The First Age

[[Byron's posts written by Number Two]]


Byron Gaidin's idea of training was far from normal. Most often, he seemed simply to be enjoying life as any carefree and foolish man might. Gambling and drinking, sharing stories and telling jokes. Much of his training happened away from the Tower's actual training fields, as much of it was just too down right odd to be perfected there. Learning common regional lore? Accents? Rumour gathering and making contacts? Hard to do surrounded by trainees and Aes Sedai too busy enjoying the glistening of sweat on some muscle bound Warder's shoulders.

He often felt there was many things a Warder should know, that went beyond how to swing a sword or scare the wits out of a man with a look. Some Aes Sedai had more use for a man of wits and charisma then just another sword swinger, and it was to those that his strange cache of skills might appeal. If any where to take notice of them, which was decidedly unlikely considering his odd hours and activities.

That night was a prime example of his odd ideas. What was the best kind of training? The sort where you were motivated. Sure, a man could go for a run. But simply running? Was that truly enough? Not in his mind. Vaulting fences and crates, however, now that was good training. Got you used to over coming obstacles on the move, especially when say…running from guards (or an angry husband) in a city. Now most cities weren’t as clean as Tar Valon, but he would simply have to make do with what he had.

Now, simply running and leaping for the sake of running and leaping wasn’t quite good enough either. No, you were likely to take the easy way, likely to duck around a crate rather then go over it. Or slow down for a fence, to make sure the drop off the other side was clear instead of leaping it boldly and dealing with the consequences when they came. How to achieve that? By being chased, of course. Now, he was fairly confident a few hired dock hands or even some borrowed guards weren’t likely to be a good challenge. So what was?

Dressed rather casually, in a featureless set of boots and brown trousers, a comfortable shirt that he wouldn’t miss and a modest grey vest, Byron flew through the alley at a full run, eyes wide to help pierce the heavy gloom of the late evening’s shadows. He lithely bounded over a pair of old crates stacked against one wall of the alley. He was breathing heavily, the added weight at his ankles becoming acutely noticeable with each step. He’d only been at it a few minutes and was already getting winded.

And his pursuers were a bit more motivated then he had expected. A trio of stray dogs were hot on his heels, barking wildly as they gave chase. He doubted they would actually try to hurt him even if they did catch up, they were more interested in the slabs of lightly seasoned, uncooked beef strapped to his ankles. But, it was probably time to end the chase and let them have their reward. Spying a tall fence ahead that separated a storage yard from the street adjacent, Byron redoubled his efforts and let out a frustrated curse as the dogs closed on him, sensing a quick end to the chase.

Bounding another crate, he got two long, determined strides and threw himself up at the fence top. Hands grabbed the weather worn boards and he threw his body length wise over the top, the three hounds letting out a fresh deluge of frustrated barks of their own, pawing and scrambling at the bottom of the tall fence even as Byron vanished over the top. There was a moment’s hope that the street he was about to fall into was empty, and as he cleared the fence and got a good look he was glad to see only a few people strolling it’s narrow way.

He fell lightly, pushing off the fence after wrenching his body into position and landed easily on his feet. The dogs continued to bark and whine at the other side of the fence, too focused on the trail of the scent to find a way around the fence. Wearing his usual charming smile, Byron knelt to untie the slabs of meat from the sides of his boots, breathing heavily as he tossed them over the fence to the now very pleased yipping of his training partners.

“Well done boys, well earned. Light, but you’re faster then you looked. If I were of the mind, I’d adopt the lot of you. But, I’ve a hard enough time remembering to shave in the morning, let alone tend three dogs right?” He was grinning warmly, his breath coming back to him quickly and talking to the likely very distracted dogs on the far side without a hint of a care as to what anyone walking past might think. He was sweaty and dirty from his run, and had had slabs of meat tied to his feet. And now he was talking to dogs? No doubt the casual passer by would simply assume he was some sort of potentially harmful, or at least unpleasant, crazy person and shirked past without provoking his attention.


Malaika had only been in the city a handful of times, those visits all closely following her raise to the shawl, and only then with her sisters for company (and often at their urging in the first place). Many things had put her off; her memories of travelling to Tar Valon, which were a mess of fear and confusion - the savage roil of the sea and the blind panic on shore; strange peoples blurred like dense forest trees, and foreign accents that burned her ears if she ever cared to think on it. Which she very rarely did. Almost her entire life on the mainland had been behind the shining walls of the Tower, and until very recently she had never felt the urge to truly see what lay beyond it; she couldn't miss what she had never known, and her Brown shawl and the extensiveness of the Tower's library was reason enough to never contemplate leaving.

Ebou Dar had changed that, as well as what she had seen of Arad Doman. Curiosity burned like wildfire through her old contentedness with life - she had never had freedom like this. Lianora and Kekura had told her she was free the day she donned the white, and back then she had believed that that was freedom - to her, fresh from the leash, it had been. But this was ... different. To go where she pleased, talk to who she pleased. She’d spent years in her ajah halls, never even wondering about the world outside beyond its histories and artefacts; its writings and scholars and treaties. To experience these things had never really crossed her mind before.

She’d come seeking stories from sailors and dockhands - to hear it from their mouths, so to speak, but she had little experience with people either. Most had been bemused by her odd requests, and none too few had grown irritated; without the serpent ring to protect her, the afternoon would have like as not gone very differently. As it was, she had spent hours in the company of such phrases as “With all due respect, Aes Sedai, the men are very busy” and “No time for that, Aes Sedai, find your answers elsewhere.” She supposed it was unfair of her to expect them to take time from their work; they had wives and families to feed, and she did not. A few had directed her to taverns scattered about the dockside, but from the raucous noise emanating from most of them, she had been less comfortable with that idea.

As the afternoon light had begun to grown dim, she had decided to head home, but Tar Valon was bigger than she had imagined and in the closing dusk the dockside had turned into a warren of alleys and side streets. She was quite lost, she had no doubts about that. Something like fear tingled coolly over her skin, at first; she’d not been this close to danger in a long time (her encounter with Chakai non-withstanding) but the feeling fell flat … she was an Aes Sedai in Tar Valon, after all, and far from completely vulnerable. I know nothing about this city. About its people and their lives. Perhaps she should ask one of her sisters to show her around; they would probably be amused by her interest, and all to happy to oblige, but she was left with the feeling that that tour would only show one side of the coin.

Another cramped street. She would have to ask directions, eventually, which felt like something of a failure. An Aes Sedai lost in Tar Valon, she thought dryly. Not that anyone would know unless she told them, else they had close knowledge of the Tower and its people. Her face was yet ageless, and she didn't tend towards extravagant clothes even when she wasn‘t making a concerted effort to blend in. A navy cloak covered a plain dress and sturdy boots, the hood down and hair spilled like ink down her shoulders. She had the ring, of course, though that was tucked away with her hands for warmth.

A great deal of barking and yipping drew her attention. Most people hurrying along the narrow street ignored it as though it was something normal; Malaika watched their down turned faces as they passed curiously, as much enamoured with the normal denizens of the city as she was with the city itself. If her open appraisal offended anyone, they did not deign to show it, and Malaika was somewhat amused with being so thoroughly ignored. Then a man leapt over the fence a few yards ahead, nimble enough that he appeared to do such things often. In the dark street, the buildings crowded over like crooked teeth, she supposed she should feel fear.

By now she had stopped walking, and watched as he untied … meat? from his shoes. It was meat, and he threw it over to the sound of excited yips and barks of victory. How very … odd. He was filthy and glistening with sweat in the yellow lamplight; she had taken him for a thief, but now was not so certain. She intended to carry on walking, but ended up stopping - some small distance away, for safety’s sake. It was too bizarre a scenario to simply walk by.

She peered through the fence, placing her scarred hand against the metal links, but couldn't see the dogs beyond the crates in the gloom of the alley, only hear them as they gnawed at and fought over the meat with throaty growls. The noises were minuscule compared to the beasts of Seanchan, but a faint fondness crept over her features anyway. The creatures her brother had used to bring home had been far bigger and more awe-inspiring than a couple of stray dogs, but she had always had a soft spot for strays. That expression disappeared as she turned to the stranger, replaced by something vaguely bemused.

“You do that for… fun?”


He had years of training under his belt. Even as tired as he was from that short jog, he still managed to stay aware of anyone close by. Especially attractive women that he was certain he had seen before. Tar Valon was far from a small city, and Byron often prided himself on his ability to remember the faces and names of those he had met, so this was clearly a situation where it was someone he had seen but not spoken to. So the next question he had to ask himself was the why. Why hadn't he spoken to her? Married perhaps?

With the last peice of beef vanishing over the top of the fence, Byron knelt over one last time to carefully brush some of the loose dirt from his pants, properly blousing them into his boots. There was a long gap between when she spoke and his reaction, almost as if he simply hadn't heard her, and when he did finally react it was with apparent surprise.

He glanced up with an almost bored expression, gaze sweeping the street around him as he finished with his second pant leg, and his eyes passed over her once before snapping back. A surprised and very mild curse and he took a half step back, quickly brushing at some of the dirt on his shirt then vigorously wiping his hands clean on his pants, accomplishing little to improve his appearance. He hadn't worked up quite enough of a sweat for his hair to be clinging to his head, but a few wet locks hung over his forehead and threatened to poke him in the eye at any moment.

"Light woman! Your ilk should be a bit more careful sneaking up on some poor fool of a man. Blood and ashes, give a lout a heart attack if he goes looks on such a lovely sight so blasted suddenly!" He sounded rather serious. Not angry, simply providing a much needed warning, and he had a strong Arafelin accent without any of the looks. To a practiced eye, he was more likely of a midlands origin; southern Andor perhaps.

He started as if realizing the tone of his voice and flashed an apologetic smile, scrubbing his hands together almost nervously while getting some more of the grime off, "Apologies! Light, I'm about to fall apart at the seams aren't I? Taken off guard is all, not quite feeling the king of my castle at the moment."

He brushed a now mostly clean hand through his hair, flicking back some of the errant bangs from his eyes and finally dropped the act. Not that there was much of a change asides the confidence in his eyes and the change of accent, changing from the thick Arafelin gone and replaced by something a bit more worldly, his tone and voice warm. "Yes and no, good Lady. Training, and while most men do so enjoy working up a good sweat, I do so for necessity."


He didn't react for a long time, and Malaika was content to wait for a while; she folded her hands in her cloak and watched as he made an apparent (and admittedly quite useless, given the state he was in) show of brushing himself off. She had a similar habit - of taking time to respond, that is - and she assumed he was stalling for time or ignoring her in the hope that she would move on quietly - she even considered that he might be deaf, and she probably would have passed by if she'd not grown bored wandering foreign streets in the hope of returning to someplace she recognised. Not that she intended to ask a man who tied raw meat to his boots for directions, unless he turned out to be a little less odd than first impressions made it seem.

He 'noticed' her in a rather theatrical fashion, since Malaika wasn't sure she believed he had really been ignorant of her presence, and she accepted his mild scolding without much outward expression. It was not a reaction she had been anticipating - and she had certainly not been sneaking - but she didn't choose to say anything in return. Perhaps he simply did not want to be observed. His looks didn't remotely match his accent, either, but Tar Valon attracted all sorts. The problem was less that discrepancy and more that he was acting... well, strangely. Lovely sight? She wasn't astoundingly beautiful like Fate, or even striking in the way of someone like Lythia. Is he making fun of me? The maids her ajah sister Adira sometimes tried to foist on her, particularly around feast times, always called her ‘exotic’, which Malaika had always assumed a polite way to say different.

And then something about him changed. She tilted her head almost imperceptibly, eyes slightly narrowed, unsure if she was being toyed with.

"Necessity..." she repeated sceptically, and then was quiet for a long time. The accent had dissolved, as had the bumbling attitude and even the formality with which he spoke was now different; subtle shifts that changed a persona, to Malaika's eye. A ruse, or something less intentional? Broekk had told her of personality disorders, a prism of different people all trapped in one body, but probably that was the dark, cramped street talking rather than reason.

What to make of it..? Well, she didn't really know, and time wasn't exactly lending itself to serious thought on the matter. And she had been staring, she realised; not exactly rudely so much as with a mix of curiosity and puzzlement. Since he appeared somewhat normal, now - or at least acted like everything she had so far witnessed was entirely usual - she mentally shrugged and simply took it in her stride, removing her invasive gaze back to the fence in order to gather muster for some sort of answer.

"Not a Lady," she ended up saying, eyes returning to the odd man. "My name is Malaika, and I didn't intend to pry. I was curious. Am curious." She paused and wondered if it would be considered socially rude to inquire further; she had discovered today that most ordinary people did not like a stranger poking around in their business, and in particular asking inane questions about ordinary things that, to one who had never observed the hustle and bustle of a mainland city, was quite a fascination. Malaika did not have this problem with her sisters; in the comfort of her ajah halls, the pursuit of knowledge via any means was encouraged.

"Is this sort of thing ... common, in the city?" she ventured, "Or do you have a particularly uncommon profession? I am not that ... familiar, with this place." To one with an ear for accents, as apparently this man had, that might sound odd coming from someone with an accent as neutral as hers; the slurring inflections common to her Seanchan heritage had mostly faded after so many years at the Tower, so she pretty much sounded as though she was from Tar Valon, or at least had lived here a good number of years.

Well she certainly seemed perceptive. He couldn't help but feel the part of an blacksmith's puzzle being studied and measured. Compared to feeling the part of a prize bull on auction, it was an almost pleasant change. Pleasant if not for the fact that with such inpsections came the danger of someone actually figuring him out. What was he without his mysteries and eccentricities? Well, asides from being an amazing dancer and outlandishly handsome of course.

Worse still, the woman had managed to play straight to his greatest weakness...or at least, of the moment, he was rather fluid that way. Curiousity. How could one learn, better oneself, gain confidence and power and friendship without curiousity? It was also an invaluable peice of leverage in a game of cards. Keep your opponents curiousity peaked, they didn't focus on the cards. And back to square one, his mysteries and eccentricities were his weapons of choice for keeping fool rich men from getting his coin.

"Well, I certainly doubt you are a wench. Not a man, although I have met some very questionable fellows in my day. And I rue the day I'm offended by a question." He glanced at the fence, the sounds of the dogs having calmed and drifted away once they had finished their well earned meal. "Now that is an interesting question. Most would probably think I'm a thief, something that simply makes no sense at all now does it? Unless I stole the meat. But why would I tie it to my ankles? Ah!"

He brought a fist to his hand with the sudden exclamation, a victorious grin on his face, "Ah yes. Maybe I was caught thieving, and the would be victim had his men tie the meat there and loosed his dogs on me as punishment?" He let the idea stew a moment then shook his head in dismissal, "No, that wouldn't make much sense either would it? Honestly, this is Tar Valon not some backwater Murandy township. And even so, it's more so for the thrill of the hunt, and where is my hunter? No, certainly not that."

"Well, good Lady Malaika, this sort of thing is so uncommon that I would wager I'm the only one in the city that practices it. And the reason I do is is as training for my uncommon profession." She hadn't asked what his profession might be, so he left that unanswered. Now, as for what to make of her. Now foreign accent that he could notice, it was as if she were indeed a Tar Valoner. But then she had said she didn't know much of the city. Or the neighbourhood, at least. So she had the neutral accent of a city dweller, yet without the knowledge of someone who really lived in the city.

Sheltered, perhaps? If that were the case, it opened various possibilities. A rich, over protective merchant who kept his daughter hidden away in the safety of his estate? Someone like that could certainly be both curious and naive, but she had a level of confidence that didn't quite apply. Her style of dress better fit the maid rather then the daughter. Perhaps she had had her maid bring in a dress she could wear as her disguise? But then wouldn't the maid have come with her to keep her out of trouble? So perhaps she had forced her maid to bring it? No, she didn't seem the type for that sort of treatment.

"Well, I dare say I could use a cup of tea and some supper of my own. Have you eaten yet Lady Malaika? Not far, a comfortable tea house favored by the more cultured merchantmen that visit the city. I've little doubt the house Mistress will frown over my state of dress, but I suspect she rather enjoys my stories too much to turn me away." He raised a hand indicating the direction of the tea house and even turned as if he would start walking with or without her, all the while sporting his usual charming smile.


For all that he chatted with ease and confidence, Malaika noticed that he really told her very little of substance. He played at being open, but in reality he kept his cards close to his chest; her question was lost in a cloud of charm and wit that would make most women smile and forget what they had asked. Poor luck for him that this woman happened to be Aes Sedai. She had never realised until now, away from the confines of the Tower, how ingrained the Great Game had come to be in her. She had always considered herself only lightly touched by that particular trapping of the ring and shawl, but apparently not. Or at least by standards outside the Tower.

She had no inclination to pry deeper into his affairs, curious as they were, if the attention was unwanted. Whatever he was and whatever he did for a living was his own business, and either he intended her to work harder to find answers or he meant to keep her in the dark. Providing he was Light-fearing and meant no harm, he could keep his secrets; it had been a long day and she was content to find amusement in the weave of his outlandish fabrications without trying to fathom out the truth behind them. No more than her mind did automatically, anyway.

"Eaten?" The intruding thought caught her off balance. Any scrutiny that had been in her gaze moments before evaporated, now, like early morning mist. The expression that was left was a very human one for an Aes Sedai, if any here had known that was what she was, but less uncommon for a Brown. It was not at all unusual for one of her ajah to overlook such mundane, earthly things as meal times. Malaika was terrible for forgetting if not for intervention from the Tower's servants, her sisters or her nephew, and today she had spent the whole day alone in the city. Adira had reminded her to take coin for food, but now that she thought of it, that coin still weighted her down on one side.

The surprise softened from her face. She was hungry - starving, actually, now that the empty pit of her stomach had been brought to her attention. He’d phrased the offer in such a way that seemed to imply her acceptance, but had also turned to leave as though he would be unconcerned should she refuse. Malaika was not in the habit of dining with strangers, particularly men, but she was also quite disorientated in an unfamiliar part of Tar Valon. And she had never been to a tea house.

The last time she'd thrown caution to the wind it had cost her. She wasn't eager to repeat her mistakes, or make new ones, but was not suspicious by nature - and wanted to enlighten herself to life outside the Tower to boot. His charm, a glamour or an act though it might be, did its work enough to elicit something of a smile from the young Aes Sedai. What an odd situation I've found myself in.

"Do you have a name?" No, perhaps that was too vague a question. Given his earlier evasions and laid-back humour, he was like to simply grin and tell her yes, he did have a name. She was not interested in whether he offered the truth, but she did want something to call him. “A name I could call you by, that is. It would not do for a ‘Lady’ to accept tea from a stranger, no?” She had already told him she was no Lady, but since he used the title anyway she wasn't going to correct him again. She supposed he had every right to be as curious of her as she him, for although she hadn't been the one with slabs of meat tied to her ankles, she
was for all appearances a young, unescorted woman wandering about after dark. And seemingly without care to the danger, which even in Tar Valon was not non-existant.

She followed the direction of his hand, but slowed when she reached his side. She had little idea where she was let alone where they were going, and waited for him to lead the way. Since she had already gleaned as much as she could from his appearance and manner and didn‘t wish to make him uncomfortable, it was their surroundings she watched as they walked.

"Have you lived in Tar Valon long? You sound well-travelled." She was remarking on the flawless Arafelin accent, though she supposed he needn't have been there to have learned it. Tar Valon attracted people from all quarters, and he might never have left. He had mentioned telling stories, though, so she was inclined to believe he had travelled. Perhaps he was a Gleeman, though he didn't wear the motley of one (keeping his performing clothes clean?). Actually, that might go a long way to explain his eccentricities...

Byron glanced back at her briefly and flashed a rather warm smile, "Why yes, good Lady Malaika, I do have a name. Actually, many I suppose. They are important things, I suppose, but Light have they the iron-clad weight of responsibility don't they? If someone knows your name, they can find you so much more easily right? Someone knows your name, knows what you can do, you build a reputation. Dangerous things, those. You become so much more popular with a reputation. Some people seek you out to use you for their own gains, or to bask in the light of your story."

He started walking again, albeit at a more then leisurely pace as he continued his explanation, arms now clasped at the elbows behind his back, shoulders squared off and almost looking the part of a lecturing instructor, "Worse still, some seek you out to surpass your reputation. To steal the pedastal you stand on and add to their own. Say you are the best swordsman? A reputation you took years to build. And then one day some young upstart comes and beats you? He gains so much reputation, his name grows powerful and known. And what did he do to earn it? Nothing."

At the end of the street he turned left down a slightly wider, more openly used road that headed up away from the docks towards the finer establishments of the upper-middle class of merchants and craftsmen. "So having one name, associated with all your skills and abilities is a dangerous thing. But having many names? One for each pedastal? Well, be bested in one aspect, and you've more to continue preaching from." His brow furrowed as if he suddenly found the idea distasteful, and he glanced at her with an apologetic shrug, "Not that I am prone to preaching. I've nothing against sharing knowledge, certainly, but preaching for the sake of proving your own worth above others? Dreadful thing that is. I'm of the belief that it should undermine your own reputation."

He didn't seem to pay much attention to the world around him as they walked, his path taking him dangerously close to such distasteful things as muddy puddles or missing cobblestones in the road or worse still the markings of the recent passings of horse and wagon. And each time he drew near, without sparing a glance for whatever the obstacle might be, he always seemed to narrowly avoid it. "Now, you are quite right that a lady should not go to tea with a stranger. And a gentleman should never lie. So as long as you continue playing the Lady, I will continue playing the gentleman."

He suddenly bounded a few steps ahead of her and spun on one heel in a manner that should have sent the average man tipping over or flailing drunkenly. He instead smoothly recovered with another step and one hand reached to flourish a cape he didn't have and the other to pull a hat he wasn't wearing, managing what would likely have been a rather brilliant bow, the likes of capes flapping in the breeze and billowing about oneself. Instead, he simply looked more so the goof for it all. "Byron. And my time in Tar Valon started late in my youth and has been an on-again off-again affair. I am certainly fond of the place, but I am a traveller at heart, prone to seeking new places to find new sorts of trouble to get into."

