If True Love Reigned
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor's Accepted MRP.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Prologue: The Horns of a Dilemma
Mon Jun 3 19:42:06 2002
Three bits of explanation:
1) For this section of the MRP, ly'Anjolie Halin'kor is a Novice. About five "weeks" into the MRP, she has become an Accepted, thus making the whole plot plausible (always a plus). She is still bonded to Riordan al'Tammas, although that will change when they come back. This MRP is also Riordan's WMRP.
2) All NPC's are mine, and nothing in this string needs an answer by anyone; I got it done meself. Whoo me. I don't need any help until act three. Also, Kailin and Sorlin are kind of half-included here; Briar is, too, but not for a while.
3) I've got permission from Joni to stick this here. Whoo me!
-Misty
And now, with no further ado, here goes a very long, convoluted, and evil MRP. Its overall title is "If True Love Reigned," but each section has a title, too...yeah...I admit, I have no idea what I'm doing, but as long as it's readable...Anyway, here goes.
Jelun fir'Arklai, NPC
MRP: Prologue: Patience Pays Off
Mon Jun 3 19:48:21 2002
Towers, walls, and fanciful minarets were reflected in the many shining lakes and ponds of the Arad Doman capital city of Bandar Eban. Jelun fir'Arklai, her dark Domani beauty unmarred by the passage of years, sat on the side of one such contained pond, its fountain pushing water skyward from the lips of a lovingly detailed fish. The ripples that formed in its mirrorlike surface distorted her reflection, but she never came here to gaze at herself. No, she came here to be gazed at, albeit by nothing human. Her fingers dangled into water shaded by the broad leaves of waterstars, and small, gilded fish came up to nibble at them, from time to time. Soon, the decorative fountain would freeze over, for another year. It was early morning, in early autumn, and the woman, the First of her House, and newly appointed to the Council of Seats, the small faction that held sway over the mercantile trade of Arad Doman, was waiting.
She did not like to wait.
She had never been known for patience. Yet, for this, she could wait. Last night, her messenger, her prize thief-catcher, imported from Illian and worth his weight in Sharan silks to her, had whispered to her a promise of information about what she had been hoping was true, and she intended to act on it. House Halin'kor was far more powerful than House Arklai; House Halin'kor had had three Kings on the Throne, and House Arklai had only managed to align itself through the good deeds done by some minor nobles during the Wars of the Ascension, in centuries past. Good deeds wore thin, in time; ruling members did not. She didn't like being ignored, that was for certain. Neither did she think that she should skate by, forever, on some bit of dry, preserved history. She wanted to be history, herself. She had all the earmarks of the powerful, and the ambition to make good on them.
She was tired of being "second-rate." She intended to set herself on the Throne, the First of the House Arklai. And if her informant's news was what she had been wanting, been waiting, to hear, then she would be a happy woman, indeed. Her personal maid entered the courtyard, curtsying in her presence, and the man, tall and swarthy, entered with a quick, jerky bow. She did not react, or look up from her sport among the fishes. It was tantamount to the core of Domani teachings to not pay attention to a man that interested you; indifference won many more words and far more in trade franchises than sweet words or even the lure of her canopied bed. Those, too, were potently persuasive, but her first and best weapon was studied indifference. He cleared his throat, thinking she did not see him, but she sat, stroking a waterstar, waiting for him to grow impatient.
Impatient men felt a need to justify their presence; impatient men talked, and were unguarded of their tongues. They said far more than a man politely greeted, more than they ought to say. She loved men; they thought women weak, when truly, they were the prey, and any woman a predator, able to have her way with a few caresses, a lie, a wheedle…Turning liquid brown eyes on him, she feigned surprise, and was gratified at his response. Sometimes, she worried that she had grown old, or had lost her infamous beauty in a few brief moments, but reactions like his boosted her confidence.
When he left, she was smiling; she called for her maid, and, in a briskly clipped tone, she left instructions for her brother to be summoned from the Tarabon front, and the endless war over the Almoth Plain, where he was playing at being a Child of the Light, and sat herself at a small, carved desk, to begin to draft a friendly letter to the First of House Halin'kor. Soon, she would hold that woman's title in her hands…but first, to remove her...impediment.
Her plans were moving right along.
al'Zyrata Halin'kor
MRP: Prologue: A Clandestine Visit
Mon Jun 3 20:01:57 2002
It was with some trepidation that al'Zyrata allowed the footman of her carriage to hand her down; she felt as exposed as if she had cut the clinging silk gown she wore, of a pale violet shade, to show her breasts, the way immoral outsiders did. It amused her no end to think that women would consider her dress indecent, but they showed flesh. All that showed of al'Zyrata were her tiny hands, under dagged sleeves, her face and neatly coiffed hair. The "lady's maid" fussing with the fall of her dress was a trained assassin, it was true, but they were only two, and going into a house where thin welcome was to be had. She could not help her nervousness, but she did hide it, as best as she could.
She didn't want to be here, however, it had to be done; scandal, in Bandar Eban, could slaughter the House and its honor at this delicate point. It was crucial that House Arklai be kept silent about the skeleton in the Halin'kor family closet; it was necessary that peace be negotiated. It was a mark of how essential the errand that al'Zyrata had agreed to come alone to the Palace of the Night Stars. Her own home, the Palace of Minarets, a regal manor of golden Kandori marble depicting life in all its forms, was up the gently rounded hills, engineered by the Ogier who had built the city, near the Royal Palace, which crowned the highest, seeming a marble and elstone waterfall more than a mere building. It was the strongly held opinion of most of Bandar Eban's citizens that they occupied the most beautiful city of the world, and on clear days, it was believable.
She had very little idea of what would transpire, within the Palace, but she was al'Zyrata Halin'kor, and she was not afraid. She had been guiding her House for thirty years, the eldest daughter of a distinguished High Seat, and his Andoran wife. Her dark hair was clipped close, with only a hint of the ringlets her mother had given her, but the resemblance to her father was pronounced, in the arch of her cheekbones and the shape of her almandine blue eyes. She was proud of how she looked, and she always had been; it was as much a part of her as her mother's long, patrician nose. She was a woman to be reckoned with, a proud member in a long and glorious tradition. She was history, walking; that was reason enough to know that she could deal with what was to occur.
The Palace loomed up, its arched portal opening by an invisible servant, and al'Zyrata let it consume her. She would do battle in the belly of the beast, and emerge triumphant. Ahead of her, a herald declared her presence, and she let herself be escorted in to the private chambers of the First of House Arklai. Because Jelun was not royalty, only a member of the minor nobility, a bare step up from mere merchants, her name did not bear the al' that al'Zyrata's did; her status was demarcated by the "fir" on "fir'Arklai." That was one of the great multitude of addresses assigned to the nobility; they were as myriad as snowflakes in winter. She knew all of them, in one way or another; Domani society was clannish, and large. It was one of the things that had been drilled into her, all her life.
She swept grandly into the small room, and was ushered to a chair. Jelun fir'Arklai looked up as she entered, and al'Zyrata felt her eyes upon her, weighing, measuring…She took her seat and proffered cup of tea, and waited. Unlike Jelun, patience was something she had learnt, and well. She let the other woman's affected attitude wear thin, willing enough to make desultory comments, until the other woman steered the conversation where she thought it must go. At last, small talk aside, she arranged herself, indolently, on the chair she had been offered, and fastened dark-blue, direct eyes on Jelun. The other woman leaned forward, her moving fingers belying her eagerness.
"I believe you'll find a match between House Halin'kor and House Arklai mutually beneficial…once I tell you this…"
al'Zyrata's gilded skin paled under the soft flow of words. Her infamous composure dangled on the brink of breakage, under the implied threat in the woman's words. Easier than marriage would be execution, but it could be traced back to her, and that would be even worse than living with the blackmail. For honor, then, she would accede; soon enough, impatience would deliver Jelun into her hands. With any hope, as well, her sister's promising match to a young Andoran lord need not be compromised, either, but…just in case.
"With that in mind, perhaps it is best that our Houses put aside animosity and celebrate being united…our House will offer its second daughter to your first son. Such a wedding could be arranged in…oh, three moons? The Feast of Lights would be a propitious date to seal this union, I believe..." There, that had been casual; easy as talk of the sale and trading of silks.
"Indeed." The younger woman inclined her head, and smiled. al'Zyrata felt a sudden wave of nausea, but composure was the only weapon that she had upon her person, and it had yet to fail her. She clung to it, standing, and declaring their audience at an end. Anything more would be mere foolishness; both women knew that the upcoming union was a tentative thing, done to preserve familial honor, or, in the Arklai case, to gain some vestige of that virtue...
As al'Zyrata left, their business concluded, Jelun's long nails clicked delicately on the marble windowsill stretching along the wall behind her seat, and her narrowed dark eyes held no happiness at all. There was blood in the water, and Jelun wanted to seize her opportunity now, not wait for the Feast of Lights. Yet…it had all been far too easy, and she did not like feeling that she had been the fool.
Jelun fir'Arklai
MRP: Prologue: Complications Abound
Mon Jun 3 20:09:13 2002
Everything in both plans, the public and the private, had gone well; the Second Daughter had defaulted the bargain, her wide blue eyes full of hatred for her elder sister as she had accepted the kind "help" of her newly-found friend. Jelun had been that newly-found friend, and it had been she who had delicately skewed the younger woman's perception of her elder sister. cer'Sera Halin'kor was twenty years younger than her elder sister and her brothers, a dark-haired, blue-eyed, pale-skinned variation on her Andoran mother. It had all been easier than Jelun had suspected; there was much hatred in the family, and her manipulation was faultless, at least to her view. She did not think that al'Zyrata would ever know what had caused her sister to default and defile the familial honor. Best of all, without the child to settle the bargain, House Arklai was free to bring its discoveries to light.
She had first approached the parents of a fine young Tairen lordling, who had agreed that a powerful match in Arad Doman would be to their liking. It had been far easier to convince cer'Sera that her heart was more important than some bargain made for her; the girl had darted almost directly for the lordling, and Jelun had heard that a wedding was planned in the Stone of Tear. She wondered how long it would be before the dense child caught on to how she had been used, and laughed, to herself. She laughed until her composure and serenity were gone, and she looked ridiculous, paints smeared by tearful giggles of mirth and satisfaction. She knew she ought to feel remorse, but there was nothing in her laughter save her triumph. By this time next year, if she planned well and wisely, she could be Queen, perhaps…a stunning victory.
She had thought to reach the same ends years before with her failed marriage, but she had been grateful when the childless union had faltered, and her arranged bridegroom had died of an "accident." That "accident" had taken a year of careful planning, and her husband had never once known what was in store for him. It had left her rich, noble, and insatiably driven for more. To her ends, she manipulated people the way a lacemaker moved bobbins; these this way, those others that, to the specifications of a pattern that only she was certain of.
In the morning, she could arrive, as planned, at the Palace of Minarets, with the accustomed gift for a bride to be, and display complete shock to know the girl was gone. House Halin'kor had two daughters, and House Arklai two daughters; Jelun was widowed, and unsuitably old, even if both sons of House Halin'kor were unwed, which they were not. Desun and cer'Sera had been the only suitable match; let al'Zyrata deny that as she would. There would be no help for her but to bend knee and do as Jelun wished; it seemed that she had won, after all. And it had all been so easy.
She couldn't believe how easy it had all been.
She was dressed in her finest that morning; she was going to a victory, after all. As she alighted from her coach at the Palace of the Minarets, she looked up, as familiarly as a woman who had just come home, and smiled. Soon, it would be home. She thought that the golden marble palace would do admirably well, until she was ready for the one that overshadowed it, its white marble and pearly elstone shimmering in the morning sun.
