The First Age

Brenna was dressed in finery, her gold curls braided and pinned in an intricate design around her face, finished at her nape with the clasp of a jewelled butterfly clip that she favoured often. The Brown’s personal maid Daniol often fussed about her mistress’ appearance, but Malaika assumed the particular attention today to be on account of the gleeman, of whom she seemed to have developed quite a fondness since Malaika had introduced them. 

She had not intended to take Zahir up upon his offer of a listening ear, but his quiet attention to detail had remained with her long after he’d spoken to her in the library, and when chance crossed their paths again he had stayed for longer, undeterred by the length of her silences. Finally she had paused to examine her small curiosity in his interest. He reminded her in a small way of Byron. Not the effervescence, which she had never witnessed quite the same in another person, but the comfortable charm. The sense that more churned beneath the surface than ever met the eye.

So she had agreed to speak with him, on the understanding that if it was her history he was interested in, the conversation was to be had in Brenna’s presence. If the tale of Malaika’s past was to belong to anyone, it was firstly to the Brown Sitter. As it transpired, Zahir had a talent for leveraging memories even Malaika had thought long forgotten. He said he had never been across the ocean, but he had a way of disseminating and recreating such vivid imaginings of the things she described. Brenna was quickly enamoured of his use to her project.

Seanchan was much on everyone's lips of late of course. Malaika had been slow to the rumours, else perhaps they died quiet deaths in her presence. Naturally it came up in their discussions; Zahir was more worldly than either of the Browns in his company, and he was curious for her opinion. Privately, Brenna assured her that everything was being carefully managed by White Tower resources; that monarchs did not so much as sneeze without an Amyrlin's approval, but the pall of fear had begun to settle into Malaika's bones like too long at rest in a cold place. It had been a long time since she'd felt the net of safety slip, so long she thought it entirely forgotten.

She had been thinking a lot about the collar lately. 

The gleeman had left hours ago now, the last echo of strings and his unearthly voice long faded to silence, and the two Aes Sedai had returned to other work, interrupted only by a light repast neither had paused to pay much attention to. Malaika shifted slowly through the parchments on the desk, each obtained through the various networks that had once helped Brenna uncover Chakai’s whereabouts. These were old documents, and Malaika had been corroborating and transcribing the pertinent sections against official Tower records.

The inked list of names had grown exponentially since they had begun the work.

Both of them had been surprised at the number of women.

The hours raced by. The gold lattice of sunlight which had spent all afternoon splashing the sun’s progress across the walls had finally faded entirely by the time Danoil leaned to whisper in her mistress’s ear. The meal had been cleared away, and the lights lit for the evening. Brenna’s expression did not waver from its haughty serenity, but she placed aside the sheet of paper she had been studying.

“Then fetch my shawl, please, child.”

Malaika stood as the maid bobbed deference for the instruction and then swept away into the depths of the apartments. The formality of a shawl at this hour could only mean Hall business, yet she realised by Brenna's tone alone that the Brown had seemed poised for the summons. Malaika did not ask questions, despite the unusual hour, though she did glance briefly at the darkened windows. She discreetly massaged the ache in her injured palm, flared uncomfortable from all the afternoon's writing. Brenna knew about the old wound of course, as well as where it had come from, but Malaika rarely brought attention to the shame.

The Sitter drew closer, pressed a hand to her arm; an unusual affection. “All will be well, Sister,” she assured. 

Confused by the touch and words both, Malaika only nodded, and took her leave.


She had no great desire to return alone to her rooms. Shadows washed the library stacks, but it was never truly kept dark in here. Aes Sedai attended unusual hours, and none so much as those Sisters in the Brown halls, whose schedules were rarely dictated by the sun’s path. Normally Malaika would seek a quiet sanctuary amongst the books to spend the time, and she passed through now like a spectre at haunt, but did not linger on the journey. Silence weighed, and it felt a heavier burden than usual. Tonight some residual tension made her skin feel tight, if she could not explain why; just that for once the library was not where she wanted to be.

Outside the sun had set. The paths were strangely clear, though the night was not cold. Her skin prickled with an ill omen unrealised. Malaika was a creature of some habit, and she sought the bench she had once shared with Eleanore Aramorgran, though it tugged her towards memories that drenched her chest in quiet sadness. Andreu Kojima was not a name she was ever like to forget. Nor a face. She did not lay aside the strictures of sorrow as they fell upon her. When she stared at shadows she saw him still. But worse was the echo of familiarity that stared back. Malaika had never had a life to lay down by her own choice. But she understood the reflection of despair she had seen in that man’s eyes.