He tapped one booted foot against the other heel, indicating where the meat had been tied, "This evening's escapades was something I am sadly quite familiar with. Some Murandian land owners are a bit...frugal, with their secrets. And their daughters. Poor good Lady Illene's father more then frowned on her having a relationship with a simple tanner's son. Light, have you any idea how hard it is to get an entire estate's guards drunk enough to sneak a young woman out to meet her love without her father learning of it?"


Names had a certain power, she agreed. It felt like an eternity since her existence as Shea - she had been an entirely different person then, and recovering her birth name had been an important step in forging a new and healthier identity for herself. As he continued to speak at some length on the nature of reputations, Malaika observed the street around them, glancing back at the man every so often to affirm that she was, in fact, listening. Everything appeared different under the cover of shadow; she was allured by the backdrop to countless ordinary lives, but she was also looking for anything familiar so that she might orientate herself.

Light but he certainly seemed to like the sound of his own voice, though it suited Malaika well enough given that she was of a naturally quieter nature. She wasn't sure whether he truly had anything to hide or if he was just rambling his thoughts aloud, and either way tried not to dwell on it. A reputation cannot be stolen, she mused, noting the architectural signs of a wealthier neighbourhood, because it does not belong to a single man, but to the men who's eyes behold him. Not that she voiced her opinion aloud; she had no desire to be caught in a debate that would give him an opportunity to bypass her question entirely.

She paused as he quite suddenly careened ahead of her, for a moment on the edge of wary ... until it was clear that he was simply indulging in more theatrics. He must be a Gleeman... She watched the flourish of a non-existent hat and cape without much outward reaction, not the hint of a smile or frown of distaste betraying her thoughts. Inwardly, she was a little amused, but such expression rarely made it to her features unless one knew her well enough to recognise the mirth in her eyes. Silly fool. He implied the name he gave was true, which surprised her given his tirade as to the usefulness of multiple personas and what not. No matter; she did not mind either way.

Ah, and he was rambling again, and at such a speed that a slow, methodical thinker like Malaika struggled to keep up. So he was a traveller; that alone garnered the young Brown's interest, since her whole day had been in the fruitless pursuit of such people. Funny how the Wheel weaves. And a tanner's son? She filed that away, though not necessarily as a truth. He might play the charming idiot, but the way he nimbly avoided obstacles without a second glance (or even a first glance) was proof enough that he was not unaware of the things he said and did.

"No, I can't say that I do," she replied. On any level, in fact; she had never been to Murandy, never gotten drunk (or even slightly intoxicated) and had never had ... ah ... those types of relations. "I have lived here for..." She blinked as though the time slipped through her fingers before she could count it. Or maybe because she did not usually volunteer information about herself without prompting. "Twenty odd years, I suppose. I didn't realise it had been so long." She shrugged since it was irrelevant anyway, and her gaze regained some of the focus it had lost. "I imagine you could call my life a sheltered one. In some respects, at least. I've never seen much of the mainland."

She was curious to hear tales of his travels, but decided to press her questions on him once her hunger was less of a distraction. Not that he appeared to need much prompting into the role of story-teller ... although he might regret it by the time Malaika's endless curiosity was satiated.


Well wasn't that just a wealth of information for him to gobble up? Byron fell in at her side again to resume their walk. The streets were rather quiet, with the faint hint of well-performed music drifting from one tavern or another but none seemed to be his intended destination no matter how inviting they looked. Judging from her age, twenty years prior she must have been very young, hardly a child. Judging from her appearance, and supported by the time, she must have been amongst the Seanchan, so how had she ended up in Tar Valon?

Various options came to mind, of course. Adopted daughter, perhaps her parents had been amongst the servant class and had simply changed Houses somewhere along a hectic road. Of course, she could be a Channeler couldn't she? Liberated from her slave masters or maybe one of leash holders. No, she hadn't the personality for that sort of thing. "Well, you've likely no end of questions then, good Lady Malaika? I couldn't possibly imagine spending so long in one place. Light, twenty years? Tar Valon is a wonderful city, there is no doubt, and if you had to spend an eternity in pne place...well, this place is a bit too stiff about the collar for my liking, but there is much to be seen and heard."

"Could you imagine? Having but a handful of places, a scattering of people, to enjoy a game of dice? Or stories over some ale? Light, but it would be dreadful! Like old warhorses put to pasture, telling stories of the old days. The same stories! Over and over, nothing new to talk about. Nothing new to do." He shuddered visibly, the thought of such a life near as terrible as a horde of Trollocs or being the guest of honor at a marriage.

His brow furrowed suddenly and he glanced at her with an apologetic smile, waving his hands soothingly, "Not that I've anything against it. Simply wouldn't work for me. Could you imagine someone like me settled down to grow old? Disparaging thought, age. Little to be done about it of course. Some options exist, but none that anyone has deemed worthy to capitalize on in respect to myself."


Malaika could imagine worse things than a sedentry life, and by the standards of most channelers and their fear of the leash had lived it too. Freedom was a new and unexplored fascination - it was not something she had longed for or even given much thought before. She'd never wished to escape while a damane and her release had been none of her own doing. Though she wouldn't wish the life back, or curse it upon anyone else, it had not been so ... bad... to live through. Not at the time, at least, when she had been oblivious to the things she knew now. It was not an opinion she was inclined to share though - with anyone - since it was not one most people could understand. Things were simply different in Seanchan, and the people did not know the things they knew here. Most Aes Sedai believed all damane wished to be free; it was simply not the case.

Even with all the extra knowledge she had not wished to escape while a novice or accepted, either, nor had she ever really contemplated the world outside. It had been nothing to do with her, nor something she had believed she had any right to be a part of. The Light only knew how long it would have taken her to grow curious if Eithne had not taken her to Arad Doman and then Ebou Dar; she might have turned to dust in the Brown's libraries and never even missed the sunlight.

"Plenty of questions," she agreed. "And a willing victim to spoil me with answers, I assume, should you really be as difficult to offend as you say." She did smile that time; it was not often she indulged in any sort of humour, and she was amused that he seemed so horrified by her situation. What he knew of it, at least. Of the world she was well read, of course, and probably knew more of each nations' histories than the locals who lived there, but it was a poor substitute for experience. And of that, she had very little. Not that she regretted it. She had the luxury of an extended life, and even coming to the world as new as a babe at her age she still had enough years left to see two lifetimes over. Light willing, obviously.

"I'm not sure I was ever aware I had a choice. One can't miss meeting strange new people, playing dice or drinking ... what was it you called it? Ale? One can't miss things they've never experienced." Although she supposed she had now remedied the 'meeting strange new people' part. "It's not so bad being ignorant, so long as you remain ignorant." The real problem was the way her eyes were opening. She was young and did not have enough standing within the ajah to do exactly as she wished, but it would not be impossible to find herself duties elsewhere for a while. The Browns sponsored excavations and studies across the continent, after all. Where to start, though, when she could lose her way so easily in the city that was supposed to be her home?

Her thoughts had ambled away again. Warhorse? Same old stories, nothing new? Over and over... She raised her brows, unashamedly amused. "You know, you shall have to let me know if I start repeating myself. I wouldn't want to be a bore." It was clear from her tone that she was simply teasing, neither serious in her remark or remotely offended. She might not have had much choice in the path her life had taken, nor much adventure, but she was privileged in a way few ever were. Enough talk of that, though, for Malaika was never one to enjoy the spotlight or invite it open herself more than necessary.

His last statement was curious, but it was a moment or two before Malaika's consciousness caught up with her brain. What an... odd thing to say. She looked at him with a renewed eye, suddenly sure she had missed something completely obvious. Whatever it was, though, apart from being an irksome niggle sparking in the back of her mind, eluded her. "Options?"


He couldn't say she was finally coming out of her shell. She didn't really seem shy or withdrawn, she was simply...well, to use her words, 'ignorant' about so much. Which was strange since she seemed so curious of everything. She had definitely been living a sheltered life. "Ah, but there are all sorts of choices aren't there? Unless you believe in fate, that every little thing is ordained by the Great Weave. I cannot deny that there's no end of very lucky coincidences throughout history. I'm a man of chance and luck, and even I cannot deny there must be the Creator's touch in such things."

Soon enough Byron came to a stop with one foot on the step into the tea house he had mentioned. By Tar Valon standards it was...quaint. Simple design, subdued even, and it might fit in perfectly in a quiet little village somewhere. "Ignorance is Bliss, as some say. Certainly, I've learned some things in my time I could have stood not knowing. What might a Trolloc carry in a beltpouch? Or the feeling of defeat losing twenty Tairen crowns to a matched pair." Somehow, of the two, the money seemed the more distasteful memory. He'd never admit it was the child's marbles in the Trolloc's pouch that had nearly ruined him.

"But on the other hand, I've learned many things I can't imagine not knowing. The elation of -winning- twenty Tairen crowns on a matched pair. I once heard that Domani mothers teach their daughters a hundredsome ways of touching a man's face. I would wager there are very few left for me to learn." He chuckled and shook his head ruefully as he stepped in and swept the door open for her, revealing a warm room of earth tones and dark woods, with bowls of dry leaves or wood chips to give the room a pleasant outdoors scent.

There were only a a small handful of men and women scattered about the room at comfortable chairs and low tables. A well matured woman emerged from a back room, likely a kitchen, with a glossed tray bearing tea and snacks. Seeing Byron at the door she flashed an an almost motherly smile that quickly lost it's warmth upon seeing him holding th door for Malaika. The Mistress likely thought Byron was up to no good with the poor woman.

He of course was all charming smiles and innocent frowns at her glare, but then the proprietress was off to serve her customers, and Byron waved vaguely at the empty tables, letting Malaika pick one of her choice, "I've little doubt you have no end of stories of your own. You would be surprised how often someone thinks they have nothing worth talking about. Friends and family, even a seemingly routine day tending their crops can be interesting with the right spin. Maybe one day I will regale you with the dire terrors of my time tending cabbage?"

He grinned again, a mischievous twinkle in his eye at her one-word question. Another fine opening for a long winded tale, no doubt about it. "Yes, options. Immortality through fame or infamy is possibly the best known. If I were to die, would I be remembered? Certainly, by many through different names and faces and deeds. Remembered in a small Tairen village for a fine cloak given to be sold for new nets? Or by Lady Minyarrin's court as the handsome and dangerous Derires, or his oft whispered pet name, 'Dairy'? Byron, the cabbage farmer or Byron the Odd? Each of my names might one day award me immortality. But, that isn't quite what I meant was it?"

He frowned briefly, thinking over her question and what he had said to spark it, nodding slowly, "No, certainly not. I meant means of a longer life didn't I? Well certainly, if I stopped tying meat to my ankles and running from hungry dogs, or raising the ire of jealous husbands, or winning too often at dice, I might live much longer then I likely will as stands. But, I am not likely to bring any of those to an end 'till I'm put out to pasture. So what might I have meant? Can you think of any ways a skilled man might live longer then even the healthiest and heartiest of farmers?"


Malaika paused to think about that, though only in the moment he stopped to open the door. Even being born in Seanchan, where her channeler’s blood marked her for a life of servitude, had she always ultimately been destined for the Tower? She had always considered her release a coincidence … and no, even now, she could not fathom that it might have been fate. Why her, of all the thousands that were leashed? Luck. Simple, pure luck. It was written in the pattern, now, regardless. She did not dwell on it.

As a Brown, Malaika considered knowledge to be of utmost importance, but she recognised the truthful insight in his words. Oh, he made a joke of it (she was not sure what a ‘matched pair’ was, having never been exposed to much in the way of gambling, though she could guess) but the point was there nevertheless. Knowledge was as dangerous and powerful as any steel-wrought blade; it could build and break kingdoms, and hearts. There was a warning there, and one she knew well; Malaika had already been burned by pursuing her curiosity against better judgement. But she was a Brown to her core, and fiercely passionate to such ends. It would not stop her. She could not help how sheltered from certain things she had been until now; learning to control and manipulate saidar had been far more imperative than experiencing an ordinary life or having the freedom to roam the world on a whim. Now, though, she would dedicate her life to learning all she could, and suffer the consequences as they came. She stepped over the threshold, giving Byron a side long glance as he mentioned the arts of Domani women. Well, maybe there were some things she’d rather not know about.

The teahouse was quaint and did not look like the type of place dirt-smeared men such as Byron would choose frequent (although, to be fair, he probably did not run around covered in dirt every day). Though he had professed to being familiar with the establishment and its proprietor, she wondered if his choice had more to do with his assumptions of her and who she was. Or perhaps his intentions. She was not familiar with the courting rituals of men, but if he had notions of conquest on his mind he was going to be sorely disappointed. It was doubtful to be the case, however, unless she was even more ignorant of life than she imagined.

She was not sure if the Mistress’ thunderous look was meant for her or Byron, since it was upon seeing her that the smile had fallen. Perhaps they were lovers, or had been. The woman was older, certainly, but Byron spoke like a man who was familiar with all types of women so it would not have surprised her. She wouldn’t pry, though, and had no interest in doing so. Byron had so far proved frank with his tales, whether they be truthful or not, and she would rather spare herself the blushes. Dark eyes scanned the other customers, but she did not see anyone she recognised amongst those already seated. Not that that always mean much in Tar Valon.

She had no particular preference as to where they sat, but since he had waved the decision over to her she choose them a spot within reasonable distance of the hearth. Aes Sedai did not feel the cold, so it was said, but Malaika enjoyed the glowing heat and comforting crackle of flame.

“I never said I had no stories to tell,” she said as she sat, with as close to a hint of mischievousness in her voice as one was ever likely to hear from the usually stoical Brown. Not that she had the skill to tell them in anything but bland, impassive facts. She had never shied from being candid about her past, though people very rarely asked it of her. In the Tower it was fairly well known that she had once been a damane, and no Channeler liked to bring that up. Occasionally she might find herself asked about Seanchan, but by now she had lived longer on the mainland than her country of birth, and her memories of a time before the leash were muddied with those of her Arches anyway.

The chairs were as comfortable as they looked and, especially given the late hour, she had to resist the urge to curl up in one as she would in her own rooms. It was how she would have usually spent the evening, with a good book or surrounded by copious paperwork, a single, power-made light balanced over her shoulder. It suddenly occurred to her that she had left no word for Kasimir; he had residence in the Tower’s guest quarters, but it was not uncommon for him to arrive unannounced and proclaiming boredom (much to Malaika’s chagrin). Malaika seldom locked her door, and though she had warned him against it, he still tended to let himself in. I doubt he shall worry, if he even notices I am not there at all.

Since it was quite warm, she snapped the clasp and shrugged the cloak from her shoulders. The dress beneath was quite as plain, loose about her frame and entirely unadorned. The sleeves were long, only the tips of her fingers poking out from the dark green material. That was to hide the scars on her right hand rather than the ring on her left, though while her hands were motionless in her lap it did both. She listened to him talk, happy to soak in the cosy atmosphere (although she almost spluttered at the admission of his 'pet name'). Perhaps she would bring Adira here, if she was able to find this place in the light of day. She imagined the young Brown would fall in love with the charm of the place, if she did not already know of its existence. And it was entirely possible she did.

Listening to Byron speak, she wondered if he mistook her ignorance of the world for stupidity; many often did, actually, and Malaika was never quick to disabuse those assumptions. It didn’t matter to her what others thought of her, unless those others were her ajah sisters.

“An exceptionally skilled man, or woman, might find what they were looking for at the White Tower,” she said. Matters of bonding and warders were not things she was familiar with, and she assumed Byron had not been hinting at methods one who did not walk in the Light might resort to. She tilted her head and wondered for a moment; that sudden clarity was back in her gaze, where usually it was passive - almost dreamy. “Although I would advise them against bonding Green, if a long life was what they were after.”

A gaidin? That was ... unexpected. He did not fit her impression of the Tower's warders, but she had never spent long enough in any one’s company to truly know for sure. In fact, she had met fewer than a handful in passing greeting throughout her entire life at the Tower, and shared conversation with less (and even then only for various study assignments in her youth). She might have assumed he was talking purely hypothetically but for other things he had said. The Arafelin accent and his passing mention of Trollocs suggested he had been north, but few fought against the Blight but Borderlanders, and he was not. His strange ideas of training and the ease and confidence with which he moved...

“Well, now you’ve gone and made me feel quite dense. I thought you were a Gleeman out of motley.”

She had to admit that she was still slightly sceptical, but she did not explicitly ask for clarification. If he wished to keep it to himself she would say no more of it; it was not like it truly mattered beyond that it had surprised her. Given that (unless he was simply being polite by not calling her out), she wondered if it would be rude not to mention that she was Aes Sedai; she’d made no attempts to hide it, after all - in fact it had not occurred to her until now that he might not actually realise. She was used to people simply knowing. Would his demeanour change if he did know? The serpent ring was good for a great deal of things, but eliciting casual conversation was not one of them. No doubt he would expect an ulterior motive of her. Ah well; she would simply let him notice of his own accord; she didn’t have it in her to erect a conscious deception when he had been nothing but kind, but blurting it out seemed somewhat juvenille. And she didn't want to insult him by pointing out what he might already be aware of.

Byron couldn't deny there was a certain appeal about her whenever her eyes gained that intense focus. Not that she lost any such appeal when lost in thought, it simply gained a new light. Not that he had any intentions of anything more then pleasant conversation. Despite his blatant reputation, as well earned as it might have been, there was certainly more to him then gambling and bedding women.

He had little doubt she would eventually piece together the truth of what he was, but it had come much quicker then normal. So either he was losing his touch or she payed more attention to what he had to say then he could ever expect. "Ah, the Greens. Light, I hear they...they..." he leaned over the table and glanced about as if to make sure none where lurking nearby, near enough to over hear and be offended, "I hear they...no, I cannot even utter the word! They marry their Warders!"

He leaned back again, just in time to catch the glare of the house Mistress as she crossed to their table, the tray tucked neatly under one slender arm. "You do this on purpose, don't you boy? Kidnap some poor innocent girl with that smile of yours and lead her astray. Well, good thing this one seems to have a head on her shoulders, and a bit of modesty too. Strange choice for you." Her tone was serious, but there was a hint of mirth in her eyes as she glanced at Malaika, offering a brief nod as Byron launched his defence.

"Slander and falsehoods, I dare say! When was the last time I came here with a woman on my arm? Never I say! Have I entertained your guests from time to time? Yes! But kidnapped some poor young woman and spirited her away? Never I say!" He grinned up at her innocently, a near perfect poster boy of good will and clean intentions, just the right hint of indignity and hurt in his voice and eyes. Perhaps even the faintest hint of wetness in the corner of one eye, the verge of manly tears.

The Mistress' tray was out from under her arm in a flash and gave him a light tap on the noggin before she finally gave way to a smile and looked to Malaika again, "He's a fool, there's no denying that my Lady, but he's a fine entertainer. Decent singing voice and he can carry a tune with near any instrument I put in his hands. But the real issue would be what name he's going by tonight?" She thought she had him with that one, giving him a victorious grin at the thought of ruining whatever game he was up to.

And he just grinned in return, holding his hands up in defence, "Byron, and point in fact the good Lady Malaika has already puzzled out what I am. Now she intends to pick my brain clean of every nugget and tale I have squirrelled away. At least those I haven't drank away that is." He smiled to Malaika and shrugged apologetically, "You've simply the challenge of asking the right questions to get the best stories is all."

The woman shook her head and looked to Malaika again, her tray once more tucked neatly under her arm and offered a motherly smile, "I am Osilia, owner of this establishment. If you want stories, Byron has no end of hot air, although I've never been able to tell how many are true or just words. The usual for you Byron? And what can I get you Lady Malaika?"

Byron could only throw his arms up in defeat, silently letting Osilia stomp all over his good name and quietly accepting it with grace. His brow furrowed and he huffed quietly, blowing a stray lock of hair away from his eyes, "Did you know, Mistress Osilia? She thought I was a wandering Gleeman! And I can't help but wonder if I made the wrong choice? Would my many skills be better suited to the..."

Osilia shook her head and brandished her tray again, causing Byron to yelp comically and duck in his chair, arms up defensively, "Oh hush boy! You'd make a terrible Gleeman. They need to be respectable, with good will and the best intentions. Now be quiet and let the Lady order would you?"


Marriage was another of those things that had no bearing on Malaika’s life, so she had never given it much thought. It seemed a weird thing for a gaidin to say, though; surely bonding was a far more permanent and binding contract than a marriage band, so it seemed an odd fear for one of his vocation. Unless he was jesting. Or perhaps he simply objected to bedding the same woman for the rest of his life… though some Greens had rather … peculiar notions about that, too, if several of the more clandestine rumours were to be believed. Malaika was quite content to assume that those particular stories were spouted from idle minds speculating on less obvious reasons a Green should take so many Warders, and was not willing to be enlightened any differently.

His comment also made it likely that he didn’t realise what she was. If he had known, he probably wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to lower his voice from those around, only to whisper to the one person who possibly could take offence at such a remark. An Aes Sedai. And one whose ajah he might have guessed at, but could not actually know. She smiled because she couldn’t help but feel amused - she was no Green, after all - but she also turned her eyes away. Some dark feeling misted over her mirth; Light, I actually feel bad! It was a sister’s prerogative to keep her identity to herself as and when she wished, but holding it back seemed deceitful in this context, and it did not rest easily.

Mistress Osilia’s interruption was both welcome and unfortunate, since it ruined any chance she had of naturally implying it in to the conversation. She returned the woman’s genial greeting with a nod of her own, innately withdrawn at the presence of another stranger before she could ascertain her character, though not exactly shy as simply quiet. She would have blushed at the woman’s insinuation once, but only found herself amused at the assumption. Her gaze flickered back to Byron, and she gave him a look that, on the surface, was rather flat and unamused, with a single brow drawn. She might have made the façade of insult convincing had she not allowed the twitch of her lips to give her away.

“And you swore you were a gentleman, sir,” she said dryly, sharing something of a half smile before her gaze returned to Osilia. Just as the woman bashed him on the head with her tray. She quickly realised she had been wrong in her assessment of the Mistress’ glare. That wasn’t uncommon in itself, since it was still second nature for Malaika to rely on intonation of voice rather nuance of expression to read people. Osilia treated Byron like a son rather than a lover, and their exchange was amusing to watch, even endearing.