Soon.
Soon, for everything she'd ever wanted.
al'Zyrata Halin'kor
MRP: Prologue: Averting Disaster
Mon Jun 3 20:16:57 2002
It was with an odd satisfaction that al'Zyrata watched Jelun's expression of disinterest and affected shock slip. The woman had something to do with the vitriolic letter and her sister's sudden disappearance, the evening before, she was certain. However, with no proof, she could do nothing, and she was still honor-bound about their bargain. It had been a revelation of another of House Halin'kor's skeletal secrets that had shocked Jelun so; all of Bandar Eban was certain there were but two daughters of the House of Halin'kor, and that the third had died in her cradle. The truth was almost something from a bard's tale, but truth it was; al'Zyrata had seen the child three years before, when she had pleaded to remain at the White Tower.
That had been a shock, seeing yet another child come before them, claiming to be ly'Anjolie. Most girls had not even resembled her Andoran mother, who had died shortly before the girl's return; not one had borne the correct mark. It was true that the child was studying with the Aes Sedai, but one had been with her, and had vouched for her veracity. Aes Sedai did not lie, and al'Zyrata had nothing but respect for them. Now, however, they were a hurdle to be overcome. She needed her sister, to keep this bargain; light only knew what the secret that the other woman held over her head would do to their claim on the throne. Honor was first, and foremost. She twisted the golden bracelet on her left wrist and sighed. Nothing to do save summon the child, of course.
It was with a heavy heart that she penned her missive, a letter to the Amyrlin Seat herself, explaining some of her situation, and requesting the return of the Third of her House, so that the child could be married. It was, as she pointed out in her letter, the noblewoman's lot in life; the girl had been born Halin'kor and the House required her. Surely, she could be released, now? She had been Tower-trained for four years; Queen Morgase of Andor sat her throne with less Tower training than that. She read over it as she carefully shook sand onto it; it was logical and well-argued, and she did not see how they could disagree, when the need was genuine.
It had taken much persuasion, as well, to convince Jelun that the youngest daughter of House Halin'kor was a better match; in her heart, she hoped that the shy blonde child she remembered had grown to be a woman of strength and integrity. She did not like to sell the child so, but honor was everything, and honor could be salvaged in only this way. The girl would learn happiness, here in Arad Doman; with her family, and the power she would exert, how could a woman not be happy? Assuredly, she would learn to enjoy the comforts of a royal life; what young woman would say no?
Deiree Delenn Karaeth
MRP: Prologue: Sealed to the White Tower
Mon Jun 3 20:24:25 2002
The morning mail was always the best of the work of being Keeper; as she signed and assigned missives, she learnt the workings of the world, and of Daes Dae'mar. Surprisingly, she had developed a natural bent for the Game, and Ariana had complimented her upon it. As she set the last letters into the folder of morning work, for Ariana to complete, fingers quick at using the once-unfamiliar leather portfolio, a knock came at the outer door. She frowned, and gestured the Novice on duty to answer it; no sooner had the girl greeted the stranger outside than an Accepted led him in. Her bright grey eyes were wide with curiosity, and Deiree echoed the emotion; men were an uncommon sight, to ask questions of the Amyrlin. Far more frequent, although still rare, were women.
"Child," she greeted, hating the formal address. The man bowed, took in the dark blue stole over the shoulders of her grey gown, and bowed again. She stood, and gestured that he sit; he was clinging to a cased scroll, and looking nervous. He refused, albeit in a frightened tone; she merely raised a smooth brow. He looked tired, and less than kempt; he looked as if he had run all the way here, from Illian. From the Accepted's tiny shrug, he had, no doubt, elected to come before the Amyrlin Seat first, as some did. She hated to tell him that today's schedule was full, when he had obviously come so far, but tomorrow was soon enough. It had to be; tomorrow was the first opening she had. Just as she opened her mouth to offer that, with her sincere apologies, he cleared his throat.
"I have come with a missive for the Amyrlin Seat," he said, formally, extending the scroll. Deiree examined it for a personal sigil, and found none; the scroll was addressed to the Amyrlin, but Deiree dealt with all mail not on a particular format, and this was far short of it. Her nails sliced through the crimson wax seal, and she extracted the fine parchment within, her thundercloud eyes scanning down the page. As she neared the bottom, she shook her head. An odd request, but not too uncommon; many a girl's family demanded her back. No doubt Madeline could handle this with far more tact than she.
"I can deal with this," she answered the messenger. "Give me but an hour to write a letter to your mistress…ah…al'Zyrata…and you will be hastened on your way. You might sleep in your own bed, this night, Goodman." There was no doubt that she could find a man capable of Traveling to Arad Doman; she could do that little for the messenger, who would be the bearer of bad tidings. The messenger blinked at her, and she waved him away. "Have the Accepted Olonoda take you to a chamber where you can rest, and I will deal with this, myself." He bowed out of her office, the puzzled Accepted on his heels. Deiree could hear her coaxings to the man to come this way, and laughed, but only to herself. With him gone from her office, she ghosted down the hall, in the opposite direction, seeking out the Mistress of Novices.
The audience with Madeline had been brief, but confusing. al'Zyrata had not seemed to think her sister capable of becoming Aes Sedai, and had alluded to wanting her at home; Deiree had gone along to see what the formal answer to such a plea would be, though she was certain she knew well enough that it would be a refusal. Indeed it was; the child in question had become Accepted, and Accepted were Sealed to the Tower. There was no chance, now, of the House reclaiming its daughter, until she was Aes Sedai. Deiree remembered the ceremony, and the tearful, sobbing conclusion, now that the name was before her. She dipped her pen into a vial of black ink, and began, in a looping backscrawl, to explain the circumstances to this al'Zyrata Halin'kor of Arad Doman.
She was really feeling quite sorry for the messenger; at least, if it were any consolation, he would be able to deliver the news quickly.
al'Zyrata Halin'kor
MRP: Prologue: News from the White Tower
Mon Jun 3 20:51:08 2002
"And you spoke with the Keeper of the Chronicles, herself? An Aes Sedai? You are certain?"
The man nodded, looking nervous. al'Zyrata had been surprised beyond belief to see him home so quickly; the trip to Tar Valon took six weeks, at the very least, and her messenger had been gone less than a month. She half thought that he might have simply spent her coin on drinking and whores, except for the message he had brought with him; the Flame of Tar Valon, with a sunburst behind it, a sigil she did not know but did not doubt belonged to the Keeper of the Chronicles, was evident in the broken crimson wax. She had read over the terse words a dozen times already, and already, as well, her response was forming in her head. The family had to keep its honor; ly'Anjolie had to wed Desun Arklai at the Feast of Lights. Simple as that.
She dismissed the man with a wave of her hand, lounging on her chaise, holding a herbal pack to her head, to soothe the growing headache that she was getting. Light knew she wanted an easy solution; she spent the night discarding and outlining plans. By dawn's early light, she determined which she would use. A quick ring of the bell on her desk brought her personal maid, Zyren, and she murmured, "Bring me Ostar Knidae. Have him rousted out of whatever bar he's in, and bring him to me before midday."
After her personal maid had left, she roused herself, headache and all, and went in search of her secretary, an older woman with a surprising bent on her. One would not know it, but the woman was Cairhienin, and her mind was excellent. Surely, she'd have a passable solution to the entire dilemma; while she intended to go through the trouble of stealing her sister from the Tower, anyway, simply because she had been refused her, ly'Anjolie might prove utterly unsuitable. There was only so much that could be done to hide the family's secrets, though; the girl had to be a solution. Her secretary suggested a few, outlandish things, but none of them had any pretense of keeping the family honorable. All that was left, now, was honor; later, there would be time for explanation, for hedging, for riddles and enigmas.
Restlessly, she paced the sanctum of her private audience chamber, buried deeply in the golden Palace of the Minarets. The room had a balcony, but the Arad Doman skies were grey; she did not dare go out into the fresh air. So much she had to do, and so little time; she waited impatiently, uncaring of the dark circles under her eyes. It was near to her time limit when he arrived, and she sat up, gesturing him in, around the maid, who looked utterly exhausted and near to tears. She would have to reward the woman suitably; Ostar Knidae was known to be none too kind about being removed from his ale. However, he was the best he was at what he did…and she required that he be. A mistake would be just as dishonorable as defaulting on the dealings with House Arklai.
"Ostar. Sit. I have need of your…services. There is a person whom I wish to have here, and I would pay greatly to see her. She is my sister…and she's in the White Tower. She is Accepted, but…that should pose no problem. I'm willing to pay…" She spread her hands, exposing pale wrists, her liquid eyes large, "just about whatever you would ask."
He grunted, sourly. She tried not to wrinkle her nose at the scent of ale wafting her way, and sat, to begin to give instructions. Her tone was no longer caressing; this was business, and he'd agreed. She would soon have her sister here, and then, when the child was wed, there'd be no silliness about where she belonged. She felt a slight bit of guilt about the final instructions, but they were necessary; the White Tower must not suspect the House. That would be disastrous.
"Do not fail in my instructions," she warned, standing to show that the audience was at an end. "Otherwise, we'll all be brought to the Tower for execution, and I warrant, I'll see your head on the block for all of it."
That had been nine weeks before; now, as the first winter winds rushed over the island city of Tar Valon, a dark-haired, moustached man with a long scar down his left cheek glared up at the White Tower. He'd been forced to come here; his first few attempts, after waiting a few decent weeks, had all been turned away. Even carefully schooled young women, carefully picked to match his description, were turned away, and he sensed that al'Zyrata had thought along the same lines. Jelun drove a hard bargain; every girl had left the woman's presence weeping, and angry. He had barely been able to pay the last one off. She had almost exposed him, as well as herself. At his shoulder was a smaller, more agile man, his hair grey with age, but his eyes bright. Emkar was a fine assistant, and he'd been bought for no more than a few concessions. He thought that the man's vendetta against the House of Halin'kor might be too personal, but that was Emkar's dilemma, and none of his.
Now was time to find a place in an inn and begin to amass information about the Aes Sedai and their trainees. He had some work to be about.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act One: The Purloined Prize
Fri Jun 7 23:31:54 2002
Ohhh-kay, this is going up now because I swear the whole Tower has turned out en masse to ask for the rest...I've sent it out six times! And that's not counting Hannah.
There's no need to answer any of this yet, although Bri comes in at this last part, even though she hasn't written any of it yet, I think...
That's about it. Here goes.
Iraina Bluna, MuC
MRP: Act One: Fortuitous Chance
Fri Jun 7 23:36:01 2002
Milling bodies in Novice white gave way to her impatient pressure, forming a reluctant aisle. Iraina Bluna was an Accepted, and had been for ten years; she persevered, not wanting to be as much a laughingstock as Arwyn. Sometimes, she wondered if her weekly ritual of dropping a class and spending an afternoon in the city was what held her back; she had an aging grandmother at the Inn of the Seventh Star, and she went, once a tenday, to make the elderly woman soup, clean her home, and have tea. Truth be told, that was only the fiction she used; while she did go to the Inn of the Seventh Star, her aging grandmother was in Mayene, and there was a very particular Tower Guard waiting, even now, for her. She'd been seeing Kelith now for two years; it had been Jorith before him, and Breen before that…always, in the end, they'd ask that question, and she'd have to tell them that she didn't know.