By now her hand was cramping something fierce in her lap. Nursing the melancholy of her thoughts, Malaika settled into old routines usually performed in the privacy of her own rooms. The ointment she retrieved from her robes was itself new; a suggestion by the gleeman, and the very insight that had first softened her regard of his interruption. The rhythm of care was well worn by time though. Her thumb massaged over the deep scar tissue. Pain flashed but eventually the fingers on her injured hand would begin to loosen. It was the same every time she overused it. She never complained. Neither did she ever make concessions to the disability. 

Back in Ebou Dar, Eithne’s healing of her palm had been perfunctory. The Brown had professed at the time to having no great skill, and a Wise Woman had tended to the rest. Malaika ought to have had a Yellow take another look at it, but she never had. She had not even gotten the crimsonthorn salve from the infirmary, but purchased it from the city. The woman there had frowned and given her a stark warning about the quantities and risks. It smelled sweeter than the cayenne pepper Byron had recommended, but did not soothe with the same warmth upon the skin. Numbness travelled quickly, though.

[[running adjacent to the hall meeting in The Point of No Return]]

She realised she had probably used too much when the feeling fled entirely. Her fingers grew sluggish and belligerent to instruction, and even the fingertips of her other hand began to tingle numbly. She fumbled the glass jar back into her skirts, but was in no hurry to vacate her spot, despite the deep shadows by now. The smell of the ointment was pleasant, like the whispered promise of oblivion. For a while she considered seeking out the gleeman who had recommended it; he had a gift for transforming the darkest of her memories, and perhaps he would prove a remedy for her thoughts too. Death was something poets sang of after all. But there was nothing noble in what she had witnessed, and nothing of glory in what was left behind, nor how it slid roots so deep and insidiously in her soul.

Malaika had few people she could confide in. Though she spent much of her time in the library’s public spaces, she had never understood how to make those connections. She could speak to Broekk perhaps, though by now Malaika had worn the shawl for so long it felt like a betrayal to admit the pieces inside her were still so broken. Zahir knew nothing but the strict parameters of her distant past, and she had never spoken to him without Brenna present to chaperone. But like Byron, he seemed unusually impervious to her quiet mannerisms and long silences. She did not know where to find him, though, especially at this hour – sundown was long ago, and even the city's taverns would be quiet and empty. That he might mistakenly misinterpret her intention in seeking him out in the middle of the night was enough to push it from her mind.

She walked for a while, following the well-tended, moon-splashed paths, beholden to the mire of her own mind. No thought led her to the Hall. Or none conscious at least. But when she drew close she realised warders lingered outside the entrance, deceptive in their casually gathered knots for they were grave and watchful, each fully armed. It gave Malaika an unexpected pause, for she had not considered the possibility despite the odd hour at which Brenna had been called to attend her duties as Sitter. Unease prickled. She remembered how silent the library had been, how empty the grounds.

It could not be so simple as discussions around a peace treaty then.

Brenna's firm assurances over the last few weeks washed clean away under a tide of cold trepidation. She thought of the names they had collated together; the Aes Sedai collared and left to their fates by terms of truce. The land boundaries lost. The bloodlines diluted.

How long? Zahir had mused once. How long until we accept their ways too?

Her gaze skimmed the gathered faces as she passed. She did not recognise many, but even she realised the one who was missing from amongst them. Yet her sedate pace did not falter. She was too well trained for the fear to freeze her, even though it was not an emotion she had truly entertained in years, and it was enough to steal her breath.

The Tower was the safest place she had ever known.

Chilled by ramifications she could not parse through quickly, Malaika found somewhere to sit. Her muscles felt as tremulous as water. All but her numb hand, which lay like an iron weight in her lap now, albeit one curled serenely within the other. She kept a respectable distance from the bench’s other occupant, of course. He was reading; incongruous, had she truly been thinking. Instead a glance recognised the bindings, though she did not peer long or close enough to confirm the poet’s name. It was only after that observation she realised who it was holding the book, and for a moment the snare of her thoughts felt like a trap of her own making. Not that she hadn’t seen Vladamir since then, at a distance at least; he was often in the library. But because Andreu Kojima had been much on her thoughts tonight, and Vladamir was the gaidin who had been at the bridge. Of course he would be here though; his Aes Sedai was inside. She would not disturb him.

She considered it would be wise to return to her Ajah Halls, or at least the library building, which was closer. But the idea of solitude held all the invitation of a tomb, and she did not make move to stand. Was it why the library had been so markedly empty? Malaika knew her histories, and the presence of the armed Warders spoke enough for itself. All will be well, Brenna had said. Malaika could still feel the spot where the older Brown had touched her arm. She must believe the reassurance to be true.