It seemed he had told more of the truth than she had given him credit for, and though he had not expressly said he was gaidin, she decided to take it on faith. No matter how… unlikely it seemed.

“I assure you it was a compliment," she said to his huff. "I won’t tell you my assumptions on first impression.” Which had been rather less generous thoughts of vagabond, thief and madman. But then, he had been enticing stray dogs to chase him with meat strapped to his ankles.

"Light’s blessing, Mistress Osilia. A pleasure to meet you.”

A myriad of different teas and condiments flashed through her mind; an Aes Sedai’s day-to-day life revolved around the stuff, a precursor or accompaniment to many a conversation or social nicety. It was funny, but though she drank it she had never acquired much of a taste for it; she much preferred the bitter kaf of her people. But it seemed folly to order something so stimulating this late. Might as well leave the choice of tea to fate. “Do you have a house special? And an assortment of whatever food you might have left over this late would be wonderful. I’m quite hungry, actually.” Cakes, biscuits and pastries, she assumed; not exactly her usual fare, but she was too ravenous to care. She smiled her thanks; unusually warm, since she had taken an immediate liking to the motherly woman.

She was smiling more than usual; she’d not felt this blissfully cheerful in a long time, or maybe even ever. “A challenge, is it?” she said, picking up on his earlier words as Mistress Osilia left. She didn’t suppose she would have any problem getting the information she wanted, which was very unspecific anyway. But knowing where to start was a quandary. "Why don't you tell me of your dire terrors as a cabbage farmer?" Yes, she really had been listening to the things he had been saying, and while it had virtually nothing to do with her academic interests as an Aes Sedai, it was really quite impossible not to be the slightest bit curious. Unless it was a tale from before he'd earned his gaidin title, how on earth did one of the Tower's elite end up tending cabbages?


Osilia took their orders and excused herself with a final mock glare for Byron and an amused smile for Malaika, and soon enough she had vanished into the back room to get everything ready. Byron managed a convincing look of hurt innocence at the glare which quickly turned back to a mischievous smile, "I am a master of first impressions. Or, recovering from them I suppose I should say. But I am sure my tender feelings would be best spared from knowing what dire thoughts you had."

His eyebrow shot up at her first question, his head tilted slightly to the side, "Of all the adventures and misdeeds I've been up to in my life, everyone always wonders about the cabbages. Why the cabbages?" Another warm grin and he settled back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head and after one furtive glance at the door to the kitchen he gave her a mischievous wink and put his feet onto the arm of an adjacent chair, settling in quite comfortably.

"Was just recent that I plied the trade of the noble cabbage farmer. Two years penance, not so far from Tar Valon actually. Creator knows I haven't the foggiest how I earned such a thing, but there I was, an acre of fallow farmland and a rundown one room house." He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, clearly organizing his thoughts on the matter. "You'd be amazed just how little an orphan cutpurse from Caemlyn knows of farming. Needless to say, my first harvest? Total write off. I was smart about it, or so I'd like to think. Planted one batch too early, another too late, but about a tenth of my harvest was recovered. It's the second year that the excitement came."

He glanced over at her and shrugged apologetically, although there was little doubting that he hadn't simply spent a year learning how to raise cabbage. No doubt there was all sorts of interesting things that had happened in the first year. "Now the second year I was certain I had it all worked out. Planted at the right time, and things were looking fine. Drought. Light, but there really isn't much you can do during a drought is there? Hot and dry, crops floundering. I did manage a fine harvest of thatch for my roof. Two weeks to get that right, a nice thick layer, wasn't going to be worried about the cold that winter. Creator's blessings though, that is hard work. Can you imagine how little a mischievous caravan guard might know of thatching roofs?!"

He spoke of the roof with pride, one of the few times his voice carried such an air, but all the while he wore his usual smile, likely evidence that there was some odd twist coming. "So I've learned since, that droughts...the heat and dryness of it, leads to problems asides from a lack of water. Light, but they were a scourge on the land..." his tone grew dark and troubled, almost as a tired soldier remembering a bad battle, and he flexed his hand vaguely, rubbing at the calluses with his other hand, "Terrible. Farm by farm we were over run. Most of the others were real land holders. They had men in their employ, if each farm had joined it would have been a determined, if small, army. And all the while, I tended my struggling cabbages."

He kicked his feet off the chair arm and sat up in his seat, stabbing a finger into the table top, leaning in to look at her with a fine air of tired pain. Totally false, of course, but he was one for airs after all. "They came near evening. I heard it, felt it in my bones I did. A great, dark vibration in the air, the sun's light fading to grey and shadow. They blocked out the sun with their numbers! They were a thousand if they were one! I set pyres with my remaining thatch and hay, hoping fire and smoke might drive them off. Worked for a time, but I ran out of fuel before their hunger drove them to easier prey."

A flash of false terror, eyes wide and near the verge of tears as he peered past her shoulder as if looking a past too painful to remember, spoiled by the brief flash of a smile as Osilia emerged from the kitchen with her tray loaded with tea and snacks, frowning at him and rolling her eyes, clearly knowing when he was in the middle of one of his stories, "The fires faltered and died, and they fell upon my sparse acre with tooth and claw. My blade was useless, I killed scores of the beasts to no avail! Every twenty I felled, ten-score more appeared..."

It certainly sounded a dire tale, his gaze lowered to the table top like a man who had lost everything might give into despair, and then Osilia arrived and layed the tray down, rolling her eyes at his melodrama. "The locusts again is it? They ate his roof, you know." She offered Malaika a sly smile which brightened with Byron's cry of dismay, ignoring the sudden rant he exploded into about 'stealing his thunder' and 'Light-blasted insects' or 'Can't stand cabbage! Never could!' and instead focused on setting out a few small bowls of pork and beef in lightly spiced sauces, a tray of sliced breads and cheeses, and two pots of tea with separate cups. One for Byron, clearly his usual, and one for her, a fine black tea that might be best served with a touch of honey or cream.


Penance? Her mind zoomed automatically to that little detail, and she was slightly surprised that he would admit to it so freely. Light, what did a gaidin have to do to earn penance? And two whole years of it, too. Even if he had not professed to ignorance over why, though, she would have been too polite to ask; particularly of someone she had only just met. Those sorts of things were usually private; or, at least, they were among Aes Sedai. Her own single penance since earning the shawl had certainly been kept between her, Eithne and the youngest Sitter, Fate. Still, one did have to wonder inwardly what he might have done… although given Byron’s character, she found she didn’t have to wonder too hard.

Listening to the story, Malaika had the distinct impression he was toying with her attention. An orphan cutpurse now, is it? Not so long ago it had been a tanner’s son. And a mischievous caravan guard too? She was under no doubt that this was a lovingly crafted and oft told tale; he would not be lax with the details, so it was either that or he was laying a breadcrumb trail for her to follow. It was quite easy to believe that he had been all those things, after all. Other than those odd few musings, she was engrossed, if she didn’t give the types of reactions one might ordinarily expect of an enraptured audience. Her expression remained quite neutral, and she maintained a vigilant eye contact that followed his animated movements. It was easy to let herself be swept away; he had a way with words, or maybe with people. He would suit a worldly Blue, she thought, tilting her head.

By the time the tale was reaching its conclusion, she had grown somewhat oblivious to her surroudings; a woman’s voice took her by some surprise, if she didn’t deign to show it, and her gaze snapped to Osilia. It was still a second or two before her mind cleared and the words sank in. She was not sure whether the conclusion of the tale, Osilia’s interruption, or Byron’s reaction to it was the more amusing. Light, but she was on the verge of unabashed laughter! She couldn't honestly remember the last time she had laughed, and though it didn't quite surface now, the unchecked brightness of her smile was a rare enough sight as it was.

“Light bless you, it looks and smells wonderful. Thank you, Mistress Osilia.” For the food, or for the entertainment? The way her beam shifted to a coy smirk seemed to suggest the latter, but of the food she was pleasantly surprised at the content. Yes, she would definitely be suggesting the place to Adira.

While Byron ranted off a string of curses and Mistress Osilia basked in her success, Malaika didn’t waste any time in pouring herself a cup of the tea, which she was quite content to leave black and bitter. The teapot was unexpectedly cumbersome in her injured right hand, and when she set it down she flexed the fingers idly; the hand was unbearably stiff, perhaps because of the cold outside, or maybe that she had not really used it all day. Eithne had healed the wounds as best she could, but the damage the knife had done to the nerves had been beyond the Brown’s ability. By the time they had returned to the Tower, her hand already half healed, there was nothing else to be done. Damaged as it was, though, Malaika had still not managed to break the habit of defaulting to her right hand.

When she picked up the cup the broken nerve endings flared into surprising pain; tea sloshed the rim, but did not spill, and the only indication Malaika gave of difficulty was a slight tense of her jaw. It happened, sometimes; usually at the most inconvenient of times, of course, and felt not dissimilar to the sensation of the blade slicing through her flesh the first time. Which was to say extremely unpleasant. But the intense pain was normally short-lived, and was not generally common enough to be a real complaint. She placed the cup back down and switched hands, the ring on her finger finally peeping from beneath her sleeve. At least she could stop feeling guilty about that.

Her right hand she let curl in her lap. Blood and ashes it was spasming something awful; thank the Light her Tower training allowed her to erect a pretense to the contrary, because she very much wanted to screw up her face in pain. Instead she sipped the rich, earthy tea, and aside from her stumble with the cup, was very much void of expression.

"From Caemlyn, then?" And an orphan. That resonated with her. For all that her family had disowned her, she had at least had them growing up. The memories might be fuzzy, but the warmth was there, and she could not imagine being a child and having no one. "My parents were merchants, I think, but we lived in a village. What was it like growing up in a city? Being... alone," - he had mentioned it, thus he obviously didn't mind sharing, but she still paused over the word - "being alone as a child must have been tough, to say the least."


For all of Byron’s antics, he was still quite aware of his surroundings. There was years of training behind it, plus a long life of experience that was only made more acute for the years of training. Of course, he would never admit to being particularly skilled in anything even mildly respectable, so if he were ever asked and felt the need to explain, the only reason he noticed Malaika’s brief discomfort was simply for her looks. His own deep rooted concern for those around him also had nothing to do with it. He oft found himself annoying empathetic of others, something that many would consider a ‘chink in his armour,’ if one were to believe he had any armour to begin with.

Osilia however read nothing into the brief display, too distracted as she was with adjusting the various trays of food and giving Byron a comforting smile, apologizing for stealing his thunder then excusing herself to go check on her other patrons, leaving the two alone again. Malaika’s attention moved onto the next tidbit, a curious choice and yet still not something he had any trouble talking about. “Winters were a bit of a challenge I admit. But, I couldn’t imagine it any either way.” He flashed a warm smile, gaze dropping to her left hand and the ring displayed, and his smile only grew more amused for a moment before it was dismissed.

“Never really knew my mother. If what the men who raised me said is true, she did giving birth to me, just two alleys from where we lived. I’d like to think she was a wonderful woman, and had quite the bright and sunny image of her built in my mind as a child. Over the years I’ve long since realized the truth of what she must have been, but all the same…those childhood memories, as fake as they may be, are what I will carry with me to the grave.” He didn’t seem at all upset about it either, still holding that warm smile and watching her without any apparent change in his attitude, even with her ring now fully displayed.

After an apparent moment’s reflection, gaze hovering just over her shoulder and lost in the distance, he nodded slightly and launched back into his story telling, “I learned no end of skills on the city streets. I’m a deft hand with a purse string, and Light when I turn on the water works…no vendor could resist sparing me an apple or a meat pie. Winters though…not as many rich folk walking the slush lined streets in the winter. Not as many vendors hawking sweets and meats in the winter. And when it gets really cold? Your hands, they just don’t work right anymore. Grow stiff, unresponsive. Dangerous, that is. So either you earn enough in the summer to last the winter in some semblance of comfort, or you keep working in the winter too. Change the game a little. Later in the night, drunk from the taverns. You stand out more, but they’re tired and well…drunk.”

He shook his head ruefully, chuckling at some memory or inside joke he didn’t bother explaining yet, “So then I joined a caravan. The master taught me plenty about the word, a bit about herbs too. He taught some of the older hands how to make a cream from Cayenne pepper. Add a few other bits and pieces, works wonders on stiff limbs. Handy for hands stiff from the cold too, if you could mind the smell. It wasn’t unpleasant, just strong. Not so handy when you’re slinking about in the shadows, and your tummy starts rumbling because your hands smell good enough to eat.”

He chuckled again, flashing a grin, “Old Tock. As he tells it, he used to be a Lancer in Tear. I cannot deny he had hurt his legs, and as he tells it he broke both knees in battle. One to an Aiel arrow, the other when his horse rolled onto his leg. Ah, the tales of that horse…as he says it, old Tuck was the finest warhorse ever to carry a proud soldier of Tear. Don’t ask him which knee was broken by what though…they alternated as often as days of the week. But, he was bloody well fond of that cream. Wonders on his knees and on a slice of bread.”

He finally flipped over his own cup of tea and topped it off with his own small pot, apparently preferring white tea despite the late hour. Letting it cool briefly, he lifted a piece of bread and carefully spooned a bit of beef and sauce onto it before it vanished into his mouth, nodding in approval to the flavor. “Back to the point though…the men that raised me were not something I would consider family. Ah, the joys of youth yes? When you know nothing else, you stay with what you know. They beat me, quite regularly, and used me and some other kids to earn their way. We stole and begged for food and money, they in turn watched out for us, sometimes got medicine when we were sick. Was the whole world, when I was a child, and as much as I hated it I would never think to run away. Didn’t know where to go, right? The Guards were the bad guys, and there was no one else to turn to. It was just the way things were.”

A sip of tea, another bite of food, “Well, one day I made the mistake of trying my hand at purse cutting late one winter night. Fumbled the job and got caught. Master Dekan owned a rather successful caravan, and rather then stick to just one route, say between Andor and Cairhein, he went where the winds took him. Well, he wasn’t as drunk as I thought and caught me in the act. But rather then turn me into the Guard, he just took me into his caravan. And so began a new, if still not so pleasant, chapter of my life.”

As open about his past as he so often seemed to be, there were some things he would never tell anyone. For all his smiles and jests, his childhood on the streets, and even his years with Master Dekan, there were things that he had done, or had been done to him, that would be carried to the grave along side a child’s make-believe memories of a mother he’d never known.

Once the pain had gone, Malaika helped herself to the trays of food. She didn’t eat as though she was ravenous (she was) but certainly appeared to have a healthy appetite. Upon sampling the meat dishes, she discovered she preferred the spices to the beef rather than the pork, but ate bits of both indiscriminately, and used her fingers when cutlery was unnecessary. Tower fare was never meagre and often came from across the continent; because of that she recognised most of the flavours, as well as the variety cheeses, one of which happened to be her favourite.

She hadn’t intended the question to be so personal, though in retrospect she had phrased it that way so clearly she was more curious about him than she’d thought. The intimacies of other people’s lives were always a fascination, though usually only when it came from the person themselves - Malaika did not pay much credence to rumour and gossip; things of which there was no shortage in the Tower. She also didn’t offer empty sympathies for his family, or for his difficult life. Most people didn’t appreciate pity. Malaika certainly didn’t. She did listen with a thoughtful air, though.

I’d like to think she was a wonderful woman, and had quite the bright and sunny image of her built in my mind as a child … those childhood memories, as fake as they may be, are what I will carry with me to the grave.

There didn’t seem to be any feeling attached to the words, but that was a tactic Malaika used herself so she wasn’t entirely convinced that he was as unconcerned as he appeared. It was poignant enough that he had said it at all, or at least the wash of sadness she felt within meant she would not be soon forgetting the words or the image they conjured. The rawness of her emotional response made her wary, though, if only for its vulnerable nature. She kept expecting him to reveal the story as false, a trap laid to pull at her heartstrings. He certainly made boast of his talent for manipulation, but even knowing that, she was inclined to believe he told the truth. Duped or no, she didn’t suppose it actually mattered in the long run. If he did turn out to be a con artist after no more than the weighty gold marks in her purse, it would be a valuable lesson learned.

When he mentioned stiff, cold hands, he earned another moment of piercing attentiveness, this time over the rim of her teacup. She hadn’t expected him not to notice, of course, but the concern was surprising, as was the inventive method he used to express it. The smile as she replaced the cup in its saucer suggested she had caught his intended meaning, and that amusement remained as he explained the benefits of cayenne pepper. An endearing kindness, though she did not say anything in return. She didn’t suppose it would be very becoming for an Aes Sedai to smell like a cooking pot, but the advice was appreciated.

He made his youth sound like quite the grand adventure, but she was not so naïve that she didn’t have some idea of the sorts of things a child might have to do to ensure survival over the next child or homeless vagrant. She had very little comparable in her own history. Landing in Tear, alone and unleashed, had been the single most terrifying experience of her life, and the only personal experience she could think to try and relate. She remembered the mud; the smell of it, the feel of it, the taste of it. The strange platform shoes that had at the time signified her entire understanding of those foreign, horrifying people of the Maule district. Bloodied fish and nets. The shouting. She’d abhorred her freedom then, petrified of what she might do, who she might kill. And then she had been rescued.

That was the only time in her life she had ever been outside an institution, whether it had been one of family, the damane kennels, or the White Tower. The only time she had ever had to fend entirely for herself; a matter of days, and without the intervention, it would have undoubtedly killed her. I couldn't have survived the way he did. It had never occurred to her how reliant she was on the network of people around her. Though she'd never had friends of sorts - and even now spent much of her time alone - she had always been in someone's care whether directly or indirectly.

Her inquiries had darkened the mood. Not his; he seemed as cheerful as ever, but hers, for sure. She didn't speak for some time after he had finished. Silences like that didn't bother her, even with strangers, and she was usually oblivious to how they effected other people anyway. She was thinking quite deeply about what it must have been like, not entirely specific to Byron's own life, but generally; to all those unknowns whose reality it was now. Not everyone had the skill or fortune to earn a place and title at the White Tower. It was at that moment she made some rather definite decisions about Kasimir Nevaran.

Her gaze cleared and she made an apologetic gesture. I'm sure your mother would be proud was what she thought, though she meant the fictional mother of his memory rather than the possible prostitute who had died in a Caemlyn back alley. And she certainly didn't voice it, either. It would mean nothing coming from her, who knew nothing about him or his life. Better, instead, to simply move the conversation along with cool Aes Sedai indifference. She leaned over the table to select some bread and tore some off.

"Was it with the caravans you did most of your travelling? Is there anywhere you haven't been?"


She certainly was the attentive one, wasn't she? He liked to think he was a middling to fair listener, he knew when to let someone talk and could usually get people to let go their painful secrets if it might help them forgive and forget. Amazing how much pain was released simply by voicing the source of it, getting it off one's chest so to speak. But, in Byron's case, it never did quite seem to work like that. The pain of the memories was still there, only buoyed by the thought that maybe someone else might benefit from the knowledge. Benefit in a matter that wasn't likely to lead to someone trying to stick a knife in his back, that is.

The stories of childhood left behind, she moved into the next chapter of his life, as what might have seemed but a simple caravan guard in the employ of Master Dekan. He flashed a knowing grin and shrugged slightly, "Well, I've little doubt there are plenty of places I haven't been. Two Rivers tabac is the finest around, but I've never actually been there. A bit out of the way right? I've never seen the inside of Mother's personal chambers either. Light, never really looked under my own bed at the Tower...which could well be where my riding boots are hiding, now that I think about it."

He topped off his cup of tea before it could quite run dry and took another well mannered sip. For a worldly orphan turned traveller, he had manners that well befit a member of some King's court when he saw fit to bother, "Much of the Borderlands, and both coasts. Tear is a stuffy place, but Amadicia...Light, but that is both an orderly and backwards place isn't it? Murandy, of course. Plenty of interesting stories there, if you're one for man eating teams of dogs and angry nobles. Likely fathered a few children there, if the Light forsakes me. The next generation of nobility could be an interest lot yes?"

Another precise sip of his tea, and he added just a pinch of honey to sweeten the flavor, apparently preferring each cup to be just a bit different from the last, "Master Dekan, you see, was not just a simple caravan master. T'was a spy, he was, or perhaps a spy master? I learned accents and manners and all sorts of strange little things under his tutelage. Had plenty of uses for a handsome and smart young lad. I was quite impressionable, became rather loyal of him for a time. Accents and daggers, how to change my mannerisms and appearance, fit in high or low as long as no one payed too close attention to me that is. Poisons too, truth be told."

Few could understand why he was so open about such things, but he always held a little bit back of course. Again, just like his years as a homeless orphan, he had done things, things had been done to him, that he'd never speak of to anyone. Each chapter of his life held a few such lumps of coal, but they were things he would answer to when he was finally kicked off to chat with the Creator, if the fellow felt so inclined. In those years he had also come to believe in the Creator more perhaps then some of the most fanatical of White Cloaks, albeit in a much less raving-lunatic of fashions.

"Although I can never quite be sure, I beleive he worked for various nobility, providing services for the ever muddled Great Game, whether it be between Houses in the same city, or at least kingdom, else between those of neighbouring lands. Even old Tock was in on it, could play quite the convincing guard, even with his bum knees. All he needed was the right uniform, and in a matter of days he was standing, or more often sitting, somewhere he might over hear some rather juicy tid bits of gossip." He frowned then, one hand up to run through his mess of hair, brushing a few errant lengths from his eyes.

"Tock was plucked from the Weave in Tear, as a matter of fact. Not that he was found out, exactly, but because someone said something they shouldn't have, and wanted no witnesses. Was quite the scare, wondering if we had been found out, whether we should cut and run or hold our places and continue our jobs. At the time, I was playing the part of a servant. I suppose I was eleven, give or take, scrubbing floors and running errands for Lord Paetriv. The fool lord that killed old Tock, point in fact. Gave me quite the beating that night, and I hadn't the faintest clue why at the time. Learned later, big investigation when the Captain of the House Guard realized Tock wasn't one of his men. Quite embarrasing. Before we left, I added just a few drops of an extract from a flower that grew quite abundant in the Lord's garden. A powerful laxative, I hear it's still oft mentioned at balls and banquets he attends. His seat tends to be closest to the privy, and farthest from anyone important."