However, such concerns were beyond her, this day; Tar Valon's first snowfall was threatening, and she did not want to be caught in it. Pulling her blue cloak tightly closed, Iraina Bluna cast a blue-eyed gaze up at the Shining Walls, and tucked a long blonde curl back under her cloak. With any luck, no one would ever realize she wasn't present in Tower History; there were reports to be read aloud, and Millis always went overlong…Half the class, including Geialora Sedai, would be fast asleep. Wrinkling her nose, she chose Harbor Street, and disappeared towards the Inn of the Seventh Star. Kelith would not wait all day.
Her feet were light; her worries lighter, save for a dark spot, whispering that she might find herself trapped in Tar Valon for a night, and be found out. Well, she'd explain that when it occurred, and no sooner - until then, she was free for the day. Harbor Street turned left, and she chose the cobbled path that was Lavender Lane, feet moving automatically down the paths. Lavender Lane became Frontage Street, and the inn was on that corner. Stepping in, she did not hang her cloak, but kept it on; there was no one in the common room. No one, that was, save a tall man with a long scar on his left cheek, and a smaller man, his hair silvery, brown eyes rheumy. Unaware of their eyes on her, she took the narrow flight of rickety stairs, and turned left at the top.
Downstairs, two men looked gravely into each other's eyes, and nodded. Quickly, they arranged themselves so that their seeming quarry would not escape. Fate had been fortuitous. Seven bands of bright color, graduated from blue to white, had flickered out of the folds of the cape, and in this city, that meant only one thing. Their quarry had come to them.
Iraina Bluna, MuC
MRP: Act One: Afternoon Adventures
Fri Jun 7 23:40:56 2002
It would not last much longer, of that, she was sure. Already, he bored her, and he thought them secure. She knew well enough that he was not the kind of man she wanted in her life forever; he was just an afternoon's diversion. She lay in the tangle of blankets, feeling his hands on her as he tried his best to apologize for the abruptness of his "loving." He did love her, that she was certain of, but she cared not a whit for him. Perhaps a little, yes; he did combat her fear of being forever alone, for one thing, quite excellently, but only when they were together. He certainly didn't spend a great deal of time in her thoughts, but she would regret having to court a replacement for him. Sooner or later, though, there was that question, and always, that signaled the end.
She would be Aes Sedai; she would never make it there with a millstone about her neck. And to have it known that she spent her afternoons in making love to mere Tower Guards; she'd be wrapped in swaddling by the Mistresses of Novices and flayed to the edge of her endurance. No, far better to admit that she neither needed nor required them, but she did delight in their amorous attentions. In a man's arms, she felt a kind of divinity, something worshipped and adored, simply because she asked to be.
The sky outside the window was darkening to slate; she had best be about leaving. She'd half hoped to spend a night here, but she had known the weather would not cooperate. Kelith was dozing, his arms locked around her; she rearranged them around a pillow, and slipped silently away. In the grey afternoon light, she pulled on shift, dress, and deep blue cloak, to cover long blonde curls. Her eyes stuttered to the window, examining the texture of the looming clouds, and she pulled up the cloak, pushing her hair back, to warm her neck.
Holding her cloak closed, she was cautious in closing the door, and made her way downstairs. Kelith always paid for the room, as Jorith and Breen always had, before him, and before them, Davien, and Brannis. She'd been wise to stop choosing her fellow Accepted; she was not going to make a laughingstock of herself by marrying one of them. Look at Deiree Sedai and her husband; everyone knew that Serge Karaeth had only been Tested because of his wife, and that she had only been Tested because they had expected her to fail. A mere five years in banded white, too…Iraina had been Accepted when the woman had arrived as a Novice. No, she didn't want anyone else in on her success; she would make it on her own. With a reflexive sniff, she walked near the edge of the dilapidated stairs, knowing where to step to avoid the squeaks, and, thoughts of the walk home foremost in her mind, descended into the common room.
She struggled fruitlessly as strong arms caught her closely; she was pinned, all thoughts of saidar gone as she worked up the spittle in her mouth to scream. Her legs flailed the air, and an old man, his breath smelling of whiskey, leant in, his visage filling her panicked eyes.
"ly'Anjolie Halin'kor?" he asked. "Who?" Iraina inquired, her kicks ceasing. "Do you mean you took me," she inquired hotly, "for that short-haired milksop?" Her face paled, although she did not see that, only the dagger that emerged from somewhere, and it was not long before she had told everything, promised anything, as long as they did not ruin her face, or hurt her.
In the end, she did get half her wish. The Iraina Bluna who left the Inn of the Seventh Star, in search of ly'Anjolie Halin'kor, had a recognizable face, but she walked stiffly, as if she had been whipped.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act One: Judas Kiss
Fri Jun 7 23:44:37 2002
"If you concentrate, you will find that it becomes easier each time," ly'Anjolie murmured to her student, a Taraboner girl with a plethora of tiny honey-colored braids. "It might seem silly to imagine yourself a rose, but if it works, you'll touch the Source, again." Sitting, cross-legged, knee to knee with the younger woman, ly'Anjolie smiled reassuringly, and began to repeat the lesson as she'd had it taught to her, by rote. Jelviendha could channel, it was sure, but she had a disliking for imagining herself anything else other than what she truly was. "You must learn to surrender; you can only touch saidar when you do." Surrendering was key in life; ly'Anjolie had surrendered much, to sit where she did, teacher and not student.
The first sacrifice had been her illusions of family; those had burnt high, and left her with only gritty ashes and the vaguest sense of who she really was. Yes, she wore her correct name, but she knew nothing of how to be ly'Anjolie Halin'kor, and only marginally more about being Genmarie Jurene. The only being she understood how to be was the Accepted she was; that had been taught to her in painstakingly explicit detail. She was to be respectful, pliant, and capable, and the Aes Sedai would be proud of her. Certainly they would…
Except for the tiny ball of emotions that represented Riordan al'Tammas, she was a model student, an excellent teacher, a kind and patient woman with a talent for putting others at ease. She herself was rarely at ease, save when she was alone, or within Riordan's sheltering arms, but others felt that she was a sympathetic soul, and she was reluctant to point out that it was her fear of being misunderstood that kept her from stating opinions, and her terror of confrontation that made her so affable. Confrontation meant blows, and blows meant being touched; all the horrors in the world stemmed from being touched. Her Talent triggered itself that way, made itself apparent when she touched another, and was the bane of her existence.
At night, she wept over the lives it had already taken; by day, she steered clear of as many people as she could. If someone had offered her a sealed box, with Riordan in it, the sole person she could touch, she would have considered them so kind. Yet, Riordan could not live that way, and she had to keep him in mind. They were bonded, after all, connected by a symbiotic string of saidar. What she felt, he endured; what happened to him, in a lesser way, also happened to her. Dear Light, but she loved him, and some days, that love and the way he was inside her mind were all she had. Those were the worst days, the days she spent sobbing, knowing he wept, too, and was unable to do anything to save her from weeping alone.
"That won't do," she told the young woman before her, absently, "try again."
The door to her classroom bounced open; thinking it merely the wind, ly'Anjolie stood up, taking advantage of the chance to stretch kinked muscles and exercise stilled legs. Her gloved hand reached for the knob a bare second before a slightly taller, more lithe, but equally blonde Accepted entered her classroom. The taller woman looked over the Novice, dismissing her before ly'Anjolie could insist she stayed; the girl took off, a veritable streak, down the hall and outside, to be with her fellow Novices, waiting around for the first snowflakes of winter. Angry, ly'Anjolie turned her blue eyes on the taller woman, crossing her arms under her breasts. How irritating, to be disturbed! She had been about to make progress, too, she was certain; Jelviendha would respond, soon.
"What," she inquired, in a soft tone, "was the meaning of that interruption?" The elder woman shrugged, and gestured at her; with a sigh, ly'Anjolie followed, reaching for the cloak that hung just inside the door. She knew the other Accepted; she was an older one, of moderate ability, who did not quite apply herself. It was well known what Iraina Bluna liked to do; a few of the Accepted joked that she was nearly as prolific as the Head Gaidar. She could care less what the other woman wanted, but she was bound to obey her elders, and the woman would likely punish her for disrespect, if she did not come. As they walked, the other woman talked; apparently, for some odd reason, she had taken it to mind that ly'Anjolie would enjoy a cup of tea, with which to celebrate the coming of winter; before ly'Anjolie had framed a protest, they were outside of the Tower, and heading into the city.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act One: Lullabyes on Lavender Lane
Fri Jun 7 23:52:04 2002
The winter winds were cold; ly'Anjolie shivered despite the thickness of her cloak. Iraina led her unhesitatingly through the gates and into the city; ly'Anjolie had not been abroad alone since the very fateful trip she had taken with Riordan. The rings at the bottoms of their dresses were their passports; the guards did not look twice, one waving a hand at them as they passed. ly'Anjolie returned the wave; Iraina ignored it, her shoulders settling in a way that spoke of anger. She wondered why, briefly; certainly a woman who enjoyed Iraina's favorite pursuit should be pleased with the attention…
Blue eyes scanned the other woman's body, reading below the serene surface. Why me? Why today? Where are we going? Does she know, is that it? Dear merciful Creator, please let it not be that she knows of Riordan and I. Nothing caught her unpracticed gaze, nothing save the nervous play of fingers on cloth. Was that a fresh bruise on the other Accepted's arm? The idea intrigued her; was Iraina in need of help? What was the meaning of this? Why would an elder Accepted suddenly decide to make the acquaintance of a younger? It seemed innocent…
Or was this an initiatory prank? Well, let the other Accepted try and get her lost in the snows; she had Riordan for a beacon, and she could find him. Let them laugh; she was protected, safe, anywhere she went. She had only to need him, and he would come. He was nervous, now, tense and worried, but that flickered and faded as he concentrated. It was early afternoon, and he was no doubt sparring; he'd muttered something the night before, when they had met for the few brief seconds that was more than she dared. Two kisses, hasty and hurried, a few traded sentences.
The winter winds whipped garbage through the streets, making papers scuttle over the cobblestones and through the muddy ruts of the packed dirt of the street that Iraina chose. They had passed far more inviting alleys and nooks; what was the call of this one? There wasn't anything that looked too interesting down here: one dilapidated inn, and three small wooden houses, nestled along the back of an Ogier-built shop. Beside her, Iraina sped up, seemingly eager. ly'Anjolie blinked, but Iraina offered no explanation. Surely, with all the inns in Tar Valon, this was not their destination? The sign swinging on the wind bore seven gilt stars, in a loose circle, with a flame in the middle.
The first snowflakes, delicate icy stars that could not withstand the warmth of her breath, much less the harsh landing on the frozen ground, began to fall in a hesitant rain. ly'Anjolie tilted her face back, letting the tiny icy kisses fall, like benediction, and remembered. The past year's first snow had marked the day she had met Riordan; she remembered, even now, the puddles that she had left, walking in her sleep. Later, close to the spring thaw, had come a heady combination of snowfall, firelight and shadows; they had become lovers, with that magical combination to blame. She did not regret a kiss, did not feel remorse over a single moment that they had spent in each other's arms. What she regretted was that there were not more moments that they could spend together.
Someday, that had been what she'd promised him, so long ago, as he moved into her. She could remember the bliss of his caress, remember the whispers and soft moans he had made as she had promised him forever. Already, she had given too much of herself; they were bonded, and while it was necessary to save his life, she would be served alive to the Mistresses of Novices if any of them ever determined what she had done. Even Riordan's sister, Briar Rose, would punish her…not even Briar Rose would have done as she had, to save Riordan from madness. She sighed, pushing back her hood to reveal wisp-fine golden curls, clinging to her ears and neck, and Iraina did the same, looking around herself, as if expecting someone. ly'Anjolie tilted her head, wonderingly; what was going on? Were they meeting other Accepted?