He once attempted to write in verse. It was a valiant effort, but Vladamir relinquished to the Pattern’s will instead; he was no poet. After all these years, he still remembered the earnestness with which he sat before the page, blank with all the possibilities he felt in his heart. He felt a fool at the time, he recalled fondly.

Although rarely looking up, for all his introspection, Vladamir was quite aware of those that flowed around him. He was a bump on the bank in a stream of people. They were quite content to ignore him, but not the other way around. Amid the things his eyes could see and his ears could hear, he focused momentarily on the bond. Caia’li was calm, but it was a tightly controlled calm that he recognized when she encountered something she disliked. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for her when locked within the Hall of the Tower, but this night he particularly attuned to any fluctuations in her steady shell.

As such, he recognized the stoic Aes Sedai that sat nearby. She had not greeted him, and he contemplated whether or not to stand and bow before her given the Brown’s proximity. What kept him seated was not uncertainty, however. Malaika Sedai was as stoic as a Borderlander Lord at the wall, and she accepted the dues that came with her ring, but he was around the library enough to discern a person’s disposition. Perhaps hers was why he liked her so much. It was a lot like his own.

Rather than offer empty platitudes or pretend all was well when it would be an insult to do so, he turned the page and began to read aloud. Vladamir’s accent was soft. His cadence over the verses smooth, without error. The inflection telling that he felt every syllable. She would probably recognize the author.  

“In the realm of conflicts fierce and wild,
Where courage blossoms, undefiled,
Amidst the tumult, chaos untamed,
A journey beckons, untold, unnamed.

With stalwart hearts and spirits bold,
We step into the battlefield, behold,
Where swords clash and banners rise,
A symphony of valor fills the skies.

In the arena of souls' duress,
Where shadows loom, and doubts oppress,
We seek the strength to face the fight,
And conquer darkness with inner light.

With shield and armor, we march ahead,
No path too treacherous, no fear to dread,
For deep within, a fire burns bright,
Igniting bravery, igniting might.

In the trenches of adversity,
United, we stand in solidarity,
Bound by the essence of human will,
We forge ahead, undeterred, still.

With every clash and every blow,
We learn the strength that heroes know,
To face the tempests, undismayed,
And rise above the fray unswayed.

In unity, we find our power,
To mend the wounds, to bridge the tower,
To embrace differences, find common ground,
And let compassion's victory resound.

With the realm of conflicts faced,
Where courage blooms, all doubts erased,
We find the strength to rise and soar,
With valor's grace forevermore.

So let us march, hand in hand,
Through trials dire, across the land,
With hearts aflame and spirits bright,
We conquer darkness, bringing forth the light.”


He looked upon the words he knew well; there was a reason he brought this book with him tonight. After a moment of silence, he closed it and laid it aside, hand gently resting on the cover as he looked to her, a somber smile softening his features.

“May peace be with you tonight, Aes Sedai,” he finally said.

Malaika’s pose did not shift when he began to softly read aloud from the pages, for all that it struck her like the first notes of unexpected music. Her attention remained ahead, yet upon recognising the cadence of the poem she closed her eyes. It was almost like embracing the source, only it was the words she let permeate her being. Vladamir’s voice was soft and purposeful, like something born of nature. She had rarely heard him use it. Feeling suffused his reading like a guide over well-worn paths, but if the poem was well-known to her, the territory explored now was entirely new. Experiencing herself led over its lines by another who loved it too made the journey entirely different. The existence of such depths to him did not surprise her, but that he chose to share himself like that briefly did. They’d co-existed for years in the same haunts, but for all that tangential familiarity had rarely ever spoken. She wondered what the poem meant to him, but of course would not ask.

For her it had always been something mythic. A realm far beyond her own, but one which shed across a comforting light. Tonight, hearing it aloud, it stirred in her a deep and nostalgic longing, though for what she could not say. Perhaps because she feared that what might transpire in the Hall tonight would hold little of unity. Truthfully, Malaika was gravely afraid of those fractures, more than she had been even when the Dark One’s dread general stormed the Tower’s walls. She feared especially what duties her experiences may soon rest on her shoulders. But for all that, she was also an island, and it was a quiet serenity which subsumed such thoughts. Malaika was not the only woman in the Tower to have known the collar, but such horrors had bred no friendships in which to express them. Fear was often selfish. She would do what she had to in service to the Tower, and to the Light.

Comfortable silence lingered after, in which she opened her eyes to shadows far less certain than valour-flamed hearts. If she dwelt on the manner of her own solitude, it was not to the ignorance of a bridge offered between them. His features softened in a way she had rarely witnessed in the public halls they both tread, and her own did in turn as her attention moved to acknowledge his greeting.