He had been fond of Tock, as much as he could be of what was essentially one of few men in his life at the time that didn't give him a kick in the ribs for a lark. Of course, that was mostly because Tock's knees were too bad to kick that high, but Byron had always chosen not to take that into account. And while he hadn't killed Lord Paetriv, the embaressment and damaged reputation had all but sunk the man's House into obscurity. Worse then death, in some people's opinions.


Considering his own upbringing (or lack thereof) she was surprised he seemed so blasé at the possibility of being a father himself. Granted he spoke about noble houses, where the child would want for nothing… but only if the child was not renounced a bastard. It was the sort of thing she imagined would play on her mind if she were a man. Malaika would never have children, of course, and as an Aes Sedai was supposed to have forsaken blood ties, but she still felt a debt of responsibility to her nephew now that she knew of his existence. Even though she wasn't entirely happy at his presence, she couldn't send him away. Wouldn't. Perhaps if she were a man her thought processes would be different. She thought about that for a moment, chewing on some bread, and decided that like most things about Byron appeared, his care-free attitude was at odds with the man within. Whatever he said, she was willing to bet that he knew precisely whether or not he had children, and that they were cared for if he did.

“I’ve seen part of Tear. The Maule part of it… well, the mud part of it, to be specific.” She doubted she would recognise any of it now; at the time she had never taken her eyes from the ground, as befit a creature of her status back then. Sounds and smells she recalled mostly, and Mistress Charlene’s voice if she forced herself to more soothing memories. She didn’t say much more; she didn’t remember much more, and certainly nothing that would make sense out of context. Mostly she only mentioned it at all out of a desire to be reciprocal; it seemed they shared less than pleasant memories of the place.

His eccentricities made more sense now - even the meat on his ankles. Unconventional but effective. She noticed that he had spared the Lord’s life where he might have taken it, and though she might have put that down to his being a child at the time, she didn’t think it was just that. In view of his earlier words on reputation and the use of multiple personas, it had been calculated and efficient retribution, but still merciful. So long as one measured life itself more sacred than its quality, of course.

Malaika was eating for distraction rather than hunger now, absorbed by his story and her thoughts. She considered asking him if he had ever knowingly and purposefully taken someone’s life, but it was a selfish question and born of deep guilt rather than any actual desire to know his answer. The clinking of china and soft murmur of surrounding conversation suddenly felt surreal. Here she was, in a quaint Tar Valon teahouse, thinking of asking a man she had only just met if he had ever murdered. More than a little bit inappropriate.

“What happened to them?” They could not still be alive; not Master Dekan or any of them, for Byron to be walking around free with such secrets. She imagined death was the only release from such service - either his or his master’s, and since he was here it only left one alternative. Unless he was a hunted man, which was entirely possible considering he had eventually ended up at the Tower, probably the greatest refuge of them all.



Now that could well be a long winded answer, couldn't it? She had all but given him an invitation to spend the rest of the night talking; each of the men he had worked with had their own tale, none meant to be anything less then their own book of collected stories. But, on the other hand, few wanted to know the whole story; murderers and cut throats, scoundrels and drunks, abusive and immoral. Not one of the men Byron had ever considered his 'family' were paragons in the eyes of the Creator.

He was silent a moment, pondering both the little tidbit of her having been to the Maule, undoubtably before arriving at Tar Valon, filing that puzzle peice away with what few other tid bits she had shared. The Maule, as a child, then...something, and now twenty years later an Aes Sedai. Again, considering her age and apparent heritage, it was starting to become clear just how unpleasant a past she must have had. In his mind, considering what he knew, he would have been of the opinion that hers had been much worse.

"Well, Old Tock of course, bit it in Tear. Things went down hill from there. Master Dekan lost his edge, you see, as did the others. Most were old...well, old for that line of work anyways. Once you move out of your prime, it's down hill...aches and pains, memory isn't as sharp, reflexes as quick." He had no illusions that the elderly were useless, but there was no denying that everything started to add up after a while.

A sip of tea, a dab of beef and sauce on another slice of bread, and he started off again, meeting her eyes briefly with an apologetic smile, "Dergiyn was Domani I think. Had all the short temper and short stature of one, plus the accent...but of course, accents for us weren't as telling as most. He was the next to go, in a...a house of promiscuous women of the night? in a crossroads town in northern Illian. He wasn't handling his ale as well as he was used to...suppose it was a stronger regional brew? He hit one of the Ladies, tensions flared and the bouncer gave him a what-for over the temple with a cudgel. Didn't kill him, per say, but he never did wake up either. Master Dekan left him a ditch a few days later. A strain on the pocket book, as he put it."

"Someone botched the job in Altara a few months later. I never did learn the exact particulars of what we were up to. Master Dekan never told us everything, just what we had to do and how much we'd make. They'd make, I rarely saw any cut of the profits. Happy to have a warm blanket and something to eat, right? Well, they kidnapped some small-time Lord's wife and daughter. I suppose it was squabbling between neighbouring houses, likely wanted to thin out the Lord's treasury and force them into debt. Well, some of the other men were a bit...rough, with the Lady and her daughter. She might have been fifteen? Sixteen? I was probably twelve or so, yes? Word of our hidey-hole got out. Lost three men that night. Myself, Master Dekan, and a few others escaped." His smile that time was just a tad too knowing; after Master Dekan had abandoned Dergiyn to die, young Byron started to have a real change of heart.

Years of abuse no longer seemed worth it, considering all he had to look forwards to was to be cut loose if he became a 'drain on the pocket book.' He wasn't fond of Dergiyn in the slightest, and had he been alone would have been shaking in disgust simply at the thought of what the man had been like, but it had been a wake up call all the same. A very important lesson learned. "The company fell apart after that...most of the others deserted, Master Dekan killed the last two himself one night. Poison, he had taken a turn for the worse. Thought someone was slipping something into his meals, kept going on the flavour just wasn't right...I think he thought it was Des Root, a subtle poison from a marsh plant common in Illian. Naturally, Master Dekan had no shortage of anti venoms and antidotes at his disposal, and took them accordingly. But I digress..."

Byron paused to top off his cup and flash Mistress Osilia a warm smile as the woman gestured to know if they needed anything at the moment before vanishing back into the kitchen. He was silent for a few long moments, sifting through the memories of that night on a lonely road in north east Altara, a tiny one wagon camp nestled in the trees. Master Dekan was in a fit of rage. 'Thief!' he cried, 'Murderers! Turn coats and vile spawn of the night! Taking my dreams, taking my coin! My mind!" He kept it quiet, not wanting to disturb the other patrons, but there was a shift in the tone and timber of his voice, the faintest hint of a Amadician accent, a mean voice made worse for a hint of madness.

"Slit Byaid's throat in his bedroll. He was a big lad, Borderlander for certain. Shienaran I think, turned to darker deeds then guarding the Border. Cowardly sort, but hid it well behind a bully's mask. Anges was a bit quicker on the draw, nearly got away but for Master Dekan's aptitude with the dagger. Even mad as a Illianer wasp his dagger took Anges in the small of the back at twenty paces in the dark. Drowned in the river after a nasty roll down the hill. And then it was just young'n Byron and Master Dekan."

He sipped his tea and watched her in apparent curiosity, as if trying to decide if she were truly interested in the story, or whether she believed a word of it. That was the beauty of his reputation; he told the truth more often then anyone gave him credit for, with just the right sprinkling of lie and misdirection that most thought that most every word that came from his mouth was a lie, a lark, or a tall tale. And for the number of names and stories he had, there were times he had trouble figuring which was which anymore. But, this was one that he would tell the Creator himself when the time came. "Des Root works faster if the blood if flowing, and better still when you spice someone's stew with a harmless paste made from it's leaves and put the root in the 'antidote.' He'd taken quite the dose that night, and by the time he turned on me it was already too late. Just stood and watched as the Light left his eyes...not that it ever belonged there to begin with. A foul man, he was. Broke the lock box, gathered my things, and walked to Tar Valon to start anew."


It was disturbing that he had done so much so young; at that age, Malaika’s blissful existence had only just started to fall apart, and it was not until years later that she had found sanctuary at the Tower. She also found it ironic that his words mirrored her thoughts so closely, and her unasked question. The Wheel Weaves… She didn’t look at him while she thought about that, but turned her attention to refilling her cup. Left-handed this time. By the time she was finished, any reflection on her own past was done and put back in that dusty box in her mind marked ‘do not open.’

As he continued, she picked at some more bread and cheese. Lost their edge, or had it taken away? It wasn’t what he said but what he didn’t say that she thought about the most. How much involvement had he had in the other deaths? A ‘stronger’ regional brew unravelling a drunkard? She sensed inconsistency, but didn't call him out on it; sometimes she thought about things too much, too deeply, and ended up drawing inaccurate conclusions. Other times she was unerringly correct. Either way, this time - the same as most times - she kept her thoughts to herself, and simply watched him with an attentive gaze. Curious rather than judgemental, she wondered if the man sat opposite was truly capable of such things. And at the tender age of twelve...

A master spy, as Byron had called Master Dekan, did not sound like the kind of profession where one went mad of their own volition; she had wondered that much even before the subtle confession, given Byron’s apparent silver-tongue. She did not think it fate, or even luck, that Byron had been last of the band for Master Dekan to turn his wrath upon, either. She saw the way he had used their own weaknesses and vices against them; had they not been the vile men they were - had they not succumbed to carnal desire, to rage, alcoholism and to paranoia, they would not have died. Did the fact he had had a hand in it change her opinion of him? She was not sure she knew enough to have an opinion, but it certainly shed a new light. She had assumed a prank gone awry had earned him a penance tending cabbages, but now she was not so certain. A dangerous man, she decided, and even more so for the fact that he seemed so guileless. So innocent.

She didn’t seem to condemn what she perceived, though; in fact, if it showed anything at all, her expression grew rather soft. Unless he were somehow unhinged behind that charming smile (a possibility she didn‘t discount entirely), or the whole story had been a bluff to gain her sympathies, she assumed there was much more to it. Nothing he had said suggested a motive for such well planned … actions. Malaika was generally charitable in her perceptions of people, and she did not want to think he would do something like that without cause. He had spared the Tarein Lord, after all. Master Dekan and his men were either much more depraved than Byron had even hinted, else something else had happened to provoke a child to such measures.

But she was judging again, extrapolating life-stories from the barest hints and reading between the lines of a history that might not even be true. Could be she was just too eager to see the mistreated orphan overcome difficulty to make something of himself. Perhaps, she thought dryly, he simply found amusement in watching another’s reaction to his choice of history on any given day. If that were true she thought him cruel, or maybe herself gullible.

Whatever his past and whatever his reasons for sharing it so candidly, it wasn’t her position to judge, so she didn’t. Or, at least, she didn’t voice any conclusions she had made. She wasn't sure what to say, actually. One would not know it to look at her, but his story had affected her, pulled her in, and considering that it might not even be true she was wary at revealing her feelings on the matter. She would rather appear cold than foolish.

“You would make a dangerous enemy,” she said. He could make of that what he wanted. It was sufficiently vague; he was a gaidin, and they were by definition dangerous to cross. She'd always wondered on the sorts of things that brought men and women to the Tower to become Warders, and considered them a strange breed of people to want to give their lives over to another. Actually, she didn't understand it at all. There were other ways to serve the Light or die trying. Not that she didn't respect what they were or what they did... but tying oneself so permanently and intimately to another? It sounded a lot like an invisible collar and leash, to her. If Byron was afraid of marriage, then Malaika was afraid of the bond. "Why Tar Valon, of all places?" She thought she probably knew the answer to that, but she was curious to hear what he would say.


He couldn't help but wonder how much she had pieced together from that story. There were openings and hints of course, but most took such things at face value, especially a terrible story with a happy ending. The right touch of show; expansive hand gestures and voices, and most people would simply take the story as it seemed. A series of bad goes and one final lucky break for the young boy Byron.

She, however...he had little doubt in his mind that she had picked up on it. Her statement was proof enough for him; she knew he was a Warder, so why even bother implying he was dangerous? Unless she knew how underhanded he could really be. Finally! Was someone understanding? Not that it would likely mean anything for him anyways...she didn't strike him as a gossiper despite how much she enjoyed listening.

"Well, I could say that most of Master Dekan's coin was gloriously fat Tar Valon crowns. But, I had no such luck. The man had much of it in writs, signed and sealed under his various names. There was little I could do to get those at the time...Light, could you imagine the looks if I showed up and signed for such sums? Certainly, I could copy his signature easily enough, had plenty of practice learning the nuances of someone's signature. But no one would give it to a child sadly." He finished his tea in short order, one final sip before setting the empty cup aside, producing a handkerchief from somewhere with a practised flourish and flick of his wrist, quietly tidying up with all the fuss of a obsessive compulsive Cairhienin servant. Quite at odds with the high class of manners he ate with.

"Luckily, there was still a small fortune. Unique trinkets, coin, jewelry. Packed up what I could carry, burried the rest somewhere only I was likely to find it. Some clothes, mortar and pestle, a few odds and ends, and off I went. But where to go? I could have settled anywhere, tried starting new, but I had no formal education. For all my skills and airs, I didn't really -know- anything." He could read, but was terrible with numbers, knew little of formal history and had a terrifyingly hodge-podge about of society from the nobility down to the criminal underbelly.

He pondered a moment, clearly thinking over just why and how he had ended up at the Tower. It was an odd story, to say the least, but strangely befitting his origins no doubt. "Well, one day I was back in Four Kings. Light, but life is very different in a city when you've some coin. Oh, the buildings are the same, the sights and sounds. But the Guards don't watch you as close, the people don't shy away. Food is better too. Hot, fresh. Warm bed, clean water. But, old habits die hard yes? For all my new found wealth, I was still a boy and had romanticized the whole idea."

He grinned impishly, shrugging it off as if he were appologetic about it. A young boy turning back to the only life he knew rather then being brave enough to find something new. "Purse strings cut much easier when you've a fine knife forged in Shienar rather then a filed nail, yes? So back to the purse strings I went. One day, there was a very severe looking woman, fine dress, walking the streets. Cut her purse and started to pull my vanishing act. But it was a heavy one wasn't it? Full to the brim. Not sure where he came from, but a pair of the city Guard found me on the spot."

He frowned then, one hand raising to check his hair, "One grabbed my hair, gave me a good yank. Think he probably pulled a few strands free, hurt a fair deal. I was done with being beaten and abused, done with being helpless, so I fought back. First time ever that I really fought back. That Shienaran knife did just as well with skin as with cord, and I got one of them in the thigh, and it was down hill from there for me. Came too in the stockades, they pulled no punches and I felt every inch of the bruises. Took ill fairly soon after. Broken arm got infected and they just left me rotting in my cell."

He grew a bit more serious and distracted, drumming his fingers on the table to some upbeat tavern song, quite the counterpoint to his tone and story, "Fever and pain. Light, but it hurt. And the dreams? Don't remember many, but most were bad. Never did learn how I recovered, but one day I was alright. Hungry, so hungry though. Couldn't rightly eat when I was lost to fever and delirium yes? Lost a lot of weight. But, I was fine. The guards returned my things and sent me on my way."

Most of his dreams had been terrible things, but there had been one. One dream that stood out perfectly after all the years. A long winded chat with a pleasant, patient, enigmatic fatherly fellow, of all sorts of things. Of where he had come from and what he had done, and most importantly where he should go to best use those skills. And voila, the Tower. "The third chapter of my adventures started that day, with a long walk to Tar Valon and the great, glorious, beautiful Tower at it's heart. Enrollment and training was quite the challenge certainly." Another impish grin, no doubt a sure sign that much of the challenge of his training had been his own fault, considering his odd outlooks on life.


“All roads lead to Tar Valon and the Tower…” she said with a knowing half-smile. He’d probably had less choice in his current profession than he even realised, particularly if he was as clever as it seemed. Crime was low in Tar Valon for a reason; punishment was swift and no-nonsense, and the Aes Sedai were law. Byron been both lucky and unfortunate to have tried robbing a sister in Four Kings, depending of whether or not he was content with the way his life had panned out since. The Tower rarely let talent get away, wherever they found it and irrespective of past sins. Especially one so young, and presumably impressionable. The White Tower was home to the elite, to the heroes… but look even a little bit passed the veneer, and you would find that it was full of waifs and strays.

When he appeared to apologise for returning to the life of a cut-purse, she shrugged and wondered why he felt the need. “When you know nothing else, you stay with what you know.” They were his own words, actually, echoed back because she understood. And because he was far more eloquent with words than she was. She didn’t blame him, didn’t judge him either. How could she anyway, with her own past coloured less than white? I would have made a terrible Grey, she mused absently, though it wasn’t even an ajah she had ever considered. She was too forgiving, too accepting. Such weakness would probably be her undoing, unless with age came the cynicism she observed in so many others. Actually, if her fellow Brown Adira's nagging was anything to go by, it was recklessness that would ruin her (really, it was not a word anyone could use to describe the serious Brown. One foolish decision did not a reckless sister make).

Amidst those thoughts, she wondered which Yellow had been responsible for the Healing, presuming that it had been a Yellow and not simply a gifted sister from another ajah. Apparently, it had been sister with a fat purse in any case, and with a gaidin who’d cared enough to set the young thief on the right path - if she understood that part right. She sipped at her tea, thinking quietly. It was quite cool by now, since she had been rather more occupied in her role as listener, but either she still didn’t notice or it didn’t bother her.

“I’ve never spent much time on the training fields, and I don’t know what other sisters look for in warders, but it seems odd to me that you’re not already bonded.” He'd only implied that he wasn't, and it had been before she’d pieced together what he was, but twice had shown discomfort with becoming old and useless. She wasn’t trying to insinuate there was a reason he was unbonded - that he was somehow flawed or anything insulting like that. Her mind had actually looped back to his comments on Greens and marriage, but she often forgot that others weren’t privy to the twists and turns her mind took when her lips were silent.

She was making generalised assumptions again, but since he had attained the rank of gaidin (no matter the reasons that had initially led him to the Tower) she presumed it was a route he was now devoted to. If warder training was anything like novice training, it wasn’t something you could just muddle through; it required hard work, and dedication. Whatever her own mixed up thoughts and fears on the subject, it seemed a shame to see talent and hard effort wasted. But perhaps he didn’t seek a bond; some didn’t, and came only for the training and education. She couldn’t tell which it was with him. He seemed an odd juxtaposition; complaining of infirmity on the one hand and shunning commitment on the other. Which was why she asked.


"Aye, it is what they say isn' it? But I've no doubt some people take it just a touch too seriously right? 'Don't go too far, little one. The Aes Sedai are just down that road you know.'" He had the sound of a grumpy old lady, waggling a finger at a troublesome grandson, trying to scare him into staying out of trouble.

He glanced about the room briefly and upon seeing the coast was clear cast her a wink before shifting in his seat, draping his legs over the arm of the adjacent chair once more, settling in comfortably and lounging like the ill mannered slacker he so oft pretended to be. "Now see, you should visit the yards more often. Get some sun, for starters? And there are all sorts of things to be learned. Fighting styles, weapon tactics. I suppose it can say a lot about a person, their weapon of choice and how they wield it? Brash and aggresive or with refrain and guard. The real enigma are the ones that can change their style at the drop of a hat."

He had a vaguely melancholy look about him as he pondered why he wasn't Bonded yet. There was a wide variety of reasons no doubt. "Well, perhaps some Aes Sedai find my way with words daunting? My looks too distracting? My penchant for avoiding direct conflict disappointing? My reputation repulsive? Truth be told, I suppose I have simply yet to find anyone that I might be compatible with, someone that would most benefit from my unusual skills."

Having his feet on the chair didn't last long as Mistress Osilia emerged from the back room with a kettle of hot water, intent on topping off their tea pots. She cast him a glare as sharp as any knife's edge and Byron let out a surprised yelp and sat up straight again, doing his best to look innocent and apologetic at the same time. She approahced the table with the kettle on her polished tray, frowning down at Byron a moment before looking to Malaika next, "So he hasn't put you to sleep then yet, has he Lady Malaika?"

Byron frowned and let out a quiet harumph at the accusation, arms folded heavily over his chest and hunching in on himself. "She thought I was a Gleeman! Light, but if I've earned such a first impression shouldn't I be keeping it up then? A standard to uphold right good Lady Malaika?" He seemed hopeful that she might stand up for him and defend him from the low reviews Mistress Osilia seemed to offer of him on such a regular basis.

Malaika was amused that he assumed she lacked the ability or education to defend herself with methods beyond the One Power. It had been one of the things she had made sure to fit into her busy Accepted schedule, much to the surprise of those who had known her for being gentle and placid in nature. Uncharacteristic though it might have seemed, few were aware of the thoughts that ran through Malaika’s head, and it had actually been entirely logical. She’d never had ambitions of aspiring Green - which was why most Accepted took defensive classes - but she’d experienced not being in control of her own gift, knew what it felt like to be utterly helpless, and when the Tower itself had been attacked had vowed never to rely solely on saidar for protection.

“I trained on the fields while still an Accepted, and what I learned has already proved useful once.” Her lips quirked up in a dry smile. “Although, I daresay I am more than bit rusty now.”

She’d studied under Lythia for a number of years before being raised, but had not had the time or inclination until now to resume those studies, which had focused mainly on hand-to-hand defensive techniques. It had only been a matter of days since her encounter with Lythia and her Warder in the stables - the first time she had seen the Green since gaining the shawl - and it had sparked a reminder to speak with the woman about furthering her tutoring. Once she’d found time to broach the subject, she hoped that either Lythia might find the time to help herself, else would point her in the direction of someone with time and willing… though Light she wasn’t looking forward to all those aches and pains again.

Ebou Dar had proved to her the value of such training, and the basic skills she had learnt had probably saved her life, or at least spared her a far more grievous injury. It had not protected her entirely, though, she thought while flexing he stiff fingers resting in her lap. Since that particular incident, Adira’s subtle naggings had changed from hiring a maid to look after her well-being, to bonding a warder if she was going to insist on being so ‘reckless.’ Which Malaika wasn’t, generally. Reckless, that is. And why would she wish to be a leashholder? To use someone else’s life as a shield? Now that was reckless, and frankly quite awful. But apparently she was the only one who thought so.