The room was empty, save for a swarthy barman and an elderly man, sitting near the fire. ly'Anjolie frowned at Iraina, expecting the joke, or the laugh, or the prank, any moment now. What she was given was a hot towel; gratefully, she warmed and wiped her hands, then her face. The barman stepped behind her, and began unfastening her cloak; she pulled away, frowning, protective of her banded dress, and he bowed. "You'll be too warm in it, m'Lady, and your companion has hers off. Please, don't you intend to stay? An Aes Sedai under my roof, or as near as peaches are poison, is an honor. Please, stay. Have some tea."
He bustled away, her cloak over his arm, and came back free of it, with a green porcelain teapot. Iraina leaned away from him, her lower lip in her teeth, and ly'Anjolie peered at her companion, letting the barman serve her tea. He had a long white scar, down the left side of his face, and hung over her as the cup sat poised between her lips and the table. Iraina took a cup as well, twisting it in her fingers before taking a hesitant sip. ly'Anjolie followed suit, taking a deeper drink; the tea was minty and warm, but had a cool aftertaste. Curious, she sipped again; Iraina put her handleless cup down. The barman still hung over her, obeisant, dark eyes worried. She took another drink before extending her cup to him, for a second serving, and asked, "What kind of tea is this?"
"It's from the Shadow Coast of Tarabon, m'Lady ly'Anjolie," he murmured, putting the pot down with a flourish. Iraina stiffened, and he looked towards her; ly'Anjolie turned her head. The room kept spinning, even though she was certain her head was still, and everything became slow and distant, almost as if it were underwater. The Shadow Coast of Tarabon; what else came from that region? Fish, fish oil, herbs, roots…forkroot…they had had a lecture on that just the week before. Now, she wished she had tasted the contents of the cup that the Yellows had passed about; she would know. Wait…
"What did you call me?" she asked, thickly. Had that been her name? No one had told the barkeep her name, or had they? She could not remember; her memory was treacle. A panicky yellow butterfly beat itself at the base of her brain; Riordan….was Riordan falling asleep? In the middle of the day? How odd…The room spun to the left, and she felt warmth from her cup slosh over her hand. He was making her sleepy too; had he been dosed? No…she had. How funny.
"Grab her; she's about to fall from the chair!" And the world was blackness, and roaring, singing silence.
Ostar Knidae, MuC
MRP: Act One: Peaches are Poison
Fri Jun 7 23:55:49 2002
"Good, good," Emkar muttered, watching the little blonde woman leave for the Tower. Ostar's response was to point out the door; Emkar was spry, especially considering his age, and he would be the better choice for slinking about roofs and making sure that this Iraina brought them their quarry. Of course, Iraina herself was part of the quarry; she could have been any woman, and still have done for what they were needing, but the Creator had sent them a blonde that matched the other woman's description, except in height; she was a touch tall, but that would be indiscernible in the dead body. If the Light was kinder, it was hard to tell; everything was going according to plan, and far better, truth be told.
Iraina had capitulated the moment she had seen the dagger; he had been expecting a fight, and Emkar had been behind her, with a cudgel, just in case. Yet, her panicked, fixated blue eyes had stayed on the silvery blade, and he had been able to get every scrap of information that she'd had. He knew panic; she had been too panicked to hold back. He knew, too, that the enmity she bore the other woman would have brought her to bring the girl here even without a threat; did Iraina know how her face contorted when she spoke of the Third of the House of Halin'kor? Open hate twisted pretty, even features into a disagreeable stew; her face bore bitterness. He wondered why she should feel such anger; surely, it was over some man, any man.
Now, he waited. It had been easy to take over the Inn; the innkeeper and his family were locked upstairs, awaiting his desire to release them; Emkar spent most of his time up there, posing as a guest that Ostar allowed to serve them. Now, though, Emkar was combing the aerial route back towards the Tower; he would reveal, as best as he could, what their little shill was doing with the true goal of this entire scheme. Iraina had no idea that she would be forfeiting her life in this plot, but he was certain that she would play her part…right up to the tea that he had bought on the way. Innocuous white roots, peeled and prepared, already steeped in a green porcelain pot.
A talk with an Amadician herbwife had brought up this herb, ages before; Annalura had been a good lover, and she had had no idea how she was forwarding Ostar, an Illianer by birth, in his chosen trade, assassin and mercenary. The herb had made some women in the district drowsy and disconnected, but not others; Annalura had whispered that those few had the unfortunate problem of having things "happen" and that she suspected channeling, although she would never tell the Children that. He had not, either; he had memorized what she told him, for some future occasion, and remembered it at a herbal shop; the white roots had lain in the case, touted as a "remedy for the severest headache." Nobility was a severe headache; he had laughed at that joke while buying what the herbalist had had.
He did not wait long; Emkar came back, his eyes solemn. "They're coming this way. Alike as two peas in a pod, but the Third is smaller, and wearing gloves; Iraina led her here without a moment's pause, and they did not speak much. I don't think she suspects anything, but Iraina may; how are we to deal with her?"
"Hush," Ostar said, heating towels. He kept a few in his pocket, too; they would be useful as soon as the Third was secured. "You'll see, soon enough." And then the two women had come, and Ostar had been nearly struck dumb; ly'Anjolie Halin'kor seemed almost made from starlight, small and pale and shining. She was ly'Anjolie Halin'kor; he had taken her cloak, and tugged her dress, to ascertain himself of the mark on her neck. There were the marks of fading kisses there, too; some man was rather a lucky creature. He rolled his eyes, wondering what that fool had done in the life before this, to be so lucky, and gestured the women to a seat. So far, neither suspected anything, and Iraina was a fine actress. She appeared perfectly at home, wiping her face with the warm towel. In a few moments, he'd be jamming that towel between her teeth, to stifle her screams; a body in the canals of Tar Valon, dressed in Accepted white, would be their decoy, and earn them time to get the Third home to Bandar Eban, and into al'Zyrata's waiting hands. Let the First deal with the Tower; he was only a mercenary, hired for a task.
The girl succumbed; Iraina followed, more slowly. He tied the towel between her teeth, and set about shortening blonde ringlets, before searching the Third. She wore a necklace, but not her House bracelet; he had been counting on that piece of identification. Where was her bracelet? Not on her person. Her pockets and pouch turned up nothing of interest, save that the lucky man's name was likely Riordan, and that the Third was a woman of letters; she had been working at deciphering a bit of odd poetry that he shook his head at. Strangely an apt little sentence: "True friendship does not lead one astray; the knife shill leads into the past." She had been writing meanings underneath; most involved this lad Riordan, and someone called Lissa; she had scribbled many out. Well, back to work; he removed Iraina's things, belt, pouch, and jewelry, and began replacing them with the Third's.
The lion pendant went 'round Iraina's neck, then ly'Anjolie's pouch went onto the elder woman. Finally, he peered at the two girls; save for the fact that the Third still wore gloves, he could not tell them apart. Time for Iraina to go; on the way to the Moonwind, they would put her over to be drowned. She would never awaken, from the forkroot tea. ly'Anjolie would sleep for a long while, and he had more; soon, she would be in Bandar Eban, and her sister could handle her. All they left in their wake, the two assassins, was a pile of gilded curls, a pair of confused innkeepers, and a dead body.
Nereid Malloy
MRP: Act One: Beneath the Surface
Fri Jun 7 23:58:56 2002
"Momma?" asked the young boy, leaning over the railing, "what's that down there?" Momma didn't look, being concerned with his elder sister, so he did. A bright band of rainbow flickered in the water, no matter what perspective he viewed it from; what was that, down there? They were crossing one of Tar Valon's wide canal bridges, walking Cissera to see Thal, her betrothed. His sister was whining about wedding dates, and Nereid, a wiry boy of two and ten not concerned overmuch with girls, was looking for any reason not to have to spend hours on end cooped up indoors with Mistress Meriwether and her boring son, and Momma and Cissera, as they talked over the dry, boring business of uniting his plain, boring sister with a husband.
They'd already begun; Cissera was talking of Jaerecruz lace, whatever that was, and Momma was speaking of Valeciennes lace - utterly boring. So, as they passed off the bridge, Nereid darted away, intent on making his discovery and having his adventure. He rolled down the embankment, not caring that he was getting his especially good breeches dirty from the grass, and caked with mud. Momma would shred him to bits; perhaps she'd be so angry that he'd be allowed to eat with the servants, or better yet, buy his own meal at a cart. Anything was better than strange Illianer Mistress Meriwether's spicy food; he hated the way she cooked. The day was looking up! Chortling, he let himself fall a few more paces, then stood up, dusting off his breeches.
And began to scream, as pale, sightless, filmed blue eyes peered up at him, from under and around the bright rainbow of an Accepted dress' hem. He did not stop screaming until a tall man, certain that he was being murdered down there, came racing down, and bore him away, to a local inn, where he was dosed with brandy and his mother located. She had walked on six blocks without him; they had been consumed in their debate, and Nereid had gone unnoticed.
The tall man bore the body, shrouded in a blanket, up the hill, to the White Tower. The Aes Sedai scared him, but something that could hurt one of them frightened him even more. He waited politely in the Mistress of Novices' office, edged as far as he could get from the youthful faces wearing white and banded white, waiting there, as well. The girl's corpse was in the Infirmary, apparently, and he was needed for questions, although he knew nothing.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Entr'acte: Endless Sleep
Thu Jun 13 11:51:20 2002
Riordan was rocking her in his arms; she could feel him, all around her. Yet, he was not there - she could not move a muscle, for exhaustion, but she was certain that she was alone. Under her was a hard narrow cot, and she wondered, briefly, why she was in the Infirmary, and if whatever she had done had given the bond between she and Riordan away. The rocking rose in rhythm, and her heavy eyelids slid shut. Riordan would make it right, he would. As long as he was with her…and he would never leave. He couldn't leave. They were bound as one.
That, at least, had not been a mistake, on her part. She could remember Iraina, remember the swarthy innkeeper, but she didn't remember being injured, didn't remember even coming back to the Tower. Had Riordan collapsed, and toppled her, too? Her mind was too vague and fuzzy to tell her. Why could she not move? Her body was not obeying her. Was she tied to her bed? What was happening? Before her fuzzy mind could even inform her that saidar was an impossible dream, the narrow band of light against the faraway ceiling widened into a fan. Soft curses followed behind the scent of alcohol, assailing the only two senses she could depend on, smell and hearing.
"You done went and woke up," she was told. He reached behind her head, and she fought to move. Her body did not respond; she might as well have been a doll with a mind, for all she could influence her environment. Stuck to the roof of her mouth, she located her tongue, and as the elderly man forced her jaws wide, putting a brightly metallic object between her teeth, she managed a piteous mewl that did not even sound like speech, but was. There was a moment where the man took his hand off the funnel, and she struggled to emit it from her lips. It fell out, hitting her cheek, then her jaw.
The elderly man sighed, and as he put the teapot down between ly'Anjolie and himself, she mewled, again, more recognizably. He took advantage of her opened lips to shove the metal funnel back in; she tasted copper and felt pain as the tongue of the utensil scraped the roof of her mouth. ly'Anjolie thought herself unheard, her mewl too indistinct and clotted with the horrid herbal taste of sleep, but as he poured the tea, mockingly minty, down her throat through the funnel, he muttered, brushing her hair off her forehead and away from her ears, "Ain't no Riordan to help ya, missie. And he won't never know where yer've gone…Hope he didna love ya."