“I hope for it,” she said eventually. “Thank you for sharing yours.”

She knew little of what to say after that, though she thought Vladamir would accept her silence like one accepted wind or rain. He had closed his book though, and for a moment she felt intrusive upon his own vigil this night, for she had little to share in return. But surprisingly the guilt did not stay, and the quiet only felt harmonious. She watched his hand resting upon the cover for a long moment; a more common sight to her than the full regalia of his armament. 

“One of my Sisters has spent many years seeking to validate a piece of work she believes to be one of Norinen Mathevron’s,” she said after a time. She did not lift her hands to gesture the book. “If it is, it throws into question the date we have always believed he died. It might be many years before the work is finally categorised to a place on the public shelves, but I was permitted to make my own transcription as a gift when I joined the Ajah. I will send it to your quarters, if you wish to see it. It would be an honour. I have never liked the thought of it being so unread.”

Her gaze had returned ahead by now. A natural melancholy fled inwards in introspection, mostly for where the notion of forgotten things led her. Such a small thing in comparison to the wheel's great turnings. A single thread burned free unfinished, and she would never know why. She prevaricated over speaking. Already, the conversation lasted longer than she could recall, the happenings of the bridge included. Commandeering his attention away from his Aes Sedai did not sit well, though there was little enough he could do until the doors opened. Yet Malaika was not sure the opportunity would ever return. After consideration, it was permission she sought first.

“I recognise it is not my place, gaidin. But may I confide something?”

He was pleasantly surprised that she continued the conversation. Vladamir would always defer to the Aes Sedai when it came to the degree of comfort between himself and any Sister. As they were usually far too busy to dally polite small talk with idle warders, the conversation was welcome.

As was the offering. Vladamir was a fan not a scholar. If there were ongoing debates about Mathevron’s work, he was fully ignorant of them. Nor was he qualified at all to participate in such conversations. He reacted with genuine surprise verging on outright delight to glimpse a possible lost piece of the man’s artistry. If the greatest minds among the Ajah considered Mathevron may be the author of an unidentified piece, whether he was or not meant it was moving.

“That’s most unexpected. Thank you. I would be honored,” he replied with a bow of the head in gratitude. He watched her profile return forward for a few moments in case the conversation continued, but it seemed to have fallen into a natural lull that held Vladamir’s lips together in like kind. He fell into the second-nature habit of noting their surroundings was generally unchanged, and listened for the ebb and flow of distant conversation. Despite the number of people taking up space in corners and on benches, this area of the Tower was so grand, it naturally demanded awe and respect even on the best of nights. Most kept their voices little more than polite volumes, even among the warders, whom Vladamir knew first hand possessed the capacity to be anything but quiet.

Which was why Malaika Sedai’s question took him by surprise. As he shifted in his seat enough to angle slightly toward her, he was very aware that he was armed and padded with leathers in that moment. He did what he could to be graceful about the motion. Curiosity colored his expression for a moment although it wasn’t for what she may desire to confess but why she thought she need ask at all.

“And I will always listen to anything you have to say. Please, what is on your mind?"

The genuine delight in his response surprised her, as did her own reaction to it, revealed in the subtle softening of a smile and a mote of pleasure that drifted in her chest before it settled into composure. Vladamir had always seemed to be so thoughtfully wrapped in his own quiet business, she had never contemplated interrupting the bubble of it with something as trivial as a shared appreciation for art. In fact it had never occurred to her to offer something like that to any other person before – or not to anyone beyond a Sister at least, and they had access to all the same resources she did.

Sobriety drew her silent for long moments after Vladamir expressed his willingness to listen. The openness of his answer filled her with shame that drew her gaze down to her own numb hands. She accepted the responsibility of her title, but she appreciated it as a shield too, for Aes Sedai were not simply women, they were vessels for a larger purpose. Despite spending much time alone Malaika had little true concept of privacy. Her life had not been her own since thirteen years of age. So when she asked to confide, it was not a plea for confidentiality, but an askance for permission to lay down a burden she did not feel right to share. Aes Sedai carried the weight alone. When she thought about the poem, it was like looking up at the stars to something beyond reach.

“His name was Andreu Kojima,” she said eventually. For a moment it was all she said, knowing that it would mean nothing in isolation, and yet the weight of speaking the name aloud landed heavy. She had not expected the rush of memory to assault her so suddenly, despite how often she had relived that moment of witness in the time since. Little showed, of course, beyond a small furrow between her brows, smoothed a moment later. She remembered the look on the man’s face when he laid the dagger at her feet. It was an expression that watched her often from the shadows, quiet with doleful recognition. A more complex accusation than guilt. “The man who jumped from the bridge.”