Usually at such a juncture, Malaika would have expected a lecture on the merits of Bonding. Outside of the Green Ajah, Aes Sedai were not expected to have martial training themselves; it was far more beneficial to expend their time and energy into mastering saidar, and there were those who never even left the tower once they were raised. Some did train in one weapon or another, of course, but on the whole, those that frequently found themselves in dangerous situations relied on a gaidin or gaidar for support. Two halves of a whole, Malaika had heard it said, and those words always echoed with thoughts of the a’dam. How is it truly different? To take one person’s life and value it below your own; to use it as loose change to bribe death to come back another day. It was one of the few things Malaika was genuinely cynical about, though she recognised now isolated she was in that opinion.

Sensing the melancholy of his expression and the strange seriousness to his tone and latter words, Malaika had been about to be unusually open about her own feelings on the bond; feelings she did not generally share since they were so deviant. She was still wary about making assumptions about the apparent emotions of such a prolific actor, but he seemed genuinely troubled (at least, the fact he had eventually dropped the joke suggested he was sincere. Probably.), and it moved her to want to try and relate. If a man can dedicate his life to this, am I right to find it so objectionable? She absently touched the part of her neck where the collarbones met, frowning. I couldn’t expect someone to die for me, willing or not…

And then she became aware of the teahouse Mistress returning. Byron appeared to play different parts for different people, and she knew ahead of time that Osilia’s presence would override any genuinely serious melancholy he had at his situation, to be replaced by boyish charm and silly grins. Though she had clearly been going to say something, Malaika closed her mouth, hesitated, and then changed her mind at the last minute.

“I think you sell yourself too short,” she said in the moments before the woman descended on them, resting back in her chair and flickering her eyes to the motherly woman. It was a good job her tray was laden, because she suspected Byron would have earned another clout on the head otherwise. Malaika smiled behind her ringless hand at the exchange, and just as Byron returned to his role of jokester, she returned to her appointed role of the ‘good Lady.’

“No, not yet, Mistress Osilia,” she said, dark eyes returning to the man in question in jest. She had quite clearly been rapt for the entirety of his tale, so she didn't fear he might miss the joke. Malaika felt remarkably comfortable in his company, considering the short span of time she had known him. She was aware that it was uncharacteristic of her; there were people she had known years she was not so at ease with, and only two she had ever been exceptionally close to. Broekk of the White Ajah, a friend with whom there had always been a prominent line of respect, and Pasha, a novice the then-Shea had once shared a room with, and perhaps the only other person who had ever been able to make Malaika so quick to smile. Two in more than twenty years, so she appreciated the rarity of the event.

Third impression, she almost corrected, though admittedly the only one she had cared to share. The Aes Sedai tilted her head. "I'll take it back if it makes you happy. I'm not sure I've ever seen a true Gleeman pout so much anyway." She wasn’t going to coddle his ego with any true thoughts of her impressions of him, and was quite content to play along with this bizarre yet oddly entertaining roleplay. And anyway, she rather suspected that he enjoyed playing Mistress Osilia's victim.

She turned her attention back to the woman.

”Mistress Osilia, so tell me; for how long have you known our would-be Gleeman?” She was quite sure Byron would find enough material to keep amused himself from that question, and no doubt the teahouse mistress would covet the open opportunity to embarrass him further.


The tone of her voice and the way her words clipped off was more then evidence enough for Byron to know she would have said more had they not been interupted. And perhaps it was for the best? Byron himself was the first to rally when he needed to be taken down a few rungs, and equally the first to admit when he wasn't deserving of praise. He had no doubts that if and when he did find an Aes Sedai that would most benefit from his hodgepodge of talents, that he would serve her brilliantly. And in the mean time...he'd continue to play the fool. A rather entertaining role.

Playing the part of the fool, Byron grew comically flustered at the accusation of 'pouting', sitting dumbstruck before launching into a tirade of defensive denials and flourishing hand gestures denouncing the mere thought that he might 'pout.' That was for women and boys and Cairheinin noblemen, not would-be Gleeman Gaidin. Most certainly not a pouter! Of course, his rambling was low enough to not interfere with Mistress Osilia, who just rolled her eyes melodramatically and went about topping off their tea puts with hot water and letting them steep.

"Well, Lady Malaika, I doubt I know him even now. He has a bag of masks as deep as the Tower is tall I think. But he first came in here four years ago. I hired him as an entertainer, and he would play or sing or dance or tumble some nights. More oft then not he was gone for weeks or months, but when he was around he had no end of new stories to tell. Didn't know he was of the Tower until some men came and dragged him off for penance. Didn't see him again for two years, and then all he could talk about was cabbages and locusts. As if he hadn't done a single interesting thing in two whole years."

She clearly thought there must be something more to it. He could come up with no end of stories and larks from but a few months absence, and to return with nothing but how to thatch a roof and when to plant cabbage in a two year absence was rather out of character. "Not that I doubt he spent some time tending a farm, he knows enough of it to support that. But I'd wager he was up to no good somewhere. Likely saving the true story as a nest egg when he's too old and senile to have adventures. Always got to save a few good ones for when you're stuck in a rocking chair by the fire, yes?"

She cast Byron a sharp grin, clearly confident that she had him figured out and likely eager to hear the real story one day. He, in turn, managed a perfect 'wool-headed-fool-of-a-man' look as if he hadn't a clue what the two were talking about, carefully putting his far flung arms back in his lap, and she rolled her eyes again and looked back to Malaika, shrugging in apparent dismissal of the fool man, "Sometimes though, he does remind me of my departed brother. Dekan always had such a way with words. Ah, I could almost imagine Byron to be his son, for the way he carries himself." She spoke fondly, giving Byron a motherly smile while he was watching some of the patrons head home for the evening.

She tidied up their table of a few of the empty plates and settled it all on her tray, "Well, enough of that then. He gives you a hard time, you let me know. Bring out a bowl of leeks. He hates the things enough that the mere thought of them should keep him in line, right Byron?" Her smile was mischievous when she looked to him, and he had managed to pale and wilt a bit at the mere mention of the vegetable, and then she was off to clear up the emptied table.


Masks, indeed, she thought. Or maybe even mirrors, considering Osilia’s admission that he reminded her of a passed brother (and no, she certainly did not miss the name). She imagined he adapted and reflected as opposed to having a stock of ready-made personas to adopt according to whim. Osilia saw what she wanted to see, just as Malaika saw what she wished to see - Byron’s tales were riddled with holes and intrigues and misdirection; to a Brown such things were as gold to a magpie. Another willing victim snared in the colour and light of his weavings, she thought wryly.

Dekan was not such an uncommon name, but she doubted anything about Byron was so simple or blithely coincidental. As Mistress Osilia gave the man a motherly smile, Malaika turned her gaze to watch him too, dark brows drawn ever so slightly in discomfort. He was acting oblivious, which seemed adequate enough confirmation. She was sure he had his reasons to visit Dekan’s sister, and she did not think Osilia had any clue as to the reality of her brother’s life and death or Byron’s involvement in any of it… but it still sat uneasily. Knowing she sat opposite the man who had facilitated Dekan’s end - for all that he may have deserved it - while Osilia remained blissfully ignorant, and even remarked on the apparent similarities of their disposition.

“You just get more and more complicated, don’t you,” she murmured, but didn’t say anything else about it. Suddenly it didn’t seem appropriate to discuss, not with Osilia bustling about with a kindness and cheer Malaika had warmed to. She watched the woman clearing tables, quiet for a long moment. The Wheel Weaves, she thought bleakly, and ignorance can be bliss. Sometimes it was better to remember people fondly than shatter that bliss with truth.

Interesting that it turned out he had been dragged away from the teahouse belonging to his dead master’s sister, though. Byron had been very vague about the nature of his penance, and though Mistress Osilia had only discovered he was a gaidin because of it, he had never strictly said it had been issued by the Tower. Out of politeness Malaika had not tried to inquire further, and she would still keep her suppositions to herself. He’d told her that a few of the members of his old band had deserted before the end, and it didn’t seem unfeasible that they might, upon finding out what had happened to their old master, have decided they had some claim to the loot Byron had taken. Certainly Malaika imagined Byron had reasons other than the ones Osilia conjectured to keep the story to himself, or at the very least away from Mistress Osilia herself.

She wondered if he would ever tell Osilia the truth - any of it - and then silently warned herself against becoming sentimentally involved. It was none of her business. None of it. For a while she stared at the stream rising from the hot water, then eventually tilted her head. As she often did, she spoke on a subject entirely unrelated to the flow of her thoughts. “Should I even ask about the leeks?” She didn’t look up, and whatever conclusions she had made of the unwitting piece of information Osilia had revealed, Malaika simply looked vaguely amused now, as though Byron really were nothing more than an entertaining fool.


It was true that Osilia was Master Dekan's sister, and it was equally true her existance was part of the reason young boy Byron had found his way to the Tower. The house Mistress didn't remember, or at least hadn't linked, a grungy boy delivering a weathered parcel of money writs and coin and a letter of final farewell from her departed brother, with the handsome and bumbling young man that had turned up four years ago. She had no way of knowing that the letter had been a clever forgery by the young Byron, given weight and credence for his first had knowledge of Dekan. The true Dekan, the one Osilia had never known, wouldn't have thought twice of killing his sister for a couple crowns.

Byron was a remarkable cards player, and shows of emotion were something often known as a 'tell' amongst the more experienced Noble players. It was something he had long learned to control, especially with his training as a Warder. So the faint look of remorse, perhaps guilt, that showed in the very brief tightening of his eyes and expert avoidance of eye contact, no matter how brief it was, would have lost him a very rich hand if there were coins on the table. Did he feel guilty for killing Dekan? No, never. Did he feel guilty for letting Osilia think her brother was a good man? Not at all. He did feel guilty about being her friend though, knowing he had killed her brother.

When she finally drifted away again, Byron wore his charming smile once more and seemed none the worse for wear, clearly confused at the acqusations of being complicated and laughing warmly at the thought of it, "I am not so complicated. Creator strike me blind if you haven't seen deeper then most, and we've only just met!" His grin turned to a grimace at the mere mention of leeks, shaking his head in dismay and swallowing hard at the thought of them. "Please don't? Light but if they aren't the Dark One's doing! Have you tasted them before? Bland and stringey, make me want to gag at the thought of them. Terrible things."

He settled in again, elbows onto the table and leaning in comfortably, seemingly quite at ease. He then shifted a bit, reaching across to take up her little kettle and top off her own cup before doing the same for his, "As I mentioned, it is hard to offend me, yes? but talk of leeks is a sure fire way to do just that." He said it with a playful grin, clearly taking no actual offence at such a topic.

Once Osilia vanished back into the kitchen, his smile softened a bit and he tapped his fingers on the table top, studying Malaika intently a moment before shrugging dismissively and speaking quietly, "Couldn't show up at the Tower with a small fortune, could I? No, likely not. So who better to get it all? Master Dekan spoke of her quite highly, as much as he would have sold her for a shoe. Gave her everything, and a very cheery letter...forged, of course. She's happy though. At least something good came of it all, yes?"

He chuckled softly and glanced towards the kitchen door, "She has fond memories. Fake, perhaps, but fond. It doesn't sit well with me though...like a burr in my boot while on parade. Nothing I can do about it without ruining a name and reputation that otherwise fits quite nicely. A warm blanket to hide under from time to time. Childish, no doubt, but I've never made any claim of being mature have I?" He was silent a few moments longer, before clapping his hand off the table and leaning back in his seat, tea cup in hand and sipping the hot drink gingerly, letting her decide to press the topic or move on.


“Vegetables are vegetables,” she said with a hint of bemusement, glad in some ways to have returned to a lighter topic of conversation. Malaika could enjoy food and flavour when she made time for it, but mostly she ate because it was necessity and was not very fussy. She understood the grin to mean he was joking, but it was amusing to think that he should be offended by leeks, of all things. She wondered if there was a story there, and if it was related to his time tending cabbage, but respected that it was, apparently, too horrific to share.

The way he leaned in, drumming his fingers along the tabletop as if deliberating what to say - or maybe whether to say anything - and then what he actually said had a confessionary air about it. She was not sure what she had done to make him feel he owed her any sort of explanation, and for a moment was concerned that she had given him the impression she judged his actions. He certainly didn’t need to justify himself to her, and she would have interjected to say so if it had not dawned on her that it was probably his conscience dictating the offering, rather than anything to do with her. Some people cared about what others thought, no matter who they were. Byron might welcome and even encourage accusations of fool, but he didn’t paint anything about himself as heartless.

She listened quietly, nursing the cup he had poured, and was not much surprised by what she heard. “I don’t think her knowing would do either of you much good. The truth isn't as easily healed as other wounds, and some things we would rather not know, hmm?” She was passing back his own words again. Whether Byron had the right to deceive Osilia like that was another matter, but Malaika was not a Grey to swim through the murky depths of moral ambiguity and try to pile right from wrong. The road to darkness was often paved with good intentions, but the truth was that in his situation she would have done much the same thing, except she did not find it so easy to ignore guilt and would not have stuck around.

Though what he said about Mistress Osilia didn't surprise her, what he said about the nature of his own masks did.

Malaika was quite thoroughly a Brown, but she had spent years in the White Halls with Broekk both as a novice and as an accepted, so it was fairly inevitable that some of that clinical psychology had rubbed off. She understood people intuitively rather than academically; Broekk, no doubt, could have waxed lyrical about the nature of children’s coping mechanisms among adults, but Malaika grasped what he meant on a gut level. She had her own blankets and measures for security, and she did not think them childish.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she said, making an absent sign of promise with the hand that didn’t hold the cup. A rather juvenile gesture in itself, and one she had often shared with her brother when he’d used to confide his latest escapade, or show her the latest stray he’d hidden in an abandoned barn or one of the caves out by where they had lived. She couldn’t even be sure if that memory was really hers, or something that had only happened in the Arches, but it always made her smile. “Although you won’t get far making sure your reputation stays in tact if you go confessing to every stranger who takes an interest in your past.” Malaika wasn’t a gossip, and even had she not spontaneously promised to keep what she knew to herself, she would not have deigned to say anything to anyone anyway. It wasn't in her nature, and she was far more study-minded than social besides.


Well, that was enough of that. He offered her a thankful smile that quickly turned rueful as she pointed out he shouldn't make a habit of letting everything out in the open, and finally he was settling back in his seat, feet returning to the arm of his neighbouring chair. It was borderline unsettling just how spot on she could be in her observations, and he couldn't help but both wonder and dread how much she had peiced together that she hadn't voiced. But, at the same time, that added a level of depth and interest to her that most likely wouldn't have noticed. At face value, while certainly easy on the eyes, she might seem a rather weak conversationalist.

Rather then voice any further comments, or worse still bare his rather pathetic soul any more, Byron returned once more to the antics he was better known for. Hands clasped behind his head and settling back quite comfortably, any lingering doubts or worry about their last topic seemed to vanish as he looked to her, "I have to admit, good Lady Malaika, I've not met many prestigious women that are quite so fond of my stories. Most find it pompous or arrogant, or grow offended thinking that I prefer speaking of myself rather then hearing of them."

Women were, of course, quite intricate. It was a challenge he quite enjoyed to figure out what each was like, or at least to learn how best to get a laugh and smile. At first glance most would no doubt think his most driving goal was simply conquest and notches in his belt, and certainly he did nothing to dissuade such opinions. "But, I did promise to answer your questions, and am quite endeared to the thought of being able to tell my stories to your hearts desire."

He especially enjoyed the moments of intense focus as she seized onto one little tidbit or another, and it was a hard fight not to smile happily every time he was able to peak her interest to such an extent. He couldn't help but think of a kitten playing with a string, likening each flash of clearity in her eyes with the kitten catching the string.


Prestigious? If she had been prone to idle laughter, she probably would have then. Most days she felt more scholar than Aes Sedai, with ink-stained fingers and dust in her hair. Not to mention that she still felt like a child among her peers in the ajah, no matter the honorific attached to her name and all the bowing and scraping of the lower ranks that seemed to come with it. Hard-work, discipline, dedication, commitment, and years of exhaustion had led her to the shawl, but it had felt a lot like duty at the time. If she could not rely on another to control her gift, then it was her own responsibility to make sure she was safe, and the Tower was the most efficient road to that end. Earning the shawl had been a by-product more than a goal, and thought of being part of an elite was at odds with Malaika’s simple view of herself.

She couldn’t understand how people could be so incurious, so it seemed strange to her that no-one at the Tower (or at the least only a very few) had ever thought to question deeper than Byron’s outer shell, not least because his apparent persona was so conflicting with his gaidin title. People surely didn’t just assume he was incompetent? Or perhaps the oft serious nature of the Aes Sedai and the Tower left little tolerance for clowning and foolery among the elite ranks of gaidin; Byron’s masks made him too easy to dismiss. She wondered if that was a facet of his intention in keeping up the charade (though mostly she imagined it was the only way he knew how to exist); he had cited lack of compatibility as the most sincere reason for not being bonded, so were his masks a test, or a wall?

She shrugged the notion away - and her gaze, since she had a tendency to stare a little too intensely when she was thinking on a person rather than something more abstract. It probably wasn’t very fair of her to extrapolate and guess upon the intricacies of a man who sat guilelessly across the table from her, even if such meanderings were as natural as breathing. Malaika would tell of her past - and frankly - if she was asked, but she didn’t like to speak as much as she liked to listen. She enjoyed watching people, understanding people, relating to them (even if only in her own mind) and sometimes forgot that, unlike books, it was sometimes necessary to be reciprocal.

She sipped her bitter tea, and didn’t bother to prevent the amusement from softening her expression. “If we’re going to be frank, I’m sure many find my company dull and dismissible, but I think we’ve already established that appearances rarely tell all.” It was quietness rather than shyness, and she did not lack confidence, but there was also something quite cautious in her nature. Some mistook that for fragility. Or weakness. Byron’s chattiness suited her, and alleviated some of the tension she usually felt at keeping up her end of the conversation; it explained in part why she was so unusually comfortable.

“I’d hear everything, if you’d consent to tell it. Although I imagine there aren’t enough hours left in this Age, let alone in one evening.” Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling, and any former intensity faded as she mused on where to start. She thought to ask of Arad Doman, since it was one of the few places she had visited, albeit for the scarcity of a few passing hours and on business besides. Her recollections of the market, though, were vivid; the heat, the scent of spices and musk of perfume and swathes of dazzling, vibrant fabrics. Tall, copper-skinned women calling out wares in exotic accents, with seductive smiles, bejewelled fingers and luxurious black hair. The long moustaches of the men, and the arguments! Light, the temperament of the people in even those short moments of observation, so quick to laughter and to fight and to forgive. The colour, the noise, the smells; it had dizzied her, even made her ill, like a child eaten too many sweets. Her senses had been painfully raw, but she had loved it; the pages of her books brought to life. Honours, customs, traditions; before merely words, now given meaning and actuality that had been lacking before.

The memories stirred a profound wanderlust, and Malaika almost regretted being so long in leaving the halls of the Tower. Tar Valon had its own charms, and she was content to keep her wanderings close to home for now. But it would not be long before it was not enough, and she dearly wished to see all the things she had for so long only read about. Her gaze lowered, and for once her thoughts and words worked in harmony. "You've been to Bandar Eban?" He'd already mentioned it in passing, and recalling what he'd said about Domani women she felt the need to add, with a wry smile: "If you've a tale that's not too scandalous?"


"Books and covers, yes? Now there's a thought. What -would- I look like as a book? Or, if there was a book about me. Dreadful thought...I like to think my stories are only so entertaining for my ability to tell them? More vivid and life like. Knowing my luck, I would end up with some stuffy writer prone to unwieldy vocabulary that would scare off all but the most focused of readers." He frowned and tried valiantly to keep a bang of hair out of his eyes by blowing at it with puffed cheeks.

Another delicate sip of his tea, careful not to spill any on himself as he was lounging across the two chairs, and he glanced to her with a look of confusion. "Well, I assume you do not have many conversations with men outside the Tower then? Warders and servants and guards aside, only crude or very distracted men would find you dull or dismissible, good Lady Malaika. Not so talkative, perhaps, but your eyes are quite expressive. A treasure to behold. But as for Bandar Eban and stories that are not too scandalous, I might have one or two."

"Now, talk of a hundred some ways of touching a man's face aside, you might be well aware that the men there are known for their tempers and the women of their...liberal attitudes? Not that I would label many, if any, wenches, but the way they dress? Carry themselves? Speak? I dare say they have illusion and veil down to a science. Sell you your own shirt off your back and leave you thinking it was the greatest day of your life. Honoured to give her your coin, you would feel. If you were so easily melted that is." He grinned knowingly, having quite proudly proven rather immune to their airs and nuances. "Can't play a player, as they say."

He thought a moment, collecting his thoughts before finally finding something suitable for her tastes. "Ah! Yes. Well, was shortly after receiving my cloak...which, I do hope is still hanging in my wardrobe...I can't remember the last time I aired that thing out...? But yes, shortly after being raised to Gaidin. Quite looking forwards to it, I was. I had quite the nest egg of gambling winnings secreted away throughout my bunk space. It was a rather fun game, to see how long I could go without it being found during an inspection."

"Well, I was borrowed by a pair of Aes Sedai off to, of all things, buy silks and fine jewellry. Light, but I thought we were doing something important! Secreted off by a pair of Aes Sedai so soon after finally being given the freedom to spend my ill begotten loot. Two days later I've lost every copper and am lugging parcels and bundles about Bandar Eban, too tired to even appreciate the fine fashions, or the women wearing them. By the time we returned, I'd become quite the eye for cobble stones and mud. I feel sorry for the first fine steak I had...Domani food is...well, spicey certainly, and I cannot fault that. But it is...well, it just isn't enough now is it? Not when you're carrying bolts of silk and cases of jewels. Only thing that made it any easier was that my coin purse was thinning out at a most disturbing rate."