Desolation ululated in the base of her skull as blackness dragged her under in an enormous wave, and the sound of the river surging by was an invitation to join the waters in an endless sleep.
Ostar Knidae, MuC
MRP: Entr'acte: Starlight
Thu Jun 13 11:53:25 2002
"What have ye there?" bellowed the grizzled first mate of the riverboat Moonwind. He scrubbed at his ears and reached out towards the blanket and cloak-swathed figure of the Third. Ostar deftly moved the girl away from the questing hands, and said, curtly: "I've paid enough for that to be my business alone, your master says. See you listen to him." His scar bunched into an angry scowl; the more he kept the young woman a secret, the less likely he was to run afoul of the White Tower himself.
This was a business that reeked of stinking fish, and he didn't want anything more than to end it quickly. Seven days on the Moonwind, he'd been told, if the fine river currents of spring melt held out; nine at most, even if the captain had to take on rowers. Ostar had paid dearly for that promise, and for the captain's cabin. The captain thought Ostar honeymooning with a runaway noblewoman, and had been all too enthusiastic about taking him on, something Ostar found amusing. Still, this fiction suited his needs, explained ly'Anjolie, and, best of all, was something the captain would easily believe, since it had come from his own lips. The best lies were those you allowed others to tell themselves.
ly'Anjolie was easy to keep; a cup of tea down her throat, through a copper funnel, every four hours, and she slept constantly, not even murmuring from dreams. He and Emkar took turns in the room, raising the captain's eyebrows but exciting no comment. Meals were delivered for three, although their captive didn't eat; they did not dare allow her to awaken. Her sister had claimed to be able to deal with her; Ostar knew that he preferred not to, not when she possessed an ability capable of killing him with a blade he could not see. Let al'Zyrata be the fool, if it pleased her; Ostar Knidae preferred safety. Safety involved tying the girl to her cot and keeping her in a stupor; it had yet to fail.
"It's your turn, Emkar," he muttered, picking up a deck of Tairen cards. "I did give her the last two doses, and I do be needing my bed soon. You won't let her get on so long without the tea, yes? Do not forget, she's like a viper…one wrong movement that she is aware of, and ye die, Emkar." The older man nodded, straightening, thumbing thick Domani mustaches away from his lips. "I won't forget," he said, almost sullenly, then added; "sleep well."
Ostar laid the cards out in a neat array, taking in the tiny, wall-fastened berth, meant for a servant or bodyman, and its star-limned burden. Such a tiny, pretty package, to contain such trouble within it, waiting for a false movement; al'Zyrata had best know what she was doing, for he would do nothing like this for her again. Of course, that was if he survived trying it, this time.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Entr'acte: Solitaire
Thu Jun 13 11:55:24 2002
The cards made a dry click as they hit the table; the inside of her mouth was completely dry, and she felt as if she had been rolled in mud. Besides a vague memory of crying out for Riordan, she remembered nothing, but she was completely certain that it had been several days. Her body felt beaten and bruised, although she did not think she bore a mark of abuse, and her mind felt full of cotton wool. She could only see the game because she had been lain on her side; her head seemed an impossibly heavy weight on her neck, and she thought, that like the newest babe, she might not be able to hold it up, if she could remember how to engage her muscles in the first place.
Riordan could move; Riordan was coming. He was far away from her, though, and getting farther by the moment; was he riding away from her, or was this soporific rocking from a boat? Her mind didn't want to cooperate, so she closed her eyes, filtering out the insistent click of stiffened paper and wood. She knew the game that the old man was playing; she had played it in Tear, to while away lonely hours. She could remember being rocked in the most comforting way, but she was assuredly alone, now. There were no arms around her midriff to hold her against him, while he spoke, in low and reassuring tones, of the future.
There was no one here to hold her tight at all; she was completely alone, forced to depend upon herself. Concentrating on her fingers and toes, she willed one or the other to move, exercised her jaw, worked her sore throat. She was ravenously hungry; she felt as if she had not eaten in days. Considering it all, she was rather certain she had not, for fear of being choked in her sleep. Whomever had her - likely Whitecloaks, or perhaps the vaguely described Seanchan that held the Aryth Plain, at Toman Head, although that was unlikely, because she did not wear a collar, and she had heard they collared women like her, channelers - was not the kindest of captors. Still, her ears could only detect one other breathing person, besides herself; she risked raising her head.
An elderly man she remembered as being the one who had poured the tea into her last time was playing solitaire, his back to a bed, which was beside a fire in a large potbellied stove. The entire cabin smelled of its acrid smoke, but it gave warmth. ly'Anjolie made a toe wiggle, then a finger, and then, hesitantly, picked up the incredible weight of her own heavy head. She watched him for several long minutes, then worked her jaw, obstinately, wanting to be certain that she did not let out another piteous mewl instead of cold, clear, precise words. When she thought herself capable of speech, she levered open her jaws, and demanded; "Who are you and where are you taking me?"
The man in the chair nearly rolled off it, in surprise; he stole a glance down at a bottom-heavy hourglass, and then at her waking frame. In a few more moments, she'd be capable of kicking, flailing, scratching…and channeling. The feeling of cotton wool was leaving her mind even now, and she thought, exhausting as it might be, that she could manage to pin her captors with Air and send up a signal for rescue. Riordan was already on his way; did that mean the Tower was coming, or that he had run away? She hoped he'd brought as many Sisters as he could bludgeon across the skull and shove into sacks. Drawing herself up as best as she could, she fixed her blue-eyed stare on the old man, who was fidgeting with a funnel and looking into the depths of a pot that blew gentle steam into the air.
"Woke early, yer did!" he complained.
Nonsense, you forgot to turn the glass, ly'Anjolie thought, decisively, and you're a fool. Explain or suffer, fool. In a moment, I'll have the strength to kill you. Cards fluttered from the table to land in a bright drift on the floor. I just thought about killing a man.
That was a sickening thought, but she would do it; she had no idea where she was going, or why, and she was frightened and alone. He was all, besides the man in the bed, that stood between herself and freedom. She could kill him or bribe him; a bribe might be the more useful device. With what? She had money in her pouch, but she didn't doubt that was gone; she could not feel its weight on her hip. She'd have to bribe him with kisses, and pray Riordan understood. A few kisses, while she regained strength enough to capture him, pin him with Air and bludgeon him to oblivious sleep. It was not a bad plan, it might work. How to draw him closer?
"Do you know," she said, hotly, wriggling for all she was worth, "who and what I am? Do you really think you can keep me here?" Her whole hand was obeying her, feeling strange and ephemeral, but obeying nonetheless. "I can pay a great deal, and the Tower can pay more," she tried, squirming to sit upright as he stared, his eyes caught between herself and the teapot. "I won't hurt you," she lied. "Please, believe me…"
"Too flaming right you won't, little one," was the last thing she heard, before something hard connected with the side of her skull, and she was unconscious once more, blinking and spinning in starry darkness.
Ostar Knidae, MuC
MRP: Entr'acte: Serpent Coiled in Waiting
Thu Jun 13 11:58:21 2002
They'd spent eight days on the Moonwind, and ly'Anjolie slept like a babe. He had worked with transporting young women before, although most of those had been conscious and able to care for themselves. Still, they had begun giving her water in between the cups of tea, and, with Emkar's help, they kept her alive and themselves safe. They had, occasionally, let her wake to a semi-stupor, one of them poised to knock her unconscious should she show any signs of becoming alert, and she, an obedient girl, had done all that she required. The first mate had come to tell them that they would soon be in Bandar Eban, and Ostar had thanked him, before returning to bed. He was nothing but grateful that this long ordeal was almost over; soon, he would be able to relax. When this was done, he'd take Emkar and buy him the largest tankard of ale that Arad Doman had ever seen.
Snippets of talk from the young woman's mouth haunted him; occasionally, as they put her into or took her from bed, she called for someone named Riordan, or mumbled under her breath, strange little couplets or triplets of almost incomprehensible meaning. He had no idea what it meant, but after she had mentioned "the blackened knife" and "the caress of night" a few times, when her small hand had alighted in his, he had put her gloves back on, and said nothing more to Emkar. His assistant was far too arrogant with the girl, no doubt thinking her harmless; he insisted on taking the day watch, now. He was entirely certain that she was as deadly as a serpent coiled in waiting, and he was careful to be cautious around her. She was less likely to awake at night; he had to sleep, though; and he was paying Emkar, the bleeding fool, to watch her.
What she had said to Emkar, as her slender fingers closed reflexively around his gnarled, arthritic digits, made Ostar's blood run cold. Yet, as long as the little witch was dosed, what harm could she cause? Ostar tried to relax, but even the click of the cards on the lacquered table made the tension in his belly bloom. He managed a thin slumber, and was moving towards a thicker, as a soft, bell-like cadence filled the room, its tones accusatory.
Dear Light, she is awake enough to speak.
She will kill us both.
Bloody Emkar, and his certainty that she is simply one woman and harmless!
How to contain her? The tea might take too long to work. She was focused on Emkar, her wide blue eyes demanding explanation. He picked up one of his own discarded boots, and swung downwards, letting her curls block the worst of the blow. "Damn right you won't, little one," he agreed. That done, and her blue eyes closed, stunned expression wrought on classically lovely features, he rounded on Emkar. The elder man was already backing away, teacup held laxly in his fingers. Ostar advanced, and soon, Emkar was up against the wall, Ostar's hand against his windpipe.
"She's practically Aes Sedai; she may be small, but she has access to the One Power! I saw a woman make a man's head explode, with the One Power; do you want to die that way? You can't even keep an eye on a single girl; you're next to useless, you know," Ostar snapped. The elder man leaned away from the fine mist that Ostar projected with his speech, wincing, and Ostar threw him away, stalking angrily towards the deck. In the midst of the fray, no one noticed the stirring woman on the narrow berth.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Entr'acte: Breaking Point
Thu Jun 13 12:01:57 2002
"That wasn't very nice of him," ly'Anjolie tried, once she had blinked off the worst of the spinning dizziness in her head. "I'd say that was just cruel, really. You have to let me up, to walk around, and…relieve myself…and eat and drink, before we arrive, right? I'm ever so hungry," she said, artlessly, "and I'd drink anything. Just…" come close enough for me to weave something at you… "let me up just a moment, and…I promise you won't regret anything. I'll drink the tea without complaining, before he comes back, and you can tell him that I barely stirred…He won't know, I won't tell him." ly'Anjolie wondered if he were deaf to her pleas, and struggled upright, holding her head. Her body was hers to command now, hers to control. She did not intend to forfeit that to anything, or anyone. But this man didn't know that.
"Please. I'm just…I don't even know where I am…" Not-so-false tears sprouted in the corners of her eyes, and dripped steadily down her stained dress. She didn't know where she was, or in whose care she was…and she thought that she might be able to grasp the One Power now, even knowing what she would be doing. Reaching tentatively into herself, she pictured the luminous petals of the fiveflower blossom, and tried to ignore the rising pain. Saidar did not come. She tried again. Saidar eluded her. The third time, as the man was looking nervously towards her tottering self, she slammed into him with Air, pushing him out the side of the boat and beyond, the boat creaking alarmingly, wood splitting and brass fittings giving way with loud pops.