She had seen death before. Malaika’s origins were no secret, and her hands were not clean. Neither did a woman earn the ring and shawl with innocence intact. She did not speak from youthful shock or the naivety of a first experience. After uncovering his identity, she had taken it upon herself to return the blade to his family in the city, with what she hoped had been a ritual of both compassion and serenity. But she found no closure in the task.

“I did not understand his intention. But I should have. I replay it over, the things I should have said or done.”

Even as a lad, Vladamir was observant and contemplative. Perhaps the Wheel chose the Armendariz brother well when it bestowed prophecy upon the young son of Fal Sion; he was naturally suited to the place of a warder. After all these long years living in the White Tower, he was settled around Aes Sedai, and although he did not shed his formality, he was comfortable in their presence. It was from this place of quiet observation that he was witness to the subtle change in Malaika Sedai’s demeanor. Once the topic of conversation revealed itself, the weight of such melancholy talk transferred readily to him as though sharing it might relieve her some of the burden.

The muscles in his jaw flexed as he swallowed, thoughtful and reflective, and shifted his weight. A deep breath settled in his lungs before he began to speak.

“There was a woman in my father’s household named Mika. She was a midwife, I believe, but I did not know the business of the Women’s Apartments well enough to be certain. One day Mika came with child herself, but the story ended in tragedy. Her loss was great, and when she declared that she was da’mordero’mahdi *, my mother and father, my brother and I bore witness to the ritual. Then the gates were opened, and she walked into the Blight.”

He had been looking elsewhere while speaking. It was at this moment that he exhaled and looked back to her. Malaika Sedai was of the Brown Ajah, but he wondered if she was familiar with the Shienaran tradition.

“I was about ten years old, and I did not understand why we would stand back and do nothing while a woman sought to end her life.”

In the Borderlands, every soul was priceless, and Vladamir still wrestled with question, but in adulthood, he understood. “He said that when one declared da’mordero’mahdi, it is a mercy that they are not alone when they do.”

She would see the connection between the story and Andreu Kojima, and it wasn’t his place to point it out, but he himself was also witness to those final moments. The sense of loss she felt was shared by him. “Peace means something different to us all. It was a mercy you were there.”

He sought her downcast gaze, searching for recognition, though he assumed she would obscure such personal conclusions from a mere warder, but then something stirred in his mind. A hush befell the hall as other warders sensed what he did.

The massive doors swung open, and he slowly climbed to his feet. Kekura Sedai of the Red Ajah led a procession of twelve Sitters. He sought Caia’li’s eyes, but she was fixed on the leaders and did not glance his way.

“I am sorry to depart, Malaika Sedai, but I must go. May peace be with you.” His voice was as tight as what he felt in the bond. He bowed his head sharply and hurried after Caia'li to whatever fate awaited.



*Old Tongue, One who is seeking death

Malaika listened silently. What Vladamir spoke about with such an austere sense of honour would have been a great and unforgivable shame in Seander. Life simply did not belong to oneself, and the idea of such a choice would be unfathomable there. It was one of the few tenets of her upbringing that Malaika still carried, albeit she no longer believed she belonged to the Empress. But if her eyes remained downcast in contemplation, it was not in judgement of Shienar’s traditions; it was in recognition of the loss which drove the woman to her decision. The guilt of surviving; of being powerless to prevent tragedy. Of feeling responsible.

However those were deeper things, and ones it was not right to share. She did not add that she had felt a kinship in the frenzy of Andreu Kojima’s gaze that night, only to understand far too late its meaning. Malaika had visited the man’s family afterwards, a formal respect for the peripheral part she had played in their loss. She did not know his reasons, and neither had they been on the bridge with the same intentions. But perhaps that was only because Malaika’s life was not her own to give up.

The comfort offered was sharp, and it stung the back of her eyes. A mercy of witness shared, a sentiment she understood. She accepted the reverence in the same spirit she had spent the time identifying and returning the blade. Life should be honoured in both beginnings and ends, and she looked up to acknowledge the words with the solemnity deserved. That Vladamir had been there was the only reason she said anything at all of her own turmoil, knowing it would be less of a burden on shoulders that already bore the weight, and might understand some of what she was feeling. There was quiet contemplation about her, and sadness surely, but if there were words behind it too then they were never spoken.

She withdrew tactfully as the doors swung open, and stood herself. Formality met formality, and she felt some guilt for having distracted him from duty in the first place. As the Sitters streamed out, Malaika looked for Brenna before realising it was a poor decision to linger. She looked away immediately. But already she had seen enough to chill her.