Byron rubbed his chin in thought, eyes narrowed suspiciously and staring at his tea cup, voice low and thoughtful, "Can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, they knew about my gambling as an Accepted of the Sword, yes? Knew I had the coin, and arranged for me to spend it all on two rather unpleasant Reds. How else do you explain the trip? And how they just happened to not have a coin between them?"


Malaika adored her books; they loved all who opened them without reserve or question, and could hold all the complexities of people without the sufferance of betrayal or the difficulty of misunderstanding. She had not always been so interested in people; that had come much later in her Tower training, after she had first stabilised in herself, but before then books had been people to her. And friends. Everything, in fact. It had actually helped her to think of people as books, once; it had been at Broekk’s suggestion, in the first few weeks after her Arches test, because for the longest time Malaika had struggled to relate. Even now she was not skilled at reading expression; it was tone and words she relied on, a strength made a talent, quite ironically, through years of being too afraid to look people in the eye. His reversal of the analogy that had helped remedy one of the consequences of her upbringing among the damane made her smile; a wry, amused thing. He’d touched on something personal quite unknowingly, not least because she was a sister of the Brown.

”Your assumptions are correct enough.”

Malaika did not speak much to men full stop and, she remembered with a hint of embarrassment, had once fled from an Accepted of the Sword in the library after he’d reached a book down from a shelf for her. She could still remember the boy’s bright smile and effervescent personality; the way he’d tried his best to ease her discomfort with charms and smiles and questions, but his efforts mixed with her own awkwardness had, back then, made her frantic and panicked. A long time ago now; she had still been in novice white, and only just reaching a stage in which she had begun to accept herself as a person rather than a creature. But for all the changes since that time, some things had not changed that radically; her interactions were still limited even in the Tower, let alone outside of it. Today had been the first day she had ever attempted conversation with the non-channelers of Tar Valon - of her own volition, at least, and for entirely curious and social reasons. No wonder it shows. She hoped the obviousness of her naivety didn’t reflect badly on her status.

In a moment of stripped honesty, she mirrored his confusion. She’d told him others found her company dull because she had found it to be true - and precisely for the reasons he had said too; because she was quiet and rarely contributed to conversation. Aside from her sisters, with whom she conversed quite freely, she knew she did not leave the most memorable or favourable impression. It wasn’t a bad thing; Malaika did not need to be a social butterfly to feel self-worth. It was just a fact. She was hard to get to know, so it was not surprising that few had reason to make the effort.

His association between good company and appearance was also… intriguing, and perhaps a distinction he made in respect of his gender. A compliment, she assumed, but a bizarre one... and yet another place in which her opinions diverged from what was probably considered the norm. If Malaika was beautiful she did not know; if she was ugly she did not know it either. She found herself quite ambivalent to the thought, and it was clear by her manner of dress that she was not preoccupied with such things. Damane were categorised by strength and talent, but among the nobles rich enough to own such a commodity, their attractiveness was also a point of barter and prestige. In her affectionate moods, sul’dam Riana had used to tie ribbons in Malaika’s hair, and she had often seen others paraded around like dolls on their leashes. But beauty was an ephemeral and slippery thing. Something about the inference of good looks and worth made her uneasy, but she knew he had not intended to insult her - probably the opposite, in fact, as no doubt the charm would have usually elicited smiles and blushes. Since she did not want to offend him, or have him think he had offended her (and he hadn’t; she just found the notion strange and a little uncomfortable), she said nothing and distracted herself with her tea.

Expressive eyes? Malaika was an Aes Sedai, and picked and chose the emotions she revealed on her face. But he was a Warder, and used to catching the faintest of nuance, so it amused her that he had been reading her as she had been reading him. She wondered what conclusions he had made, but accepted she would probably never know. She realised - not least because her own silent tongue had come into discussion - that she had not revealed much about herself, if she hadn’t taken any measures to hide it either.

”I know something of Arad Doman, yes.” The small smile was back. She was very well-read, and her limited experience of the place brought an extra life and vibrancy to his words. She half closed her eyes as she listened, melting to memory and the turns of his story. Aside from everything else, his talk of the ground resonated for the strangest reason; Malaika had a lifetime experience of cobblestones and mud. And tiles and carpets, grass and flagstones. And shoes. Even now she had an odd tendency for noticing people’s shoes. Her eyes didn’t remain closed for long. She had half-guessed the conclusion before the end, and the amused look on her face made it clear enough.

“It wouldn’t surprise me.” There was not much the Aes Sedai could not accomplish; Malaika’s own trip to Arad Doman had also turned out to be devised of smoke and mirrors, with a lesson hidden at the centre of the maze, and ultimately a scar to remember it by, too. “An Aes Sedai never teaches a lesson by halves - I would've considered myself lucky to get away with a short stint as a packmule." It went without saying that an initiate's life at the Tower was filled with such obscure lessons and tests, and that Malaika had experienced them too. She tilted her head as a quite unrelated thought occurred to her, but such was the way her mind often worked. "Did you use sursa? To eat, I mean. I've seen them in the dining hall before, on special occassions, but..." She shrugged, suggesting she either lacked understanding of how to use them, or perhaps at the oddness of eating with sticks.


Byron nodded in agreement. It was likely that the shopping trip had been a lesson in disguise, but he had quite cleverly managed to totally miss the point. He had the odd ability to always look on the bright side, and he had counted a few personal victories on the trip. Such things as still having some coin when they got back to the Tower, or even making one of the Red Sisters laugh, of all things. Not -all- of them were as unpleasant as their reputation.

"During my time as a caravan guard, I was often told that looking or speaking the part wasn't enough. You had to know the part too. How to eat, current events to complain about, even some often over looked little things like names of shops and their owners, or skilled tailors. I'm fair to middling with the accent, rather out of touch on the current events, but I'm a fine hand with the sursa." As he spoke, Byron raised one hand and positioned his fingers as if he were using the sticks in question. He watched his hand and carefully moved his fingers, clearly trying to remember exactly how it went before finally brushing his fingers against his palm and taking up his tea cup again.

"One of the Aes Sedai I was with, she was terrible...TERRIBLE...with sursa. To the point she was either going to starve herself for the entire trip or have to admit defeat and ask for a fork. Too much pride, that one. I finally convinced her to let me show her how it was done in private the night we spent there, and she was as adept as a native the next morning. I, of course, was sleep starved and had near lost my voice for all the stories I had to tell to keep her from losing her temper over not being able to hold those sticks." Some might have believed he and the Red Sister had been up to more then sharing stories and playing with sursa all night, but those few that had a better understanding of Byron would know with little doubt that he really had just taught her how to use sursa.


She watched Byron's demonstration with an idle attention, but it was his words she really listened to. It occurred to her that she didn't know how to be anyone but herself. Her Tower training might mute how much of herself she shared with others, but she never pretended to be anything other than Malaika. She wondered if it was her half-remembered upbringing that made it so; if such things were unknowingly ingrained into her being. In her homeland they were fond of a saying: that ‘everyone has a place in the Pattern, and the place of everyone must be readily apparent.’ Men like Byron simply didn’t exist in Seanchan - or any people who made an art form of pretending to be what they were not, who devalued themselves adopting ranks beneath them, or overreached to ones far beyond their given station. It would be considered a great lack of honour, and punishable by death, she imagined. They say Borderlanders are sticklers for honour, she thought, but the Seanchan are even stricter.

“It’s a wonder you manage to remember which Byron is the real one.”

In what he said next, the fact there was room left for implication was lost on Malaika. As perceptive as she could be for some things, those sorts of nuances she very rarely picked up on. It was mostly a reflection on the way she had lived and been taught; she had spent the majority of her life surrounded by women, and had known from an early age that she would never wed or bear children. It was not forbidden now that she walked the path of Aes Sedai rather than damane, but not many Aes Sedai ever pursued such a dangerous road. Malaika knew a few choose to marry - some, even, in her own Ajah - but she had little notion of the frivolity of sex and relationships, so the thought never occurred to her. Even if it had it was none of her business. What she actually thought was that it sounded a very Bryon-esque thing to do, to suffer the wrath of a disgruntled woman just so he could spare her a dented pride. A mindless kindness that walked the line between altruism and plain stupidity, but she thought that was precisely why he did it; because there was no good reason not to, it was just that that most people could not be bothered.

"I've been to Bandar Eban, though only very briefly," she volunteered suddenly, sipping her tea and watching some of the other patrons sitting in a window alcove. It was quite dark outside by now, but she was accustom to keeping the oddest of hours, so the fact barely noted in the back of her mind. "Tear, Bandar Eban, and Ebou Dar, though the latter two only for a number of hours. They are very different from here, and very different from the books I've read, too." It did not occur to her to add Seander to the list, or Tar Valon. Or the ocean in between. Whatever vague musing had caught her attention, she turned it back to him now. "Where is your favourite place to visit? If I could only travel to one place on the continent, where would you tell me to go?"

Well that was an interesting thought; had he managed to keep hold of the young boy that had come to the Tower so many years ago? Byron dwelled in his thoughts and memories, one hand shooting to the table, one finger stabbing down. He began to trace some nonsensical pattern across the table top, one finger becoming two to branch and join again as he thought over all the aliases and men he had been. Eventually his confident smile returned as one lone finger reached the edge of the table, and he snapped his fingers decisively, clearing deciding that whatever decision was positive.

He kept the 'real' Byron out of sight, neatly tucked away somewhere no one would see him, the Byron that existed before he had come to the Tower, before that fateful night and the fever dreams that had changed everything for him. Before he could give the topic any more thought, and risk learning things of himself he didn't wish to ever face, he switched his attention to her question. And a heavy one at that.

He chuckled warmly, watching her with a friendly smile, "Only an Aes Sedai could count a 'few hours' as a trip. A few hours and you can appreciate the architecture, certainly. But a city is more then mere buildings. People, stories, food! Which has more depth? A breath-taking mural of an important battle, or a tired old man missing a hand dusting the tables? Hours studying the mural and who would think to ask the old man a thing about it? Who would think that maybe, just maybe, he served in that battle? Lost his hand in the fighting, and for his valiant service was given a job in the palace rather then be left begging on the streets?"

"I couldn't suggest any one place, and I apologize for that good Lady Malaika. An Ogier Stedding? The forests are beautiful. And quiet. Creator's blessings but they are a comfortable place to visit, and they have no end of stories and history to share if you can find one willing to. Which usually isn't hard. There are no end of ruins and forgotten places all throughout the lands. I've never seen it myself, but I have read there might well be a city atop a mountain in the Spine of the World. Rumour and legend says it could well be from the Age of Legends. Whitebridge is always a pleasant sight, and the local brew is quite tasty."

He was silent a moment, one hand scrubbing through his hair before finally looking to her curiously, eyebrow perked, "So, of all the books you've read...where do you want to go? There must be one thing that always stood out, peaked your interest. Maybe a certain place you've read about more then others?"


She watched him trace patterns on the tabletop curiously, gaze moving between the pattern itself and the expression on his face, as she finished her third cup of tea. At first she thought it was some elaborate joke - that he was running through his many characters in search of the 'true' one as if he himself was not sure who he was, but then his reverie ended, with neither punchline or conclusion, and he responded to her questions. She didn't wonder too long, but it was hard not think again of the little boy who had killed his master and fellows, the one who's mother was gold light and sunshine.

“Oh, I agree. I saw next to nothing of those places, but it was enough to shift my entire understanding.” One could read of the lure of Domani women; could even see it at the Tower in women such as Fate or Sooriya, but it was nothing like living it in context; golden skin brushed by sheer, supple fabrics, the sultry voices and thick accents calling wares upon which their livelihood had depended. She remembered staring at a soldier’s insignia; one she had seen dozens of times printed in books, but it had never had meaning before she'd seen it stitched on his breast. Then it had meant a King and country he would die for, a family he loved and protected, comrades he laughed and cried and fought with. It all went to show how closeted her life had been up to now, that she should find such small details so poignant.

Her entire purpose in the city today had been one of speaking to the locals, and it had been born of the marked differences she had finally realised between books and people. She had nothing left to learn about the history of Tar Valon from an academic point of view, but it was only a facet of understanding a place. Her lack of experience with people and culture - with living - had been a gaping black hole she’d never realised needed filling until recently. A single drop falling on a still pond, and now the ripples had alighted a curiosity not easily sated. She felt like a child seeing things for the first time rather than an Aes Sedai with twenty years of education and tutoring behind her.

When he spoke of the mural and the one-handed servant, she looked knowingly amused. “You never know what you might uncover from the most unlikely of sources,” she agreed. Like strangers who tied meat to their ankles turning out to be well-travelled gaidin. His perceptions were interesting, though; not least to a Brown who was only just starting to discover a world beyond the pages of her books. The turn of the conversation had led to a subtle but noticeable shift in her manner; she was no longer a quiet and thoughtful observer, but something more active, and closer to the way she was with her sisters. The focus was still there, but the light in her eyes was closer to glittering excitement than piercing seriousness. And, of course, she was beginning to speak more freely.

“I would like to travel everywhere,” she said. “Will, one day. But I couldn’t name one place above the others, any more than you could.” It could not be yet, not quite. There were still lessons one only learned when they wore the shawl, and the complexities of ajah life that one did not see when they wore the banded hems. It was not exactly forbidden; she could leave tomorrow if she really wanted to, and no one would stop her. But rushing blindly and alone would only prove dangerous, because she knew she was not worldly enough to rely entirely on herself. Not to mention the Seanchan occupation in Tarabon and parts of Ebou Dar, and the constant threat to Arad Doman. She would probably have to involve herself in the interests of other sisters for a time; travel and explore within a safe network before she could truly branch out on her own and go where she pleased. Malaika was not prone to impatience, but the thought of all those things undiscovered set her heart to longing. If she had not been so used to maintaining self-control, she would have sighed.

"I know everything about the mainland, and yet I know nothing about life here aside from the Tower." A strange place, the Tower; Malaika had tasted dishes from countries she had never been, and seen plants and animals from across the continent. Some Aes Sedai wore the latest fashions (or even historical fashions, which was equally as fascinating), or spoke in thick regional accents, and the colours of their skin, hair, and eyes ran the entire spectrum. Malaika wasn't ignorant in that sense, but all that foreignness was displaced here, all neatly packaged and diluted by the weight of the Aes Sedai, who were supposed to cast such ties away.

"I’d like to see sky lights the way the illuminators do it, feel the scorching heat of the Waste and the frozen winds of the north. Compare the methods of fishing in Tear and Altara, and share stories by the fires of the Tuatha'an. I'd seek out the forgotten places and visit the grandest of city libraries." She was aware she probably sounded childish, or at the least naïve, but she was very honest with it, and very clearly passionate. "And the Ogier..." Her lips twitched into a smile; she had a suspicion that should she ever visit one of the Ogier Steddings, she would not want to soon leave. "You have visited a Stedding, then? I watched the Ogier, sometimes, when they were here rebuilding the Warder Compound, but I was still an Accepted at the time. I didn't have the luxury of being able to speak with one. They are very... different from the Ogier of Seanchan."


"It is rather common opinion that Tar Valon, and the Tower even more so, is the center of the world. People both noble and common can be seen on it's steps, and is one of the few places I can think of where a Noble might willingly rub elbows with some 'low-born dog' simply because they are country men in a place so intimidating." While the reasoning for it wasn't so pleasant, the image was always heart warming; that complete strangers who might never speak in the day-to-day of their lives might be brought together so openly.

He laughed warmly, kicking his feet off the chair to sit properly again...in part because the door to the kitchen had started to swing open, "So you've never seen an Illuminator's display before? But I suppose Tar Valon does have other sources for feast days and celebrations. And as for the Aiel Waste...as I understand it, having not been there myself just yet, a quick trip to the kitchens in the height of summer and stand before the hearth for an hour or so might just do the trick. A dry heat, I hear. Dry the sweat off your back before it can even soak your tunic."

"I would like to see the other side of the Spine some day. Meet the Aiel on their terms? How they live and hunt and survive. And I've been told that 'Maidens Kiss' can be a very worth while gamble. Details are fuzzy, but I have heard it involves spears. Or knives." His attention seemed to drift as he once again wondered as to just how the particulars of that one worked, and just as often wondering if he would volunteer if the opportunity were to ever arise. In the end, he just shook his head and looked to her again.

"And the Tuatha'an! Some say their choice of colours is off putting, but I find it perfectly suited for their like. Music and fine food, stories and song. They've a dance that I wager would rival a rather infamous cousin performance in Saldea. Meant to boil a man's blood in his veins, it is, leave both his mouth and eyes naught but dust in the fire's light and smoke. That is, unless, you might have had a drink or two too many and decide to join in, yes?" His grin grew bold and he even offered her a wink. Truth be told, he hadn't had too much to drink by any interpretation of the word.

"My visit was short by their terms. A few days. My horse had been struck by a snake, but those Ogier are right handy at just about anything. Someone can tell you just how long lived they are, but it holds no meaning until they start talking about things that happened a hundred years ago and were actually there. Or at least, alive and heard it second hand. They never were much for travelling after all. And as for Seanchan Ogier...I've yet to cross blades with one..." His brow furrowed and he peered off into the distance briefly, before starting up again, "Not that...well, I doubt I could cross blades with one to begin with. My sword arm isn't near strong enough for something like that. But I think I much prefer -our- Ogier over them that hail from across the ocean."


Byron seemed to approve of the mingling of classes, or perhaps disapproved of the fact there were classes to begin with. Given his background, she could sympathise with that, if it seemed an odd and rather anarchic concept. For all their painted evils, the one thing the Seanchan did not do was let their people go hungry or homeless. It was another way in which Byron simply wouldn’t have existed where she came from. He appeared to have a very fluid idea of people’s places in society; one that was at odds with the structure that had controlled Malaika’s entire life. She would think about that, but later.

The Tower did not observe all festivals, but the ones it did celebrate were always lavish affairs. Malaika had seldom attended any of them, and she imagined an illuminator’s display was something she could witness without ever leaving Tar Valon, if she so choose. It was the method itself that interested her, though she knew it was a closely guarded secret of the guild. In Seanchan, sky lights were made through damane and saidar - in fact she knew enough of the weaves involved to perform something passable herself. How many other tricks of the one power could be recreated through other means, though? That was what really intrigued her, and why she had numbered it among her curiosities.

She gave a half-smile at his depiction of desert heat, and was not much surprised at which facet of Aiel culture he professed to be most curious about. The only one of the Aiel Malaika had ever met - and that being in the very briefest sense of the word - was Kaiya Gaidin, and him only because he was Aliray's Warder and had unintentionally walked in on a fragile meeting between the two former damane. Mostly she remembered looking up for what had seemed forever, to a face as if carved from stone. A strange people. And fascinating, though there was little that couldn’t capture a Brown’s interest in one form or another.

She enjoyed the idea of the Tinkers, if it didn't seem very practical in this day and age. The idealism appealed to her, as did the richness of their forgotten history. She noticed that he’d once again brought the topic back to women. The thought of him joining in the infamous dance - aside from the fact that it was quite ridiculous - brought warmth to her cheeks. No doubt he would find it endlessly amusing to have made an Aes Sedai blush, and with such a tame comment too. She turned her gaze to the kitchen door, as though willing Mistress Osilia to choose such a fortuitous moment to interrupt. When she did not, Malaika was thankful that he moved the subject along swiftly.

The way he spoke of the Seanchan Ogier amused her for no reason she could properly identify. Few on the mainland spoke of her people … well, they were not her people anymore, she supposed, but a force invading her new home … but few spoke of them in favourable terms. She had been ashamed of her nationality in the past - the Tower looked upon the Seanchan’s practices with the same abhorrence they gave to Darkfriends - but these days she was more inclined to look back fondly at the face of society that Seanchan kept for herself. In her experience, many seemed to assume (or liked to believe) that Malaika rejected everything about her past, but it was not so. She would not often share the beautiful things she remembered - and certainly not without some kind of prompting - but he was a traveller, and she thought he might like to hear some small recollection of a country he might never be able to visit.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever been across the sea?” Unlikely, but not entirely impossible. What most mainlanders knew of Seanchan was comprised of what they or others had seen of the invading force. Leashed channelers and exotic animals. “It is a beautiful and vast country.” Old memories tugged, pulled and blurred. “And the lopar.” She smiled in a slightly vague, reminiscent way. “More loyal and intelligent than any hound you would find here. But my favourite were always the torm. Such a fierce animal, and terribly unpredictable. If one chose you, though, you would not find a more stalwart companion.” She tilted her head, and whatever nostalgia had overcome her receded. “Morat’torm. It’s what I would have been, else been killed in the process. If I’d not been born a channeler, of course. Not many survive the taming of a torm anyway.” Looking at her fragile, bone-thin frame, it was difficult to imagine her as a rider of one of the huge three-eyed beasts, but she spoke no lie (and couldn’t have, anyway) that it would have been the course she would have pursued, had the collar and all the events that followed it not intervened. She shrugged as if to brush the thought away. ”Where do you plan to travel next?”


Well that had been the most readable response he had gotten out of her thus far. No need of finely honed awareness or trying to read the subtle shifts of her eyes, but an actual, even physical, response. A blush. His smile flashed warmly and was quickly schooled again before she glanced back from the kitchen door, no doubt hoping for a reprieve, but then she managed to subtly deflect the conversation onto an even more interesting topic.

"Cross the sea?! Oh Creator's Blessings no. River travel is fine and well, but out onto the open sea I've had less then sparkling success. One sunken ship is enough for me. At least in a river, shore isn't really all that far away." As she described her childhood dream and the myriad animals of the Seanchan, he couldn't help but smile in amusement. "I've heard Warders described much the same. I suppose smell is about all that might tell us apart then?" His grin widened and he strengthened his point by delicately plucking at his less then pristine shirt. Smells of food and tea and the subtle scent of dried leaves and wood chips did wonders for hiding it.

It was an interesting topic he had often dwelled over on some grassy hill or isolated balcony with a warm sky full of fluffy clouds to watch. Where would he have been had he not ended up at the Tower? Likely dead, or following in the ill fated Master Dekar's foot steps. With what few paths that had once marked his future, he was certain he had gotten the upper hand with his life at the Tower, doing some good rather then serving his own greed and self interest. Then there was the delicate question of where he might next go. An interesting thought, that was...he had various things in mind of course, especially involving one too-tough-for-her-own-good Accepted that he had taken to keeping an eye on (Whenever their writers finally have time to go about it).