Blood decorated her lips and hands as she picked herself up from the violent recoil of her weave. The ship had lurched one way, then thrown her back the other, and she had bitten her lip as she connected with the berth she had so lately occupied. The ship heaved violently a few more times, spilling over the basin and breaking crockery, and ly'Anjolie fought to remain upright. She did admirably, blue eyes wide and frightened, but her knees steady. Tottering forward, she lost the contents of her stomach, which was almost nothing, and let herself out into the madness and chaos she had caused. She needed to find out where she was, and how she was going to get back to Riordan, who was even now coming this way, although days distant.
"If you don't go back inside, girl, when they discover who you are and what that dress means, they'll tie you to the mast and drown you, do you know that?" came into her ear in the silkiest of purrs. "You need me to get you off this ship alive; without me, there's no way you can leave it, short of death. Would you prefer to die? I could scream aloud and tell them what you are. I have your Great Serpent ring; they'd believe me, if I told them what you are. How many men do you think you could fight off, little one, when you are shaking now? I don't think it would be many."
ly'Anjolie whirled on him, her blue eyes wide with dismay. Was she so transparent?
"It would start with you," she warned, scrubbing her palms on her dress. "If you don't want to die, then I suggest you listen to me, and tell me what I need to know…" Her stomach heaved; she was drawing on Riordan, but he could not offer her much from a distance, and the words she was emitting were strongly against her own beliefs. Yet...if whomever this was came at her one more time, he might not survive to pick himself up. Biting her lip, she tried to force a connection with saidar through the fuzz in her skull, and could not…but he didn't know that, did he? Dear Light send that he was frightened of her. She was assuredly terrified of him.
A knock on the door alerted her to the presence of someone new, and she whirled to face it, eyes wide. Two men to deal with, at the very least, and she was so weak that a child of two could tie her down. What did she do, and where was Riordan when she needed him?
"Hide," the man grated, pointing to the berth in the wall. ly'Anjolie complied, her eyes closed tightly as she hid herself, as if that simple childhood trick could make her invisible to the whole world, and the threats it posed to one lone woman, in the midst of enemies she could not conquer.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Entr'acte: Off the Moonwind
Thu Jun 13 12:07:09 2002
"Captain says we've run areef," was all ly'Anjolie could hear of the vehement, low conversation that she spied upon from atop the bunk, bundled under the thick wool blanket with her eyes closed tightly. Areef. They hadn't run aground on a hidden shoal of stones, she had viciously attacked her captor, and had possibly killed the man, damaging the captain's vessel. Possibly killed? No, she was certain he was dead; he couldn't survive the crushing blow that she had leveled at him. In her weakened state, she was surprised she had had the strength. ly'Anjolie suspected that if she were without the bond, and the solid foundation it poured into her, Riordan's strength and emotions, that she would be dead, or possibly burnt out. Either way that was a sobering thought; dear Light, but she wanted her lover. It was growing steadily more evident that this was not a nightmare, and that she would not be awakening in her own bed.
She was awake.
"Get up," the scarred man grated at her. "Hold the blanket around you. Blast, but I wish I could dose you again; however, I need you to be able to ride. I promised the First you would be there before winter snows, and that's sooner than you think, my girl. First, though…the rules." His face was grim, stern, unyieldingly brutal, but she could see that he would not harm her, not yet. Unlike the other man, who was too foolish for his own good, this man had put thought into keeping her captive, and she vaguely remembered that, at the same time, he had been the kinder of her captors.
"Unlike Emkar, who was fool enough to think you harmless, I know you for what you are. I'll tell you this moment that you're my prisoner; do what I say and I won't be forced to slit your pretty little throat. You won't channel; if you do, I'll be sure to find the nearest garrison of the Children of the Light, and I do believe they still burn channelers alive. I don't think I'd like to see you burn; you're worth far more alive.
"You will not run from me, or I will hunt you down. I'm right in knowing that you have no idea where you are, or where I am taking you. You've never been alone outside of a city; you know nothing of survival. Weak as you are, you would die. You will be safe with me; I don't intend to let you out of my sight. We are about two days from Arad Doman; someone there wants you very much. I don't think you'd like to disappoint her." His smile was sardonic and toothy, and ly'Anjolie shivered. What kind of man dared to steal an Accepted from the White Tower? Had he any idea how many Tower Guards, how many Aes Sedai, would soon be headed this way? Did he know what Riordan would do to him? She would watch, and watch with glee.
But who would dare abduct the third daughter of one of Arad Doman's most powerful Houses? That was a worrisome thought. What could they hope to gain? The Tower would pay a ransom, she was certain. She was, after all, Accepted…
First, though, she had to wait for her rescuers…She was too terrified that her abductor was telling the truth. She knew nothing of the wilderness, nothing of survival…that had always seemed so unnecessary, to her city-bred self.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Entr'acte: Parodies and Charades
Thu Jun 13 12:14:16 2002
She did not know enough woodcraft to help herself; she had no choice but to obey. Without any vocal protest, she held her cloak obediently closed as Ostar carried her off the Moonwind, over his shoulder like a satchel of possessions. In her mind, Riordan was roaring, his defiance and fury spilling over to her at this abuse of her person. She could do nothing but attempt to capitalize the positive; she was alive, and not too badly injured; she was conscious at last, she wanted him with her. The bond could carry all of that, and if he could only find solace in that small offering, he would respond far better to her constant pleas to come, come now, and end the nightmare.
She was making him run himself ragged, could feel his exhaustion coupled with her own, but he was all she could depend upon. The bond between them had been none of his doing, but he had fought her to keep it; how many times had she offered him the out of reporting her for rightful punishment? Never once had he taken it, never once had he complained, even though, to her, this was the equivalent of rape. He had been so offended by her last offer that it had taken days to make up…having a raging bondmate in your mind was not a comfortable state of affairs. Like now…he was so agitated that she could barely think clearly. A sharp neigh startled her from her thoughts; her captor swung her off his shoulder and over the back of the nearest.
The man had three horses; ly'Anjolie looked askance at the tall gelding that the man had tossed her over. Did he think her incapable of sitting a saddle? Now, he tied her to it, and the horse to his own; she could channel herself free, of course, but she did not doubt that he was not lying about the Whitecloaks. If she cooperated, perhaps she could stall him long enough for Riordan to rescue her; if nothing else, she could possibly force a bond on him, and, although it might kill them both, and Riordan too, use him. There were ways to use a Gaidin that no sister had ever disclosed in the few lectures ly'Anjolie had attended; research had disclosed them to her. She could see, now, why permission was requested; using a man in that way was…disgusting. Yet…she would do it. Had she not already killed? The only problem was losing control of the weaves; she had no assurance that she would be able to weave the vaguely-described threads at all, and no time for practice. Far better to cooperate; she needed him to keep her alive and get her to a safe place, and he needed her for…whatever reasons he had.
They rode the night through, until ly'Anjolie's horse began to balk at being led down a path it could not see. Her captor untied her, and let her down; furtively, she worked her hands together, trying to restore bloodflow to them. She was cold and stiff and achy; the only reward she got for the hours of misery was a bath, which she nearly balked at taking, although she was dirty, because of the iciness of the water, and the fact that he watched, his eyes intent on her. She hid her terror deep in her mind, but she knew it spilled over; her disgust and her fear were echoed back at her. She'd rather be taken by the Children then raped, but that was not a good ploy, either. She had to endure; he was coming.
He only watched, handing her something clean to wear, a blessing after divesting herself of her dirtied Accepted white. He had taken that when she had taken it off; idly, she wondered what he would do with it. He tied her wrists back to one another, and she did not struggle; she did not need the added weakness of Foretelling. She vaguely remembered Foretelling from the pits of her unconscious state, but he had perhaps not noticed; he would notice now. If she frightened him, or if he considered it channeling, he might leave her to the Whitecloaks…or something worse. Dressed in a loose blue gown, and a thick brown cloak, she pulled up the cowl as best she could with her tied hands, and walked obediently back to the camp. It would be over soon, she was sure; she could endure.
She wanted to strike out, even knowing as she did that it was foolish. She was so tired that saidar was a distant memory, and her body seemed a giant bruise; she simply couldn't. It was sad to know that she had no strength; she was as spineless as she had always feared. A strong woman would fight; ly'Anjolie could not override her own logical election to see this through, if only to preserve Riordan. As she lay, letting her captor, who had given his name as Ostar, but had not asked for hers - her mind inserted, in the form of a vague memory, the fact that he knew it, and had known it before the tea - tie her, she was grateful to be bound at the ankles. At least…wait…how could…he was pulling her into his arms, but she was tied up! What was he going to do?
"Try and sleep, little one," he murmured.
To her surprise, despite her terror, she could.
She dreamt of Riordan, but when she woke, an hour before dawn, he was still too far away, and the dream seemed nothing more than a truly cruel taunt.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act Two: Beginner's Luck
Tue Jun 18 17:06:35 2002
The skies were thick and grey; ly'Anjolie held her blue cloak closed as her tied gelding followed Ostar's lead, obediently. She, too, was obedient; they had passed three separate squadrons of the Children just this dawn, and each time, his eyes had fallen speculatively on her. She had been silent since, but her blue eyes kept going upwards, measuring the weather, waiting, tensely, for Bandar Eban's first snowflakes. Snow would make it near impossible for Riordan to catch up to them before they reached the city and whatever fate lay in store for her; she only prayed she would survive. In a way, she did not know if she would prefer to know what was to come or merely to give up now, peel back her protective clothing and simply let the chill wind work on her exhausted body. Ostar had looked up into the sky the evening before, and she had seen worry there, in his scarred face; he was worried about one of Arad Doman's infamous tempestuous weather patterns, one capable of killing them both from exposure to the unkind elements. She thought she might prefer the elements to the unknown, but, in the end, for Riordan's sake, she kept herself covered.
By midday of the third day of hard riding, the white winterscape of hills and rises had parted to reveal a city that reminded her of nothing more than a frozen waterfall. Here and there, bright colors relieved the stark whiteness that so resembled a still lace veil. Most of the buildings that were not white were golden, or pale rose, and peeked shyly through a fresh coating of whiteness. It looked, from atop the low rise, as if the snow were an agent of the white marble buildings, meaning to eat all the color and leave the city purely, sparklingly white. There was a deep, unfrozen aquamarine lake at the epicenter of the valley below them, and she stared at it, amazed to see such beauty. It was far more vivid in hue than any other lake she had seen, but Ostar did not know why. He seemed sour as he let his horse begin the work of following the narrow road down into Bandar Eban.
It seemed that Ostar had not forgotten the nature of his threat; he chose the inn with the largest amount of Whitecloaks possible to room in. Feeling disoriented, ly'Anjolie sat in the corner, nodding agreement to everything that her captor said. Finally, the man stood, and, upon seeing that he meant to leave her, ly'Anjolie barely managed to restrain herself from reaching out. He might be her abductor, but he had been kind; surely, he did not want to leave her now? She restrained the desire to beg to come with him, her eyes flickering over to the Whitecloaks that assured her proper behavior. He looked down at her, and then, at the roomful of Whitecloaks. She winced, an expression that made him laugh, and he held up a hand for silence.
"I must go out and do business with these immoral Domani wenches; I require someone to keep a good eye on my…niece. I trust you goodmen will not mind, overmuch?" ly'Anjolie shot Ostar a glance filled with fear, and he patted her on the shoulder. A few of the Whitecloaks snickered and turned away, but two separated themselves from their carousing companions and seated themselves at her table. With a final wide-eyed stare for his company on whatever errand he had yet to accomplish, Ostar left her to the tender mercies of the Whitecloaks, knowing that she couldn't say a single word, for fear of ending up being Questioned.