[[Will continue in the Brown Halls... when I get around to it]]

Malaika could not settle, and neither did she wish to return to her Ajah, or to the library. The door at which she found herself was not one she had ever stood outside before. Nor had she ever even been within these halls, despite her many years at the White Tower. It was closed now, and she did not knock, knowing the occupant was not to be found within. The smallest furrow marked her brow, but it was the only indication she gave of the turmoil within. Byron Gaidin had been gone for months, and while she knew it would have justification – he would not have missed Mistress Osilia’s wedding for anything less – it was something close to desperation that drew her. A vain hope that he might somehow be here despite all knowledge to the contrary.

Her hands were clasped in silent vigil for the moments she simply stood there. She did not realise quite how hard she had been rubbing at the scar on her palm, pain numbed entirely by the crimsonthorn, until she shifted to reach into her skirts and retrieve a small bound notebook and charcoal case. The tendons cramped, dull and slow, making navigating the implements, as well as writing itself, unnervingly difficult. Malaika could see the skin was sore, even if she could not feel it. But she did not linger over the observation. She only folded the note as best she could with her uncooperative grip, and slid it underneath the door.

On her return journey, she found the paths across the grounds were not as empty as they might usually have been at this moonlit hour. Weapons were not blatant, but she noticed all the warders were armed, their vigilance strung tighter than usual. Yet no enemy was in sight. Malaika saw not another sign of them, but she found her brief glimpse of the Sitters and their severe faces to be emblazoned on her mind. Matters of the Hall were far above her humble consideration, yet she was undeniably unsettled. What calm Vladamir Gaidin’s company had helped smooth fled entirely now. His poem had spoken of unity, of camaraderie in the darkest of times. But in the darkness Malaika witnessed the fractures spreading alone.

The library was never completely empty no matter the time, as it indeed wasn’t now, but its hush was for once uncomfortable – as though something arctic had spread right through it, leaving nothing untouched. Malaika could feel nothing by the slow pound of the heart as a cold, pervasive fear began to spread into her limbs. It had been many years since she had felt something so invasive, and in fact she had never felt unsafe within the White Tower’s halls, not since the first day she sat across from Kekura’s desk and made her acknowledging mark in the Novice Book. Even when the dreadlord threw his armies at the gate, she trusted in the Tower’s protection. But the sanctuary now felt shattered.

Forceful footsteps announced the sudden path of Anura Gaidar, her Aes Sedai a step behind. Eithne was unusually sombre, a dark cloak thrown over her flower-pinned hair, diluting her usual merriment. She had been among Malaika’s mentors once, the woman who had guided her through her discovery of Chakai’s identity. But no kind mirth flushed her cheeks now, only a colour of fury Malaika had never before seen on the former tuatha’an. Surprised, she moved backwards from their path, and while the warder cut her a quick look and tilt of the chin, Eithne did not spare her a glance. They had gone before Malaika parted her lips to query.

It was not until later she discovered the cause.

---

Much later, when Adira found her, Malaika was sat stiffly in one of the library armchairs. A book was laid across her lap, utterly unread, for she only stared around the words. Numbness held her, the shock too great for pain. The words on the page were her own, the lines those she had practised while she learned her letters. Fate had been a patient teacher, still in the bands of Acceptedhood then. It was a kindness that, whilst originally arranged under the direction of the White Sitter Broekk, had fostered and blossomed her love of the Brown’s sanctuary. Years later, when she earned her own ring, it had been to Fate that Malaika had officially pledged herself. Every strengthening memory had taken place here, amongst the desks and bookshelves, and more importantly alongside the strength of the women who’d made it a home for her.

And now Fate was dead, the foremost among them; her light extinguished, to become nothing but a casualty of her own brilliant strength and loyalty.

Malaika was not unfamiliar with loss, its unfairness or its cruelty. She surmounted her own past with small steps and tenacity. But this, she struggled to process. Not just the personal grief, which felt like a knot in her chest that spiked with every breath she did not scream, but the realisation of what had been destroyed in the process. The solidity. The safety. She felt adrift in the change, utterly lost, as though the last connections keeping her whole had been irreversibly cut free.

Though the Council fought for unity, privately within itself the Ajah was breaking apart over the controversy of Fate’s execution. The Sitters gravely stood by the new Amyrlin, but Eithne was not the only one who fled after the night the Hall came for Fate. Kaydrienne Lindelle herself was dead, executed alongside her Keeper, for conspiring to gift a gaidar into Seanchan slavery. Stunned, Malaika had witnessed it shoulder-by-shoulder with Aes Sedai who had called her Mother and pressed their lips to her ring. Justice in Seander was unyielding, and it was not the first execution she had ever seen, though for her own feeling, perhaps the most horrific. Vladamir’s words stayed with her, a figurative hand upon the shoulder, and she did not look away even from the worst. Though these were not women ready for death – they were defiant until the very end. Kadrienne, whom Malaika had spent years in quiet admiration, never gave up the location of the oathrod which would have saved the Brown from following them to the gallows.

