’s memory, he made his petition, “I am called to you, and I answer my calling now. I pray you, accept me as a Brother."

Silas smiled that mischievous grin that always preceded the vicious beating that only a quarterstaff could dole out, "Then rise, Brother."

Anointed as a member of the Green Ajah, the Ajah placed the colored Cord upon Val’s shoulder, securing it with the Tower’s epaulet before raising Val to his feet. Garyas grinned before stepping forward to embrace Val.

"Welcome home Brother," the son of Ghealdan greeted, "We have waited far too long for you,"

In the company of a Brother and the Head of your Ajah, Val left the Oath Rod chamber at the pinnacle of the Grey Tower. From there they led him down the stairs toward a new suite of rooms in the Ajah headquarters where the whooping cries welcomed Valadin Manelle to his new home.

It was an end that decreed the start of a new beginning.