The two young men were quite pleasant; they did not seem to think a single thing out of place. One kept asking her to dance, which she always refused, and finally, as if in self-defense, he brought up the idea of playing stones. Playing stones was easily better than the second young man's constant questions, none of which she could truthfully answer. She won the first game, and forced herself to lose the second and third; the taller of the Whitecloaks ascribed her win to "beginner's luck," although the second, more compact one gave her a disbelieving look when she purposely avoided making several good moves. They found something in her strategy to discuss, and were both engrossed with playing at stones when Ostar arrived, a cloaked figure behind him.
ly'Anjolie could not tell if the figure swathed in the woolens was male or female, but she could tell it was a Domani. The gliding walk and the height gave whomever was within the cloak's nationality away. A slender, beringed hand slipped free of the cloak, and pushed the hood back slightly. ly'Anjolie could see only eyes as blue as her own, and that was enough to make her want to cry out in relief. Foolish Ostar had brought her home to her own family. As she had been hoping, the whole ordeal was over…
wasn't it?
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act Two: Clasped Hands
Tue Jun 18 17:09:49 2002
Silently, the triad left the inn, and Ostar handed up first the woman swathed in cloaks, then ly'Anjolie. Shivering in the iciness of the simple, open carriage, ly'Anjolie frowned as Ostar, too, joined them, sitting beside the woman in the cloaks, who promptly moved across to sit with ly'Anjolie. She did not move the hood of her cloak again, and ly'Anjolie wondered if she had mistaken the other woman's identity, but just as she was preparing to begin to question, a warm hand crept into her own gloved one, and clung tightly. ly'Anjolie fought back tears at this simple kindness, but in the end, they won out, snaking down her cheek in unfreezable saline trails. She held her sister's hand fast all the way through the unfamiliar, hostile streets of the alien city of Bandar Eban. It was not making any sense, yet, how al'Zyrata had come to be on the other side of Ostar and her removal from the White Tower, but she was more grateful to see her sister's face than any other person she could think of, save Riordan.
Her sister would reunite her with Riordan, though. She had only to wait a few more days, perhaps a week, at the most, two, and Riordan would be here. If she pleaded with her sister, they might be able to remain in Bandar Eban until spring thaw, and then ride back…now that she was certain the ordeal was over, and that Ostar would be dealt with, as harshly as Emkar, and justice prevail, she was far less tense. Indeed, she was comforted, and willing enough to laugh the adventure away, taking whatever punishment the Aes Sedai concocted in stride. They would, no doubt, have to confess their bond, and it would take a great deal of doing to convince the Aes Sedai that they had not simply run away with one another, but that was well worth being home again. Still, something about how easily she had been rescued bothered her.
Of course, her sister would never have hired the man responsible for her abduction, would she? She had said, the sole other time that she and ly'Anjolie had spoken, outside of letters that having a Daughter of the House in training at the Tower was a great honor. She had been enthused to hear that ly'Anjolie thought she could forge ahead, be the first Aes Sedai of the House of Halin'kor in more than two centuries. al'Zyrata's enthusiasm had been what had guided ly'Anjolie's feet, in more ways than one.
She dispelled the foul suspicion, and waited, knowing that there would be a worthwhile explanation for it all. Perhaps it would be something as simple as an overheard conversation, or as complex as a plot to blackmail the House…The rumbling carriage rocked reassuringly as it mounted a low hill, and ly'Anjolie let her lashes close, still holding her sister's hand tightly in her own. As she had always hoped, her family had come for her at last, and she was safe. She only woke enough to be guided upstairs to a palatial suite of rooms, undressed, and tucked into a waiting, warmed bed.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act Two: Where Your Heart Is
Tue Jun 18 17:12:51 2002
Luxury was satin against your skin.
After what felt like an eternity in a dirtied dress, even if Ostar had let her bathe, and she had surreptitiously cleaned her dress with the One Power, channeling the barest of trickles that was still more than she dared, with Whitecloaks out in great force, clean fabric against clean skin and under clean hair was the epitome of luxury. When the fabric in question was smooth and cool, and the room warm and well-appointed, the sense of luxury only grew. As she had not, the night before, she took the time to tend the bond, feeling tiredness and soreness in Riordan. He had to have felt the spiraling tidal wave of relief, the night before, when her sister had rescued her from Ostar; he had to know that she was fine. Still, he kept coming, and she paused to entertain the thought of having Riordan here.
With no Aes Sedai to meddle, and nothing to hold them back, they could safely winter here, since ly'Anjolie did not know Traveling and would not be allowed to use the weave even if she did, and winter travel was excruciating when the passes in the Mountains of Mist were sure to be frozen, and the rivers just as icy. When spring thaw came, they could be back in Tar Valon, after a slow journey upriver or by horse. Her family had horses, surely; ly'Anjolie could barely remember any of the countryside that she had seen on her trip from Tear. If they didn't, well, Riordan could purchase one, or she might be able to afford two, with what was…had been…in her pouch. A rummage through her discarded clothing revealed no pouch, and that her Great Serpent ring, as well as the pendant from around her neck, was missing.
She had a good sob over that; the pendant at her throat had been her only touchstone to guide her through difficult, emotionless days and long, lonely nights. Her Great Serpent ring had been earned in blood; that would be returned. She knew no jeweler in the world would accept one, save perhaps a Darkfriend; wherever it was, it was whole, and it would be returned. Riordan was nearing collapse, but far closer than he had been before; she could not gauge his distance more accurately than that. She knew that soon, they would both be tired; he had been drawing from her, and she from him, for a dangerously long period of time. Even now, after the best night's sleep she had had in a week or more, she felt exhausted. Still, she needed him; surely, her family would keep her Rio here with her, for the winter. If he did not keep hurrying, he might not make his way through the passes before it snowed.
Sobered by that thought, ly'Anjolie stirred out of the warm bed, keeping the thin satin sheet to wrap around her nudity as she bent to poke the fire back into life. The rattle and clang of her poker must have alerted someone waiting at the door, for no sooner had she returned it to the hook than a face, narrow and foxy in build, with a sharp chin and arching brows, appeared in the hastily opened doorway.
"If m'Lady ly'Anjolie is awake…?" inquired a soft voice. "I would be m'Lady's maid, Geila. If m'Lady wishes breakfast, m'Lady-" ly'Anjolie fiddled with her sheet, then put up a protesting hand. "ly'Anjolie will do." And it's certainly better than "child." But m'Lady is a bit too much…I don't care whose daughter I am, no one should debase themselves who's already serving well enough! It was a lesson she felt some of the Aes Sedai could do well to learn.
"As you wish, ly'Anjolie." Geila murmured, managing to sound rather scandalized. "As I was saying, if you wish to have breakfast, I'll attend you while you dress." The woman gestured, lifting a pale yellow arm; ly'Anjolie blinked, since she had not realized the woman was carrying a gown. With the yellow drapery removed, Geila displayed an almost formfitting gown, and ly'Anjolie just knew what was coming. There was no way she was wearing a Domani gown…her Accepted gown could be laundered and she would wear it, just as she would in the Tower. She might have been born Domani, but she had been raised with Tairen decency, and Domani gowns weren't decent. "My Accepted…"she began, but was promptly interrupted.
"The filthy thing you arrived in was burnt, m'Lady," Geila said, her voice soft. "I could be making you another, but until I do have the dyes…" ly'Anjolie waved a hand, taking the yellow silk and its undergarments, scanty bits of nothing much, and sighed. "It won't be necessary, Geila." How could the woman know how much the rainbow hem was really worth? To Geila, it was a few coppers' worth of bright dyes; to ly'Anjolie, it was four years of some of the worst days of her life, and the culmination of so many bitter arguments within herself about her future. No other dress compared…and she really had no choice. It was wear Domani silks or go naked, after all, and she didn't feel like explaining that to Riordan. She held the gown closely against her breasts, her soft sigh signal enough for Geila to begin.
The maid sprang into life, pulling ly'Anjolie's sheet away and fussing over her short curls, before having her step into the dress. ly'Anjolie tried to draw the line at paints, since her stomach was growling, but the maid insisted, and ly'Anjolie could not think of a single plausible argument for why she should eat breakfast unpainted. Feeling quite ridiculous, she floated down the stairs, taking the largest steps the tight skirt would allow her, which were truly tiny. The palace seemed abandoned, but there was a place for her at the broad wooden table; she looked for company, but there was no one to eat with her. Feeling guilty for dirtying a table for just a meal for herself, she ate standing.
The Palace of the Minarets was beautiful, filled with cold hauteur, but it didn't feel a bit like home. Home was a hundred leagues away, within the walls of the White Tower…where Riordan held her close to his heart.
"ly'Anjolie. Sister?"
It was the first time this day that ly'Anjolie had had any realization of another person within the manor's demesnes; she had almost lost herself in a fantasy of being within an enchanted palace. However, she was no beauty, and there was no beast, here; it was a manor with nearly a score of servants, and no one with the time for a lone guest. ly'Anjolie had been shown to what Geila referred to as "the morning room," after breakfast, and ly'Anjolie had whiled away the hours as quietly as possible, trying to conserve what strength they pooled between themselves and not imagine the passes that Riordan still had to get through.
"Sister!" al'Zyrata exclaimed, stopping a few paces short of the entrance to the room, her dark blue eyes sweeping over ly'Anjolie's gown, apparently well satisfied. She came in the rest of the way, smiling but moving briskly, and perched on the edge of the finely upholstered chair that ly'Anjolie did not even fill halfway. It was, by far, the most battered piece of furniture in the entire room; ly'Anjolie felt comfortable using it, fearing that she would stain or ruin any of the more delicate, beige-silk chaises or chairs. Her sister suited the room, graceful as a gazelle, but she felt gauche and clumsy. After a few, tense moments, both women opened their mouths in the same instant:
"I…have to contact the White Tower…"
"I have news…from the White Tower…"
ly'Anjolie closed her mouth, and gestured to her sister; al'Zyrata suppressed a smile and dangled a piece of parchment before her. "The Tower sent to have news of you," al'Zyrata murmured. "And, I must add, they seem to think you're simply unsuited for your rank, child. All of your things are coming here by courier…I know it must seem a hard blow, my sister, but you'll always have a home here. At least you were spared the shame of being dismissed in person, child; you should be grateful you were abducted. We were so looking forward to having an Aes Sedai in our family…perhaps your children; you're still quite young. A marriage would be best for you, I think," the woman continued, not noticing that ly'Anjolie had fallen completely silent, her eyes wide with shock.
They had to have known about Riordan…Light, did they send him away, too? Oh, how shaming; he only wanted to be Gaidin. If I sever the bond when he arrives, in the spring, perhaps he can begin training again…we can marry here, if that doesn't work, and he can run the House's army…why didn't I leave him long ago when I had the chance? Now I've ruined his chances…and mine. But, still I'm glad that he is not leaving me…that must be why he's hurrying, he wants me to know that he loves me even though I'll never be Aes Sedai. Sudden tears stung her eyes, and she gazed down at her fingers, bare of their Great Serpent ring.
"Marriage?" she inquired, in shaky tones. "Perhaps that would be the wisest choice…"
But would Riordan want a woman that the White Tower had discarded?
al'Zyrata Halin'kor
MRP: Act Two: Wheels Within Wheels
Tue Jun 18 17:14:54 2002
"Send immediately for Jelun fir'Arklai, if you please, Zyren; tell her it's quite urgent. Wait upon her messenger," al'Zyrata added, knowing that Zyren would be likely to remember such a detail. There was a reason the woman was such a fine lady's maid; al'Zyrata had yet to be displeased with her. "And when you return, we must begin to plan the wedding." al'Zyrata called over her shoulder as she entered her own private sanctum, several floors above the morning room, where her youngest sister sat. Ah, but the girl was just as al'Zyrata remembered; hesitant, quiet, and docile! Everything the House needed and more. She could kiss the Amyrlin's slippers for the training that had made the girl so ductile and suggestible. She had been in fear of a battle royale, one to rival the tantrum that cer'Sera had thrown at the mere mention of an arranged match, only involving the destructive force of saidar and rage.