As a very real hand now squeezed a gentle pressure on her shoulder, Malaika actually flinched. The book slid from her skirts, to Adira’s apology, but Malaika only glanced up confused. After a moment of reorientation she shifted to retrieve the book, but it was Adira who scooped it up from Malaika’s pinched and clumsy grip. She found she could not look back up, heat for a moment stinging her eyes, not from embarrassment, but from a cave-in of pain as the loss hit her anew. She accepted the slim volume with her good hand.

“I’m sorry, Adira, I was quite somewhere else,” she said. Dark hair fell straight either side of her pale cheeks, shielding her still expression and hurting eyes. Adira was sombre herself, her brows pinched, mouth drawn from its usual smile and easy chatter. Her comforting hand had withdrawn, uncertain. 

But neither of them could think of any more words.

---

Much later, in the silent cocoon of her own rooms, Malaika searched her shelves for the piece by Norinen Mathevron. The focus soothed her mind with some normality, and though she knew the words by heart, she read them over again before tying the parchment back up with string. Her hand still ached, and her writing was not quite as neat as that of the transcription she gifted, but she set up her desk and spent some time penning a note to accompany it. The contents were as brief as if she spoke them in person, not wishing to commandeer Vladamir’s time more than necessary.

It has given me comfort in times I have needed it. May Mathevron’s lost words offer you the same in times of trouble.

She paused over the ink, watched as it dried on the page, undecided and quietly contemplative. Then she lay down the quill and rose, lost for a while more in the personal shelves that lined her quarters. It was not a search so much as a meander through memory and reflection. Through the words of others Malaika felt some navigation of the turmoil around and within her, and for a while it offered her a peaceful bubble of existence. Most of her collection spanned the unknown, the anonymous, the lost. Pieces that moved the soul. Ordinary voices buried by time. From those which she loved most, she selected two more which she had always found poignant. Neither were voices of note, or at least had no historical attachment the Ajah had ever uncovered, and as such were not catalogued on the open shelves for study. Malaika prevaricated over including them, uncertain if he would find it presumptive if she sent more than the Mathevron she had promised. Vladamir was always reading, at least whenever she had seen him in the library, but it did not mean he would welcome unsolicited recommendation.

In the end, sat back at her desk with the pieces in hand – one a parchment, the other a small bound pocketbook. After some time to consider it, the works were added, and the note extended to allow for the forwardness without assuming it would be welcomed. She reasoned it was a thank you for the kindness he had offered by speaking with her on the bench; for listening when he did not need to. 

I have included some more pieces, not Mathevron, but that you may not have read and I thought you might appreciate. Consider them a gift, and please do not trouble yourself to read them if you do not wish.

The papers were beautifully yet simply bound, the note sealed with wax and slotted atop. She would not deliver in person, certain the intrusion would be too much, and possibly inappropriate. Given his bond to a Sitter and all the duties it must entail, especially in the midst of such upheaval and murmurings of war, she did not expect to receive a response beyond the acknowledgement of the servant she would send with the gift. And while she might be curious for his thoughts, she would not prevail upon him to share them, lest he feel it was a duty. 

After the servant was dispatched, Malaika returned to the public library, discontent with her isolation as much as she wished for no company. Its halls were as quiet and industrious as ever, and she felt a pang for how easily life continued, for she no longer felt like she knew how to exist here. Her mind was still displaced in the strange feeling when the Accepted cleared her throat for the second time. As Malaika's attention focused, the woman curtsied with pursed lips, though when she spoke her tone was carefully scrubbed free of any annoyance. "Calathea Sedai wishes to see you, Aes Sedai."

She passed Tenuene in the hallway beyond Calathea’s door. The small dark-haired sister was wrapped in her shawl and offered a subdued smile as she passed, eyes pensive. Malaika inclined her head in response, relieved the woman did not stop beyond that. Tenuene was quieter than most, a considered and astute Brown whom Malaika never much minded sharing a study space with, but grief was a wedge between herself and her sisters she was increasingly finding herself avoiding. The burden of sharing consolations only tightened up her chest, burning it all too real. Inescapably so. It made her wonder how the Kojimas must have felt when she returned their son’s blade.