"I've never been much of one for plans, per-say. Creator strike me deaf if I haven't let him make the call before. Coin toss, which way the wind blows, a cloud that looked suspiciously like a pointing hand. The opposite way of the hunting dogs. There are many subtle things that go into such decisions for me. The alternative is to wait about the Tower until some Aes Sedai scoops me up for some errand or another." He was never opposed to being put to use...what point was there for him to have so many skills if he never had to use them for anyone? He was a Warder after all.



Her own journey across the sea had not been pleasant, and Seanchan was not a place she could ever return to unless the world changed vastly. The other continents were equally inaccessible, and the ships and isles of the Sea Folk were one of the few places Malaika was not sure she dare tread. She filled her cup with the last of her tea, reheating it with a few strands of fire, and held it with both hands while she reclined back in her chair. He did not make travelling across water - the sea or by river - sound any more enticing than her own experiences dictated, so she supposed it was fortunate that channelers had other methods of voyaging long distances. And fortunate also because she did not find riding a horse comfortable for long periods.

The torm were magnificent beasts, but they were still just beasts, and the comparison he made alarmed her. She had heard the association before, though usually from the lips of Aes Sedai and with herd animals like cattle. All in jest, of course, just as it was now, but it sat a little uncomfortably with one who had lived as no more than an animal, and had believed it to. A frustrated part of her wanted to vehemently point out the difference between animal life and human life, but it seemed inappropriate to snap at such a joking comment. He had not meant to strike a chord, and she was taking his words too literally and too close to the bone. That, she knew. Still, she didn’t bother to hide her unease, or the slight crease of her brow. An insistent voice in the back of her head wanted to ask why. Why he and others like him gave up their lives like that. Not to the Tower or the Light; that she could understand. But to a single woman? Like a torm to the master he chose, and a damane to the mistress she was given. It seemed unthinkable…

But it was not a subject she wished to bring up, so she sipped her black tea and let herself fall back into calm, green gaze absently running over the last of the dishes resting on the tabletop.

She was not very surprised by his answer to her question. She should have guessed he’d be like a leaf on the wind, following whim and Tower orders indiscriminately. What would a life like that be like? Enough fodder for a myriad daydreams, but not something Malaika was ever likely to experience, she supposed. She liked a chaotic order, but it was still order. Leaving such choices to the toss of a coin? It sounded amusing, but she was not sure she could ever bring herself to such flippancy.

“I wish you luck in that, then.” She smiled that curious half-smile, and didn't doubt that he would find himself something to do, nor that should she ever happen upon his company again, he would have a multitude of new stories to tell. "Although I could ask my sisters if they have need of a strong pair of hands if it's boredom you wish curing." The smile had changed to more of a smirk, and the words had an edge of mirth. Oh, she would ask if he truly wished it, but she doubted he would find much excitement in the dusty domain of the Brown's, nor in the sorts of tasks most Brown Warders ended up doing. Although, with what little she did know of Byron, he would probably make his own entertainment.


Well that was certainly a strong reaction, a rarity certainly but not quite what he had been hoping for. Of course he hadn't meant to upset her, but on the other hand it was an interesting insight to her mind and beliefs...although he would have to ponder it some to get a solid grasp on the words and the reaction. Then she moved on, expertly guiding to a less unpleasant topic and even a joke! Wonders of wonders but he seemed to be drawing her out of her curious walls.

He clearly gave her joking offer some thought. He'd likely be stuck carrying books and running simple errands. And Creator's protection if any discovered his skill at penmanship! None would likely care that he could mimic near any type of scrawl with a bit of practice, but more so that he could adopt a clear crisp hand easily enough. Writing was a tedious thing...unless he was forging a writ of some sort. That sort of thing was always exciting. "Well, I would certainly never turn down a request for help, but I could always hope it would be something that I'm particularly talented in. There isn't much to interest a Brown in my repertoire, asides from my penchant for long windedness and stories?"

Likely that was exactly the sort of things a Brown might be interested in most. His experiences and memory. Not many would care so much on how to play cards or dice, or seem to drink heavier then the rest of the players and show all the signs without any of the hamper. Not being drunk made you much better at gambling when everyone thought you were, after all.


She hadn't explicitly told him she was Brown, so clearly he had been paying attention to the things she had said. It wasn't unobvious given the eclectic state of her curiosities, but it amused her that he should bother trying to fathom it out at all. She was much more used to drawing out unseen conclusions in others, rather than having the tables turned on her.

"Oh, I don't know. I should imagine you would be surprised." Funny that he should phrase it as a question. Her brows rose, and she smiled behind the rim of her cup. The public and private faces of the Brown Ajah were two different things, and most of the world only saw the Browns as archaic scholars and librarians. It was true, in part, but as with many things about the Aes Sedai it was not nearly so simple. Where did people suppose all that knowledge came from?

Of the Sitters, Aubrey and Razamira were the most traditional - although Razamira had spent a number of years travelling the Blight of all places, and they said Aubrey had won the Lord Dragon difficult allies without ever lifting her attention from the pages of her book. Fate was another matter entirely; many had apparently thought she would aspire Green, but Malaika couldn't think of a more perfect fit than the Brown. She liked the woman; had known the unusually pale Domani almost since her first day in the Tower, and she was the most likely Sitter for Malaika to turn to should she need to.

She leaned forward to put the cup back on the table, clinking it into the little groove of its saucer. “Of course, if you truly have no other plans, I would be grateful of a guide to the city.” The thought came from nowhere; she had planned to ask her sisters for help in that regard, but she thought Byron could show her a side of the city that they could not. Only if he had no other pressing duties, though; she had placed subtle emphasis on that, because she did not think he was the sort of man who could say no to an honest request like that, even if he should wish it. Especially as she was Aes Sedai. She had also left room for him to refer her to someone else if he preferred; it was not a gaidin’s responsibility to play guide, after all.

“Not quite the calibre of adventure you’re used to, I’m sure. But in the meanwhile, I will promise to keep my ears open for any that might make use of your rather unique talents.” Of which she was quite sure she did not know the half.


Now what was that reaction about? Wide eyes, hidden smile. Amused? So then, his suspicions were likely more enlightened then he had believed. For all the Brown Ajah's reputation for being out of touch of the modern world, the common belief of their lack of real-world knowledge and interest...well, you couldn't gather any group of women together without their being some sort of scheming, plotting, planning, and underhanded trickery behind those expert masks of lost gazes and bookish natures. Maybe they were more outgoing then some people believed, if properly interested of course.

He wasn't exactly surprised by her request. It made sense really, since he had already proven to be surprisingly knowledgeable. But, that an Aes Sedai had finally, FINALLY, asked something of him, even if it were little different then a trip to some far flung land for some clothes shopping on his expense, was so unusual that he couldn't help but smile proudly and even sit up a bit straighter.

"T'would be my honor, good Lady Malaika! I'm sure most Warders would be more interested flaunting statues of heroes or maybe even architecture. Battlements and defenses and all that good stuff. But no, not I!" He held a finger up, gesturing grandly to the air to strengthen his point, "No, for you will be a tour of the people! Merchants and workers and craftsmen and Innkeeps. Perhaps, if you play your cards right, you could come away with no end of friends and pleasant acquaintances with whom to share stories and adventures should I be absent on my escapades...or in the stockades somewhere."

He ended with a wry smile and a wink, implying it should not be so surprising that he might be a bit too familiar with the inside of a cell. "I would recommend, however, a good pair of shoes. If I am to be your guide, you will have to indulge me with a dance or two, if the mood strikes you to be willing of course. One cannot enjoy a true tour of this grand city if you've too much starch in your collar." His tone and expression were friendly; as was his style, he expected nothing more then pleasant conversation and a dance or two, no strings attached. He often preached that Aes Sedai too often denied themselves a chance to relax and simply be women. And what woman didn't like to dance?


Malaika was surprised by his display of enthusiasm, because at least part of her had suspected that he might find the request menial, even if he did accept it. Politeness, she had expected, but outright gusto? She couldn’t fathom why he should be so keen, but she smiled anyhow, and was glad that she hadn’t appeared to place a burden on his shoulders by asking. She had worn the shawl for two years, by now, but still did not like to bid people unwilling, whether she had the authority to do it or no, and had she thought Byron was indulging her out of respect of her rank, it would have made her uncomfortable.

Her ignorance of the city meant she was not particularly fussy as to what he wished to show her, and she was as curious as to his choices as she was about Tar Valon itself. A tour of the people. Probably the area in which she struggled the most, and was the least easily remedied with books. She was not quite so optimistic in his assessment of gaining new friends and acquaintances, though she did not share that doubt aloud. Malaika was not unsociable, but she was quiet, and often it meant strangers did not warm to her quickly. A fact, not a complaint. She had formed few friendships over the years, and was not sure she even knew how, though neither was she preoccupied with the notion. She would enjoy the tour whatever it brought, through sheer inquisitiveness and the rarity of the situation.

She wondered, briefly, if he very often found himself in the stockades these days - it was quite the contrary image to his title, but then it did not seem as though he were the type to flaunt the cloak and medallion, even to save his own skin. And in fact he did seem to rather enjoy his roguish reputation. It only served to make a tale more interesting, she supposed, and had she not known he was gaidin, she would not have questioned it at all - even without the grin and wink.

--Dancing? The thought intruded quite suddenly, and she had been nodding absently to the mention of good shoes - presuming, of course, that they would be doing plenty of walking. Light above. She had never danced in her life, not through any particular dislike, but simply given the nature of most of her life. One of the few residues from her time as damane was an aversion towards touch and proximity, though that was another thought she kept to herself. If the mood strikes you to be willing, he had said. Well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

“I think you will be needing a strong pair of shoes, if that's the trade you wish to make." It had the sound of a warning, perhaps intended to put him off, but she appeared amused too - as the very words themselves suggested. Light forbid an Aes Sedai admit to a flaw, but he would have very sore feet if he insisted on a dance with her.

"Worry not good Lady Malaika! I will be turned out for a day on the city. Perhaps even freshly bathed and cleanly dressed...likely so actually. Light but would it be disastrous for both our reputations if you were seen being led about by some brutish labor hand as I no doubt look now." He grinned again, looking himself over with a well measured hint of discomfort. "Not that I much mind how people view me, of course."

She had seemed vaguely off-put at his mention of dancing. Not quite the peaked interest of a woman that thought fondly of the idea, nor exactly the disdain of those rare women who truly disliked the activity. No, something in between. But, she hadn't denied him the prospect, so now it was but a gamble and a challenge. Things he found much too enjoyable to be persuaded away from by so light hearted of warnings.

Mistress Osilia finally emerged from the kitchen again to see off the last of her other patrons, quietly snuffing a few spare lanterns about the far side of the room, then after a moment's fuss to clean their tables she finally made her way towards the pair, laying a hand on a chair adjacent to their table and looking to Malaika for her approval for the older woman to join them.

Byron of course gazed up at her in apparent disbelief that Osilia would so quickly ignore him for his guest (as good mannered as it might have been) and his mouth worked as if to find words to properly voice his concern for her so coldly abandoning him for a complete (albeit interesting, well mannered and generally pleasant and good natured) stranger.


Malaika should have guessed he would not be so easily dissuaded, and given the mischievous nature of him, suspected belatedly that she had probably only made things worse by claiming lack of ability, particularly if he assumed she was just being coy with her remark. Perhaps he would forget. She was not sure she could be so impolite as to outright refuse, especially given her peculiar reasons why and his kindness in indulging her curiosities with such good humour in the first place, but if she continued to insist that she couldn’t dance (which was still very true) then there was always the danger he might insist on teaching her, which would be infinitely worse. Oh, she wished she had said nothing, now.

“I suppose a wash wouldn’t go amiss,” she agreed, wrinkling her nose, though she could smell nothing from where she sat but the fresh scents of dried leaves and woodchip. Truthfully, she did not care how he decided to dress, whether that was rough dock hand or well turned out gentleman - or whatever mask he chose to adopt for the occasion. Malaika was not particularly aesthetic, as her own plain attire suggested, but she appreciated that appearance was as an important part of his glamour as his accents and stories and eccentricities. Integral to his reputation(s), of course. And apparently hers, too - the thought of which almost made her laugh as she rested her chin in a cupped hand, half hiding her smile behind her fingers. No, she did not think there was anyone in the whole of Tar Valon who would be even remotely interested in the company kept by a reclusive Brown as she.

She looked up as Mistress Osilia approached, aware of Byron's antics from the corner of her eye, but ignoring them. It took her a moment to realise the woman appeared to be waiting for permission, and her expression warmed in greeting. It was difficult not to recall the earlier seriousness of the conversation, but she was Aes Sedai, after all, and whatever thoughts flitted through her mind, they did not stray to her face. She noted that they were the last ones left, and though she was sure the Mistress would be far too polite to turf them out, was aware that few had the luxury of keeping odd hours the way those at the Tower did; Osilia had probably been working hard all day, and would find no reprieve on the morrow. Light, is it so late already?

“The food was wonderful, Mistress Osilia” She made a gesture to suggest that the woman was very welcome to sit and join them, but equally kept an eye out for signs that she would rather shut up shop and retire to bed.


"A finer fare then she usually provides for me! I'd best remember to keep bringing guests, I clearly get better treatment when I've company!" He was all grins and light of tone, clearly joking even as he smoothly gained his feet and pulled a chair for Osilia to sit, playing quite the gentleman as he tucked it in.

Mistress Osilia simply sniffed in mock disdain as she sat, although she did give Byron's hand a thankful pat as he tucked in her chair, clealy glad to be off her feet. "I have to watch what you eat young man. You don't seem to have half a mind for taking care of yourself after all." She waved pointedly at Byron's poor state of dress, and the woman finally seemed to relax into her seat. "Although I'd turn the other cheek if you came by to rub my feet more often."

He frowned and puffed up a bit at that, "We can't have people knowing I do such things Mistress Osilia! Light, but if some Aes Sedai discovers I've even a touch of skill at massage, well...t'would be over for me wouldn't it?"

She patted his shoulder comfortingly but looked to Malaika anyways, "Claims he learned in from a village healer a few years ago. A good shoulder rub can feel wonderful after a long day's work. Of course, I'd never have known had I not been doing something a woman half my age shouldn't have tried."

"Yes, well, I keep telling you to hire some help! You can't go moving all those boxes by yourself all the time Mistress Osilia. She walked about three days with a right terrible twink in her back, all snappy and irritable and not willing to say why. Creator strike me blind if I didn't think I had done something wrong the way she near took my head off before I found out." He managed to sound both reprimanding, hurt and worried all at once, fidgeting in his chair briefly and clearly resisting the urge to put his feet up again. "Of course, there are some scented oils the Domani use sometimes. Not rare, exactly, but rather uncommon as they're most often used in more...familiar sessions." Now he was just trying to play up his reputation again; balance the good with the bad, his tone playfully suggestive as he even offered Mistress Osilia a wink before wilting under her almost motherly glare.


Observing the interactions between Byron and Osilia always proved amusing, and Malaika's soft expression was quite content as the woman joined them. Where she had been talkative before (or what classed as such for her) she faded back to gentle silence now, as she often did in conversations with more than one other. It was quite natural for her to sit back and watch, rather than engage with others, particularly in company she was not so familiar with. Her eyes twinkled at the playful banter, and even behind her hand it was clear she was smiling.

It seemed to her, despite Byron's protests to the contrary, that he rather wanted his eclectic skills to be known, and she wondered if he were expecting - or hoping - that she might share what she had learned of him with her sisters. She was not a Green, though, and while Aes Sedai of all ajahs gossiped about the men and women on the fields, Malaika was rarely among their number. A man so lavishly social must have plenty of Aes Sedai acquaintances anyway, and she refused to believe that none of them could see through his exterior. She shrugged the thought away as Mistress Osilia addressed her, and her gaze flickered between the two as they teased one another.

More… “familiar” sessions. Light! The thought of massage seemed “familiar” enough contact without the added innuendo - a nuance she only picked up on in respect of his wink and Osilia’s glare. He did seem to like displaying his prowess so, like a peacock fanning his feathers, although to what point she wasn’t exactly sure. Her gaze drifted away, lest she find herself swept up in that particular conversation, and she almost wished for the distraction of more tea if she hadn’t drank quite enough of the stuff already. It was not that she minded such candid conversation as much as she had very little to add to it, and he had already made her blush once this evening.

“Do you run the teahouse by yourself then, Mistress Osilia?” She had not noticed any others serving the tables, but then she had been too engrossed in Byron’s tales and her own thoughts to pay much mind. There must at least be others in the kitchens? She had noted Byron’s concern, wrapped in roguishness as it was, though, and thought to ask anyway.


It was fine reasoning; just why did Byron's odd array of skills and background keep coming up in conversation? Certainly, it was easy to assume he was boasting. He wouldn't deny that he was a sort of Jack of All Trades, and that many of his skills were rather outside of the usual schooling of a Warder. But did he boast for his own ego? To fuel rumour mills and perhaps even market himself out? Or did he simply allow them to come up because he enjoyed her reactions? Malaika seemed to be enjoying herself, between ferreting out little tidbits of his past to even the faint blushes at his more 'liberal' stories.

It seemed clear that she wasn't the type for gossip, especially considering how long it took to get her to even mention anything of her own opinions on various things (he would certainly remember not to liken Warders to loyal dogs around her again), and he had little worry of her divulging too much about the 'Gleeman out of motley' she had met on the streets. So why was he so open? To most Aes Sedai, he seemed energetic and overly talkative, pleasant enough in an immature sense. Point in fact, there were only a handful of Aes Sedai he had ever really had anything more then a passing conversation with in what felt like ages.

"Not entirely, Lady Malaika. I do have some helpers for part of the day. Aery and Hadna, but both have grandchildren. They are much too old to be lugging boxes for me." She smiled softly, clearly fond of her two employees, "Besides. It just means that this young lout has to come visit whenever he can to help out around here. Otherwise, who knows what sort of real trouble he could get himself into."

He sighed heavily and rubbed his shoulder as if it were paining him, "I'm still stiff from the last shipment. Blood and ashes woman, you could at least rent a cart or wheel barrow or some such next time! Lugging a crate of spices from the docks to here is tiring work! Especially when the crate is half the size of a respectable ale keg!"

Mistress Osilia just shook her head and looked to Malaika, smiling sympathetically for her having spent the entire night in his company. "He does enjoy the sound of his own voice. Especially when he's complaining about something. It was a small box, just some spices. Weighed less then a good sized mouser!" Mouser, barn cats, the lazy brutes of a farm house lawn charged with keeping the mice out of the grain.

He sputtered and leaned into the table to look at her in apparent shock, "Aye it was heavy! Especially when you find need to stop and jawjack with every stranger on the street! Creator take my foot if it weren't a half afternoon's walk from the docks to here with all your little stops! Ninnering on about so-and-so's son? 'Oh, is Kay still with little Arilla? They're such a cute couple!' 'Oh my no, Kay's working on a ship these days, off to see the world. Hear he met someone up in Whitebridge now, settling down to start a family!' 'Oh dear me no, but what of poor Arilla? Whatever shall she do?' 'Oh my no need to worry about her dear, why she's bookkeeping for a Domani merchant now. Sound head on that merchant's shoulders, although you wouldn't know for how she dresses! Scandalous!'" He flipped between a close facimily of Mistress Osilia's voice (perhaps a bit on the shrill side) and of some empty-head sounding but equally womanly voice, head tilting side to side for either impersonation, hands held up and flapping at each other as if they were the two involved.


Malaika watched Osilia as she spoke, and thought about just how apparent it was that the woman cared for Byron as though he really were her son, and how lucky she was that that care was just as clearly reciprocated. A tangled web, all history taken into account, but it suddenly seemed very simple. She might not understand Byron’s motives, and certainly had no right to pass judgement, but accepted that the relationship the two shared was far too precious to destroy over something as intangible as the truth. There is no truth, only the lie we like the best. The only person Byron hurt with the lie he had chosen was himself. Light, but it’s far too late for convoluted philosophy like that!

Her lips quirked to silent laughter as they argued over the size of the spice crate, glad for the blithe distraction; left unchecked, she was far too prone to serious contemplation, and it was pleasant to be care-free for a while. She might not be sure how to interact in such a situation, but it didn’t dampen her enjoyment of it, either. For that reason it was amusing that Osilia should sound as though she were expressing sympathy for Malaika’s ‘unfortunate’ predicament as the unwary Lady snared by wit and charm, only to discover the trap of an inescapable bore. Malaika didn’t challenge Osilis’s assumption - she thought it likely another facet of the two’s teasing rapport - but her gaze did slide to Byron with no small amusement at the misunderstanding.

He, of course, was quite in his element. She was fairly certain Osilia wouldn’t take too kindly to that particular rendition (not to mention the flapping hands), but it was amusing to watch all the same, in a comical, juvenile kind of way. He had a knack for capturing voices; the subtle inflections and tones that made a persona rather than simply an accent, and she suspected that he could some even closer to the mark had he not been playing with parody.

“But at least you spared Mistress Osilia’s shoulders, yes?” She did not think he would be so daft as to injure himself that way anyway, and certainly he did not lack the stamina given his unusual training practices. Not to mention that he was, after all, one of the gaidin. Quite unbidden, she laughed a little then; a hum of a sound, since she still had her chin rested in her hand, half her mouth covered by cupped fingers. "Perhaps it's time Mistress Osilia saw to marrying you off? Pitter-patter of tiny feet; she should have no end of youthful helpers, then." A jest, and only because of the distaste he had shown toward marriage earlier. And the playful complaining he did now. Gaidin didn't wed anyway, unless to their Aes Sedai she supposed, but it was bountiful ammunition for the teahouse Mistress, and probably enough fodder for her and Byron to banter well into the early hours.


Byron seemed quite happy for a moment. He'd gotten an honest laugh out of her after all, and Mistress Osilia was enjoying herself too. What was the point of life if you couldn't enjoy the little things? Sure, it was tiring work, but it was reward enough for even that brief and incredibly subdued outburst of Malaika's, hidden rather cutely behind her hand. But then she had to go and bring up one of his most dreaded of topics. Another near perfect act on his part, if not for the ever present hint of mischief in his eyes.