Instead, it had been easier than she had ever suspected. Her sister seemed only slightly reluctant, and Ostar's actions would lead suspicion away from the House just as he had plotted. The Tower had written, yes, but they had written stating that her younger sister was, regrettably, lost to her training. It was signed by an Assistant Mistress of Novices, so al'Zyrata had no doubt it was genuine, arriving as it had by special courier. ly'Anjolie's things would, indeed, be soon arriving, but she had lied to her younger sister. There was no sense in making the child feel that it was necessary to head back to the Tower at this moment, simply to prove she was still alive. She had prevented that, and neatly foiled the chance that her sister would demand to be returned; she thought that she was unwelcome. Tapping a parchment against ripe red lips, al'Zyrata sighed, disliking what she had done. When it was safely over, after the rapidly approaching Feast of Lights…yes, when the girl was wed, she would tell her the truth.
That would have to do, although it rubbed at her conscience; there was no other way to keep the family honor and the bargain, other than this arranged marriage. The secret that Jelun fir'Arklai had in her possession was important, and deeply shaming. She did not think she could bear to hold up her head if it were widely known; knowing Jelun knew was enough to make her toss and turn in her bed, now. She had heard no rumors, though; none of her extensive networks had turned up anything. It appeared that the House of Arklai could keep a secret…for a price.
A steep price indeed, but if sacrificing a sister's love to the wheels within wheels within wheels that were her life was all that was demanded, she would pay and consider herself lucky it was not more. Honor was everything, and the price was within her means.
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act Two: What We Expect of You
Tue Jun 18 17:18:26 2002
Paints, powders, silks and stays. Some mornings passed by in their entirety before she was allowed out of her room, and she had tutors climbing over and around each other, each demanding her attention and earning little more than her utter disgust. Worst of all, no one seemed to be the least bit interested in her arguments that she would never need any of this training: Riordan didn't care if she knew the single polite time to pick up her teacup at a ladies' luncheon, nor did he care if she wore oil of lavender on her skin or oil of roses or oil of starflower or any oil at all! It was ever so irritating; she spent most of her time trying not to scream, as comments about herself whirred from one tutor to another.
"…a child of ten understands…"
"…can't possibly! It's not proper!"
"…fitting ballgowns…"
"…Royal Court at the Feast of Lights…"
"…manners of a horse! Perhaps a mule!"
She had been in Bandar Eban nearly a week. At first, she had been half delighted with the invitation to the Royal Court for the Feast of Lights; right now, she would take the invitation and burn it, if it did not appear to be the most revered thing in her entire suite of rooms. All around her was luxury to make an Aes Sedai envious, and ly'Anjolie would honestly have preferred her tiny cubicle in the Accepted Galleries. At least there, she was considered more than a stubborn, ill-mannered mule! Plain white with stripes at the hem was no comparison to the grand ballgowns being fitted to her figure, but she would happily have worn it if it had been present.
"Out!" she shrieked at last. She followed them, slamming the double doors, swept her skirts up in a completely indecent manner, and stalked off down the halls. She loved her sister, and realized that al'Zyrata was doing everything possible to keep her from missing the White Tower, but there had to be some other way! These tutors…she didn't have a moment to herself, and Riordan would soon arrive. Then, too, there was her Foretelling, and the tutors kept trying to strip away her gloves; she had berated them severely over that, and had been told many a time that she must bare her hands, to be alluring, or, if she were that ashamed of them, wear dagged sleeves, but not gloves. They did not care when she told them she had her own reasons; it was only with the skilled dodges she had perfected over four years of Novicehood that she avoided Foretelling, and when she did Foretell, she was lectured on clear diction and the need for less vagueness in her words! It was enough to make a woman want to pull out her own hair!
As her rage subsided to the rhythm of her gliding steps, and she neared the halls that her sister spent most of her time in, she changed her grip on her skirts, and put on a pleasant expression. It was unbecoming to treat one who obviously cared for you with less care than they showed you, and ly'Anjolie nearly turned back to her tutors, some of which were lagging behind her even now, despite the occasional black glare. Stopping before the arched doorway that led into her sister's sitting rooms, she knocked, and then put in her head, as the Tower had taught. Behind her, her tutors began carping again; she gave them a glare, which, unfortunately, did nothing to make them stop.
"al'Zyrata? Sister?" ly'Anjolie called, straining forward on the off chance of a reply. "Sister? We must talk, again…"
Her sister appeared, smooth, serene, and unruffled. A gesture from her hand dismissed the gaggle of tutors back to ly'Anjolie's rooms, where they would lie in wait. Her sister took hold of her silk-clad arm, and smiled down at her. al'Zyrata was easily one of the tallest women ly'Anjolie had ever seen, although she claimed that she was not the tallest woman in the family. ly'Anjolie had been told that she resembled her Andoran mother, save for the planes and angles that her father had contributed to her face, and the olive tones of her skin, so strangely at odds with the soft honeyed color of her hair. All she had in common with her regally lovely sister was the sky-blue of their eyes, vivid in their equally sallow faces. She only considered one pair of eyes bluer, and they were Riordan's…Riordan. She needed to tell her sister that when Riordan came, she would be leaving with him.
"I know," ly'Anjolie started, haltingly, "that you offered me a home for as long as I needed one, but sister, my…lover…is coming. I can tell; I know he is. When he arrives…"
Her sister looked at her, face blank, but eyes surprised. "Why, ly'Anjolie, I thought you were agreeing to be wed, child!"
ly'Anjolie pushed loose curls off her forehead, and nodded eagerly. "But I am. I want to marry him, of course, just as soon as he arrives…he'll be here any day, now." Leaning forward, she put a hand up automatically to avoid showing too much pale bosom in the neck of her gown, only to feel silk up to her chin. "As soon as he arrives…"
"But, child, you're the King's niece! These things take time! We must meet his family, and arrange for your dowry, and…" al'Zyrata waved a hand in the air. "It would take time, child! Marriages aren't made in a day. But…if he comes before Candlemas, and the Royal Ball, there might be time to arrange for a wedding after Lamma Sor. However, can it be so good to marry a man who will remind you of the White Tower? You could do so well marrying for the House. There are so many ties you could forge, with a well-thought-out wedding. Noble women have a responsibility to their home nation to marry well, and unite their Houses…"
ly'Anjolie sat down, almost missing her seat. Her sister sounded so sincere, and made such sense. "You're…suggesting I tell Riordan to return to the White Tower, because I cannot marry him? You…but I don't love anyone else…" The room seemed awhirl, and her mind was awash with possibilities. "He always did want to be Gaidin," she said, softly. "Maybe this is best. I'll think on it, sister…and…thank you."
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act Two: Advent
Tue Jun 18 17:20:28 2002
She and Riordan had no future. She could see it now…they might be happy at first, but sooner or later, he would have to hold it against her. Perhaps, wherever he was, forced to keep coming towards her, he already did. If not for her, he could be in the White Tower, fully raised the Gaidin he deserved to be, with a fancloth cloak…and an Aes Sedai. She might hold his bond, but she was not Aes Sedai; she was nothing…a woman whose Foretelling talent made her utterly useless to the White Tower. A woman who was to be one of the White Tower's well-hidden mistakes, left alone to languish in Arad Doman.
It was difficult, coming to that realization. Yet, as much as she wanted to, she could not make herself believe that he would not resent being stopped so close to his dream; he was close to Gaidin and they both knew it. She, however, had never been cut out to become Aes Sedai, and they had known that, too, although it hadn't stopped she and Riordan's headlong, dizzy rush into love. A poet had called love a bloom; she supposed that same poet would call this "winter," for that bloom. It would try to persevere, attempt to survive, but in the end, the ice would win, if no one clipped the bloom close and sheltered it from the bitter frost. There was no shelter for it, now; the winds were blowing and the snow was falling, here in Bandar Eban and within her heart.
Days passed; her tutors no longer claimed she was backwards as a farmgirl. She applied herself fully, forcing herself to put her old aspirations aside, and focus on a future she could possess. She wasn't Accepted of the White Tower anymore; she was a noblewoman, the Third of House Halin'kor, and she would uphold her family's honor. Her sister was right in stating that this was the proper thing for a woman of her station to do; she would not question good advice. Riordan was coming closer, but she didn't allow herself to dwell on their bond; just as soon as he was here, she would take him with her to the Royal Palace, and the King's Aes Sedai advisor, to have the bond unraveled, so she could set him free to become Gaidin. All she hoped for, now, was that the woman was merciful; she had no delusions that the unknitting would be painless or emotionless. Worse still would be the second unknitting, afterwards; what would he say to her, now that she was no longer going to be an Aes Sedai?
He would, no doubt, regret every moment they had spent with one another; she couldn't force herself to think so cruelly. Every falling snowflake reminded her of firelight, and the taste of tea…not even thinking ahead to spring saved her from those memories, for spring was wrapped into Riordan, too, and summer and autumn. Time would ease her pain; she would cease Riordan's aching, as she should have long before. When he left Bandar Eban, returning to the White Tower, and become Gaidin, he would do so as close to the man he should have been, would have been, without her bad influence to impede him. She would be proud to know that he would be the protector of a proper Aes Sedai…and if jealousy lurked under the decorous façade she would put up for the world, it would be there only because he would not be hers.
There was no chance of that, now…Candlemas began at midnight, and Riordan was still too far away to save her, tonight. As the sun sank down into the Mountains of Mist, she inclined her head against the icy panes of the window-glass of her bedchamber, and cried for the past that she must soon leave entirely behind. Her sister had been by, already, to ask her if she would come to the Royal Court as she had been invited: she had said yes. She was the Third and she would do her duty; there was nothing that could save her from that, any more.
A little piece of my soul will always be yours…but tomorrow night I will be wed, Riordan, and I can no longer let you keep my heart. You were never meant for someone like me…
ly'Anjolie Halin'kor
MRP: Act Two: Civil Ceremonies
Tue Jun 18 17:26:11 2002
For the honor of House Halin'kor. Please, I must not Foretell. How can I stop? I love Riordan, and Riordan alone; he's a part of me, and he always will be. For the King, and for my sisters, and for honor, I must be what they need. Riordan. No…he has not come…he grows closer, but he is too late…I promised that if he did not come to save me, then I would do as al'Zyrata asked. He is too late. I can only save myself. As the Lord Arklai commanded, in his level voice, she must give her hand of her own free will for the wedding to begin. She had to touch a stranger, even knowing the consequences. I must not Foretell. Too late; the world swung far, faded away, and color came, tinting all she could see with the palette of future memory. Unmindful of her promise, her sworn oath to uphold House Halin'kor's honor, her mouth levered open, and she spoke. As always, it was a riddle, a cryptic poem that only she could understand and decipher.
"I say to you now, that within the golden truth there is a lie; within the Light the darkness, and this man stands in Shadow. This I Foretell, and can say no more plainly but that he is the threat in the night; the knife in the dark, the unnoticed in grey shadows. His nature obscures what he is; but he is nothing, for he lacks…a…soul." For the first time in her life, she could hear her own Foretelling; she could riddle out what she