The Accepted knocked for her, but did not pause for an answer, simply opening the door and gesturing Malaika within – presumably as she had been instructed. She had already bobbed a curtsy and hurried to her business before Malaika had so much as set a foot upon the threshold. Her arrival interrupted mid-conversation those within, and it did not stop on Malaika’s account as she quietly clicked the door behind her. The Aes Sedai were industriously involved in their discussion: Arymis, with her braid-bound puff of blonde hair, was neatly transcribing into a ledger, while iron-haired Fiad reclined with a steaming cup of tea as she considered Sivia’s proclamation that it was “--too early to hear from Liridia, and too early to yet worry.”

“That’s as it may, but how will he react once he hears the news? Light send Larnair keeps a better command on his boys this time. And not a word from Yui?”

“This could go very poorly,” Arymis agreed above the curl of her quill.

“And with a Red at the helm now?” Fiad clicked her tongue and sipped her tea.

Calathea paced by the unlit fireplace, absorbed in a note held aloft in one hand. Her eyes flickered up, but she said nothing, just pursed her lips back at the paper. Her gold-brown curls were half-pinned, the rest tumbled down her back unfinished, and a heavy robe adorned her shoulders, lace spilling at the elbow. Perfectly demure, yet Malaika suspected it was a house-robe, and Calathea had been orchestrating the Council’s crisis meetings since before even sparing the time to get fully dressed.

“Welcome, Malaika dear. There is repast on the dresser over there.” Her free hand made a gesture, yet her gaze moved up with a warm empathy that cast Malaika’s attention away. Plates and trays did indeed adorn a sideboard, mostly untouched. She was not hungry, but she lingered over pouring herself tea anyway, uncertain of her place here. Meanwhile, Calathea moved to behind Arymis’ shoulder, and laid the note before her. “I trust our Ajah will continue to stand behind Daryen, as ever it has,” she said.

After a moment the other Aes Sedai’s eyes widened around the edges. Her quill had stopped moving, and she looked first at Sivia, then at Fiad.

“Thea,” she said, but Calathea only squeezed her shoulder and straightened.

“Discuss it a moment while I speak with our sister. I must finish getting dressed if I am to keep to my appointment.”

---

Calathea’s maid shut the doors to her dressing room once they were within, and the murmuring conversation of the Browns diminished. Malaika made no effort to listen, and she stood just far enough away to make it clear. Her hands clasped softly onto one another, and she watched quietly as Calathea seated herself at the vanity. With thoughtful concentration, the maid swept past and began pinning up the rest of the Aes Sedai’s curls.

“Unfortunately, some occasions call for formality.” As she spoke, Calathea watched Malaika through her large gilt mirror, and while it was an inscrutable look, it was not an unkind one. She had stood on the Council longer than Malaika had been alive, yet she was not a sister Malaika knew well beyond a general understanding that she was both warm and unusually worldly for a Brown. Watching her for those few moments amongst the others, she began to consider that Calathea might pull far more strings in the Ajah than she had ever been given credit for, despite never sitting in the Hall. “More than I would naturally like. But we must choose who we are – or at least how we wish to be seen. Rhadamanthus would have laughed at me, though.”

Malaika did not look at her own reflection; her black hair loose, her cheeks hollow, her eyes tired. She did not keep a maid of her own, having no need for the assistance nor the gossip. Brenna often extolled the virtues of her girl Daniol, but Malaika preferred the familiar comfort of her solitude. She had been surprised to miss Kasimir when she returned him home, for all his loud exuberance, yet even that had not changed the habit. If Calathea was making such a comment, it would fall on deaf ears, though she at least considered that it might be prudent to better conceal the evidence of her mourning from her appearance.

“It was not an admonishment, sister. At least not to anyone but myself. It is always wise to remember who we are beneath it all. Ring and shawl and all, no?” She smiled a little, but did not pause in the expectation of a response; fortunate, since Malaika did little more than absorb the words. She was not sure she truly had that understanding of herself, even after all these years, but it was a humility that put her at ease. A release from judgement – or any but her own at least.

“I wanted you to know that your work with Brenna Sedai will be put to good use. None of us could have foreseen the great toll to be taken on our Ajah -- I do not like to see the divide it causes, and it grieves me that we must act so decisively now as to appear unfeeling over our loss. Which was why I wished to speak to you personally. Fate Sedai was a mentor to you. As was Eithne.”

“I accept my duty, sister. If that is what you are asking me.” She spoke her answer carefully. For all the conflicts inside, and for all the way she felt recently unrooted, she never considered anything else. Her life was an expenditure she gave willingly, and if she felt guilt or shame for any of her choices, those were personal afflictions. Her loyalty remained, as it ever would -- to the Ajah, and to the White Tower.