"I've been thinking of that very thing, Lady Malaika. He's getting on in years, and it's about time a good, dependable man like Byron settled down. He'd need a strong willed woman though, some one that can get a short leash over that thick head of his." Osilia cast Byron a very pointed look, smiling sharply at the apparent discomfort in his posture. It was always a tender topic for Byron, although he never really explained why.

"Both Aery and Hadna have daughters you know. You've met them before, they stop in from time to time to visit. No doubt either one would be interested in settling down. They're eligible, bright, and strong willed enough to keep the likes of you in line." Her smile had all the warmth of a block of ice imported from the mountains to keep some manipulative and calculating Cairheinin Noble's wine cool.

Byron sat still a moment, glancing helplessly from one woman to the other, clearly hoping for more support from Malaika then he was likely to find with Osilia. For all his squirming and discomfort, it was an act, simply playing the part. Although he really was terrified of the thought of marriage. "But...Mistress Osilia! I'd be a terrible father! Gambling away our savings, drinking to all hours of the night, getting into fights, always away!"

"And you earn more then you lose gambling, as much as I hate the idea of it. You'd have no end of stories for the kids to help them sleep. And you're much too loyal. You'd never do anything to hurt them, and you know it. Once you get to know someone, you're the type to stick with them." She smiled warmly, clearly proud of her 'adopted' son, and Byron managed to beam under the praise.

All his outward beaming was part of his mask of course. She had touched too close to something that was still a tender topic for him, considering his rather morbid history with her departed brother. True to form, he carried through without anything more a brief aversion of his eyes. "But the travelling! Unless she were a Tinker maybe? I am rather fond of those little wagons. And music. Dancing. Wonderful food. Did I mention the dancing? I was just saying earlier they have this one that's..."

"I know Byron, I know. If you let him keep on this topic too much, he might just try and show you a few steps." The way she sniffed and cast him a careful glare likely meant that he'd tried it before, and while Mistress Osilia didn't seem particularly prudish, clearly Byron's antics must have been a bit too much the last time. Of course, she still couldn't quite hide an amused gleam in her eyes.

Not one to be the sole target of such abuse, Byron drummed his fingers across the table top and pointed vaguely at the two women, finger drifting from one to the other almost accusingly, "And what about you two? Mistress Osilia? You should be married and settled by now, no doubt about it! Too busy working, you are. What about that strapping old blacksmith you were so interested in chatting with the other day? All that nannering about pots and pans and what not. He gave you a puzzle too! Made special for you. And you good Lady Malaika? Years ahead of you yet, but a long life is only as rewarding as the company you share it with." His tone drifted from teasingly confrontational to surprisingly...knowing, having seen no end of Aes Sedai that had spent many long years sequestered away from the outside world, their only interactions with Tower servants and a few of their Aes Sedai friends.


Malaika’s eyes closed a fraction at Mistress Osilia’s phrasing, unknowing as it was. Leash. A short leash. It shouldn’t have reverberated the way it did, and she certainly shouldn’t have allowed herself to react with what, in the subtle language of Aes Sedai, was equivalent to a flinch. But she had nothing to gain, here, in being emotionless. It wasn’t entirely a slip, just another indication of how relaxed Malaika was in the present company. And perhaps it would explain some of her attitudes, if Byron had not already worked out what she had once been. If marriage can be described in such a way, maybe he has just cause to fear it.

His defence seemed so vehement that she wondered if it were entirely an act, or if there was something more behind it. She couldn’t tell; he seemed so many things at once. Perhaps he had already lost a wife or sweetheart - he was not so young that it was impossible - but it could also just be a card he used for its entertainment value, or a facet of his established mask that made the reaction expected by those who ‘knew’ him. Probably it was not as simple as any one reason. Smoke and mirrors; some things about him were obvious, but she didn’t think he let on much more than he ever intended, despite how his chatter made him appear transparent.

Her humour dipped a bit at Osilia unintentionally stinging words, full of genuine praise as they were, and she almost regretted clearing the path for such a comment. Not that Byron particularly showed any discomfort; in fact, she might only have noticed that brief aversion of his gaze because of what she knew of his story. She tried to catch his eye to express some form of apology, though she didn’t exactly know why. His guilt was his own doing, but she did not like to have facilitated those feelings in him. She supposed she had decided, no matter the questionable things he had done - and those, only, that she knew about - that he had a good heart.

Malaika found herself unsurprised that he managed to return the conversation to crudeness - or would have, if Osilia had not deftly cut him off - and wondered just how much that was a defensive mechanism, too. Though the subject matter had made her blush before, with the teahouse Mistress like a robust iron fortress, the Brown only seemed amused, now. She wasn’t phased by the return fire, either, though she hadn’t even considered that the tease might be reversed around.

They weren’t talking of marriage anymore, if Osilia didn’t know it. She wanted to frown, but refrained, and settled for a vague shrug. The cloud of her gaze suggested an inner retreat, though she did not seem perturbed so much as contemplative. She was very used to keeping her own company, and she’d never considered the bond as a form of companionship before. Her prejudices were too deep-rooted to see beyond her fears, and a fear never shared was never addressed. “A scholar like me? I have more books, than suitors.” She deflected the issue, and clearly answered about marriage not bonding. It was not out of an effort to hide; if he thought about it long enough (and there was no real reason why he should) he could probably piece enough together to figure out a fairly accurate guess as to the source of her aversion.

Malaika did not consider herself lonely, but she was often alone. She was remedying the reclusiveness, though, and had told him of her intentions to travel; the Browns were not all a sedentary lot, and while Malaika was socially inexperienced she was of a warm demeanour; not the most vigorous of company, but certainly kind-hearted. An Aes Sedai might expect to outlive the non-channelers around her, but she would not cut herself off from the world before she had even had a chance to explore it. And, as he had pointed out (controversially, since age was something of a taboo subject, though Malaika barely even noticed) she was still very young.

Not wanting to fall too deeply to serious thought, she turned her attention to Osilia, head gently tilted. "A blacksmith, Mistress Osilia? And a strapping fellow, too? It might be pleasant to have a big, strong man about the place." She glanced ruefully at Byron, but he would just have to take the dent to his ego if he wished the usually muted Brown to lend him her support in the playful banter.


That was the final peice of the puzzle for Byron. He hadn't quite noticed it at first; the slight narrowing of her eyes at Mistress Osilia's comment. What had she said? Something about marriage and strings. A short leash. Now why had she found that so distasteful? But then again, she also hadn't been fond of the idea of Warders being thought of as loyal animals. She was clearly Seanchan. Why hadn't he noticed it sooner?

He quietly chastised himself for not having peiced it together sooner. He hadn't really given it any thought, but all the little details clicked all too clearly now. It dawned on him just as Mistress Osilia had made a comment that had unsettled him in turn, and he glanced to Malaika hoping to offer a silent apology for his own wool-headedness, only to find her offering an equally sympathetic look for him. She was all too aware of his rather sortid past, so why in the Light would she offer him any sympathy for something he had done to himself? Well, it was appreciated all the same.

Then she was lost to her thoughts for a moment, likely giving his comment much more thought then it deserved. She was prone to it, clearly, and seemed very eager in silently debating and pondering near everything he said. It was a strange feeling, that she was paying quite that much attention to his usually inane ramblings. Certainly not bad, but almost rewarding that she even bothered to see through his stories. What conclusions had she come too? He was certain no shortage of them were close to the mark. He had never really said he had done anything to his old employers, but had she figured it out? The poisons and treachery that had been their downfall?

More books then suitors? Not surprising really. Was any man, other then a Warder or those destined for the role, really brave enough to try and court an Aes Sedai? Light, few Warders even tried it. They were an odd breed, both Warder and Aes Sedai, foreswearing love and marriage and the other common joys of humans for the Tower and the Light. Most found it emboldening, a matter of epic stories and even a grudging respect for their sacrifice. He couldn't help but find it sad; men and women alike deserved a chance for happiness, no matter their title.

"Aye, built like a brick house, that man is. Doubt he'd fit through the door without having to turn side ways! Short though. And bald. That's probably from years around the forge. No arm hair either, it's a bit disturbing considering the thick tufts of it sticking out from under that leather apron of his. I imagine you'd have him slaving over a stove baking pies and sweet breads in no time." Byron was rather fond of his build; he wasn't a strapping, muscle ripped image of manliness most Warders seemed to be, but he was certainly well turned out.

Mistress Osilia's back stiffened at Byron's description of the man in question, but she clearly thought to ignore it and looked to Malaika instead, "He's just an old friend is all. Been tending my pots and stove for years now, and we get along just fine as we are. He was married once, but his wife passed away some years ago. Two kids, one being little Arila, as Byron here so smoothly mentioned earlier." Another glare for Byron and the man wilted a bit, awkwardly glancing away as if something on the wall had caught his interest.

"He's a good man though. It's an uphill fight just to let me pay for his work, you see. Stubborn lout of a man, seems to think I need his help for free. I'd say he's wool-headed but well...Byron is right, there isn't a hair on his head." She grinned then, her tone hinting at a greater fondness then she was wanting to let on, "But he has his forge, and I have my kitchen, and while I can hardly depend on Byron here, he's all I have."

Byron's eyes widened then narrowed conspiratorially, fingers tapping out a quick beated tune of some tavern song or another. The one in question being a rather bold one about a noble woman falling for some simple dirt farmer and the two ended up running away together. Perfectly suited for what he had in mind. Time to play match maker. He glanced at Malaika while Osilia wasn't looking, and gave her a knowing wink and a nudge of his head to Osilia, hinting at what he might be up to for the next few days. Getting the old tea house Mistress and the blacksmith in question together. Not that he wouldn't have plenty of time for her tour, of course. That took priority, what with she being Aes Sedai and he a Warder.


Malaika smiled at the conspiracy. It didn’t surprise her that Byron should take an interest in Mistress Osilia’s well-being, and it seemed to Malaika that the foundation was already there - there was fondness in the tea mistress’s tone and a twinkle in her eye that belied her indignation at the implication. All it needed was some gentle encouragement. Insist too hard and she would likely dig her heels in harder than a grolm. But make her believe it her own initiative, else encourage the blacksmith to be less subtle in his affections, and she thought things would run their course.

The young Aes Sedai crossed her feet at the ankles and leaned comfortably towards Osilia, her voice soft as though she meant to speak woman to woman under the tapping beat of Byron’s tune.

“Gestures like that speak a thousand words, Mistress Osilia. Not every man can have a tongue as silver as your Byron’s, to be able to express their feelings in words.” She sported the doe-eyed, romantic look one might expect of the Lady she was playing, but she spoke rather solemnly, and with an air more knowledgeable than she was in reality - about this sort of thing, anyway. But even she could tell that Osilia and the blacksmith seemed as stubborn as one another, and he would not refuse payment for his wares if he didn’t return her feelings.

There was no point pushing the tea mistress now, though. Despite the hints of affection, Osilia was outwardly bristling - presumably at the implication that she should need a man when she survived perfectly fine without one, irrespective that she clearly cared for him, which was the main point. Planting some seeds of thought could not hurt, though, to help Byron on his quest. Malaika offered Osilia a small and honest smile as she sat back. Even should Osilia reject the words of a stranger, they were clearly well meant.

Her gaze returned to Byron. ”Another talent creeping from the woodwork? Are you musical, too?”


Well well well. He hadn't expected anything of the sort of the young Aes Sedai. Not only was she being an active part of the conversation, she was so comfortable with the idea that she was even acting! Light but it was a heartwarming sight, and she was even subtle about it. Certainly a bit of work to get it down right, but he would have never expected anything of the sort of her. He couldn't help but smile warmly, clearly approving of her antics.

Mistress Osilia took it near as well, but without any of the insight Byron had. Coming from Malaika, a seemingly well-to-do, educated stranger, her opinion was strangely enlightening. It wasn't the first time she had heard such an argument, but that had always come from over-bearing friends or the occasional glib remark from Byron. She frowned in thought, clearly thinking the situation over in a new light, and Byron just smiled charmingly and settled back in his seat, looking to Malaika.

"Could there have been any doubt, good Lady Malaika? Your first impression wasn't far off the mark I'd say. I've little doubt that I'm better with a lute then a sword, a flute then a bow. Light's blessings but I've turned to crossbows rather then spend the years training with a good longbow." He grinned ruefully, offering only a vague shrug of an apology at the admission. As any Warder, Byron was fine hand with a sword, but only in the grand scheme of things. Pitted against any of his brothers or sisters, he lost nine out of ten matches. Against a common man, however, well...he was a Warder after all. A Warder who was poor with a sword was still a far sight better then the average soldier.

"I dare say he could make a far better living with music then he does with dice." Osilia had drifted out of her own thoughts to pounce on this new topic with gusto, looking at Byron dissaprovingly (as usual) before turning to Malaika, "He plays here sometimes, and he knows songs from all over."

He grinned and shrugged off the compliment dismissively, ignoring her earlier glare, "I've always said the best people to go to to learn a new song is the Tinkers. They make a living of it you know, looking for songs. Well, one song actually, but they've no end of love for any song they can find. Anything really, from the silliest of feast day jigs to the most heart-wrenching of epic ballads, ones to make the blood run cold from fear or loss, or boil from righteous anger or lust."

Osilia sighed and shook her head, letting Byron fall into his rant, glancing at Malaika with a hidden smile, clearly not so exhausted of is tirades as she made it seem, "And the stories! They've no end of tales, gleaned and passed down over hundreds of years! They, truely, are an untapped wealth. Recipes too! The things they can do with so modest a bounty as a few rabbits and some tubers. Light's blessings if they have a few onions on hand. Amazing, truely!" He clearly had a high opinion of the Tuatha'an.


Malaika noticed Byron's smile, some odd mix of approval and amusement, and wondered why he should be so surprised. She was Aes Sedai, after all, whether she could be considered ordinary of her sisters or not, and an Aes Sedai knew how to get what she wanted. Malaika wasn’t judicious or ruthless in her use of manipulation - and she certainly wasn’t as duplicitous as a Blue - but subtle persuasion, gentle nurture; those things she could do, and usually to good result - and with the recipient none-the-wiser, too. It was her nature to want to encourage the best for people; she had adopted the Lady persona Osilia might expect to see without thinking, but the words had been hers. She almost shrugged, but did not wish Mistress Osilia to suspect her as anything less than genuine; she had been genuine, point in fact, but if she caught the undercurrents of the silent conversation between Aes Sedai and Warder, she might doubt.

Well, no, it wasn't a surprise to learn he was musical; but it had been the swiftest topic change she could think of, lest Osilia begin to feel the intimacies of her private life were being openly scrutinised. More of Byron's teasing, good natured as it was, would only make her more resistant, and she had wanted to leave the tea mistress pondering, not fuming. Of course, Malaika, being so inexperienced in such social situations, had grasped the first thing her usually leisurely thought processes could latch onto - in this case, Byron's fingers drumming against the tabletop. Never mind that it might be questioning the obvious…

A gaidin who professed to be better with flute or lute than sword or bow only meant a gaidin that was extraordinarily gifted with those instruments, as opposed to poor with those weapons. Warders were weapons in one way or another; it was what they were for, as much as that was a distressing thought. She had already discovered how dangerous Byron could be to cross, but he did not seem to fit very comfortably in his box - in fact, he plain refused to get in it, as far as Malaika’s perceptions of Warders had been before tonight.

Tinkers. He plainly had a high opinion of them, to bring them into the conversation so often. Malaika's mentor among the Brown Ajah had once been a Tinker, and certainly still dressed the part, in the brightest most vibrant colours - all clashing fabrics and patterns and styles. Her personality was equally effervescent, and Malaika could imagine how Byron might feel kinship with the Tuatha'an if Eithne was representative of their sort. A shame the woman was already Bonded - and to one of the Sea Folk, no less - because she imagined that the jovial Brown would enjoy Byron's company. And probably could have found a use for his unique skillset, too, given the extensive and subtle webs the woman was able to weave. Contrary to what Byron seemed to think of the Browns, she actually thought no fair few of her Ajah sisters would be fond of him and his stories, if they had known his existence. Adira wrote and collected fiction, and Wyne studied its history (though the latter would no longer accept another Warder, after losing so many in such a short span of time). But it wasn't her business to find him a bondmate.

“Have you spent much time amongst the Tinkers?” He must have done, to sound so affectionate of their way of life. There was probably a woman attached to the story somewhere, she’d warrant - she almost asked who she was, but refrained from backtracking to a subject no-one seemed that willing to discuss. And it was probably too personal a subject, anyway. His experiences of the people, though; that she would love to hear, if Mistress Osilia did not mind listening to such stories for, it seemed, about the millionth time.


Byron grinned warmly and shrugged dismissively, "A handful of visits over the years. First was when my horse was bit by a snake. That's when I learned that rather entertaining dance" A determined sniff and brief glare from Osilia kept him on topic, although there could be little doubt he had been about to launch into another tirade about that particular memory, "I've taken to accepting a day or two detour from time to time if I learn of a group near by. Always pleasant...every group feels like family once they come to accept you. Which is fairly easy with them. A bit of ceremony out of the way, then it's a night of food and drink, song and story. Helps that I'm a quick learner I suppose."

Mistress Osilia smiled and shook her head, "A quick learner when there's drink involved. Although you haven't been indulging near as much lately, have you? You usually stop by for some tea to help nurse your hangovers."

He sat up a bit more proudly, "It's true, Mistress Osilia. I've learned my lesson. With age comes wisdom...especially after one particularly nasty morning after. Just can't hold it as well as I used to, which could pose a problem for my reputation if anyone finds out." He glanced between the two women hoping they might understand that he didn't want that little tidbit to get out. He was past his champion drinking days, and into the downward spirall of hangovers the morning after.

"But to the point...if I even have one? I've learned plenty from my short visits with the Tuatha'an. A very wise people, no shortage of stories and wisdoms to be found. They seem to meet from time to time, share what they've learned. Music mostly, songs and even the occasional dance, but there seems to be little left out there for them to discover." He shrugged a bit, not really sure how to feel about that. There were always new songs, but most were simply a matter of rewording an older one.

Mistress Osilia sighed and patted Byron's hand, looking to Malaika, "No shortage of broken hearts either. If he hasn't told me every time he visits them that he's fallen in love, well...something simply wouldn't be right in the world."

"Yes, well...a fundamental clash of philosophy I suppose? For all my willingness to turn the other cheek in a conflict, there are times when their Way of the Leaf simply can't work in the real world. Sad, for sure, but true all the same. As much as I enjoy their company, I always have a tendency of bringing, or causing, trouble and have to leave again." Byron smiled softly, fingers drumming the tabletop again in a brief jovial rhythm and then he shrugged it off. "All for the best anyways. Certainly wouldn't be right of me to go and settle down somewhere else. There's always a chance someone around here will need me for something eventually. Other then shopping trips."

She'd already confessed to wanting to visit the Tuatha'an wagons one day, so she was quite happy to listen to his ramblings whether they had a point or not. And with Mistress Osilia there 'on guard,' the conversation steered blessedly away from that infamous dance, which Byron seemed very determined to mention whenever he got the chance. It must have been a very memorable experience, for it appeared to have made quite the impression on him.

The pursuit for lost things was something every Brown could identify with, so she thought a moment on the idea that there may be little left for them to discover. Little but the most important Song, of course. If the stories really were true. It would be nice to think that the world's problems could be solved so easily, and maybe it would have a positive impact on Tarmon Gaidon and bring back the Age of Legends - one could hope, after all. But she doubted the Seanchan would be so easily quelled from their long awaited Corenne, and their threat grew larger each day even without the additional peril from the Shadow. She did not quite feel guilt for the actions of her former people, but she did feel a melancholy to think that an institution she had once been a part of endangered the very way of life for the people on this continent; treasures like the Tinkers would find themselves on the very brink of extinction should the war gain more of a stranglehold on the mainland.

"A beautiful philosophy," she agreed, but the way in which she said it suggested that it was something to be admired, and not necessarily lived by. Pacifist ideals were just that; she could not quite fathom a people or person unwilling to fight for themselves or those they loved. They said it injured one's soul to bring violence upon another; that, she could understand. But was it not a worthy sacrifice in pursuit of defence? Of yourself? Of others? Would a Tinker watch their own child slaughtered because they were too afraid for the purity of their own souls? Pacifism was exquisite when it worked, but human nature was a flawed thing. It could never work but for more than a handful of society.

The notion of ‘settling’ down or falling in love seemed very foreign to her, and she supposed it was because she had never considered it beyond the fiction she sometimes read. It was not an option for her, and was certainly not an expectation of life that she had. Years of institution and a life surrounded by other women had dulled the sort of dreams young girls had of husbands and children. If she had had the choice? Perhaps her outlook would have been different. But the life she led now was far beyond any dreams she could have had in Seanchan, and she treasured the privilege. Sacrificing the ordinary things she would never have had there seemed a very small price to pay for the wonders and freedoms she experienced here.

She smiled ruefully to his last comment; so a tour might be only one step up from a shopping trip, but she had promised to keep an ear out for anything more suitable to his talents. And he had already said, more than once, that trouble had a way of finding him, so she was pretty sure he wouldn’t need much aid in finding something to do. And if not, then perhaps it was time for him to be more proactive?

Her brows rose slightly; an amused look. "Byron Gaidin, settle? Like an old warhorse put out to pasture?" His own words, from earlier. He was either going soft or one of those Tinker girls really had made a lasting impression; but she wouldn't pry about that. He seemed both affectionate and dismissive of the Tuatha'an, as though he felt or was looking for kinship - and had found it, too, and yet still didn't wholly belong. As a foreigner, Malaika could empathise with that, but she had found family within the Tower in a way Byron did not seem to have. He had achieved the cloak but was still looking to belong, to be needed, useful.

She titled her head, then turned her gaze back to Mistress Osilia. “Byron has agreed to show me around Tar Valon. I’m not very familiar with the city.”


He glowered briefly at the comment; he was very vocal about the idea of marriage, quite opposed. And of course the thought of him being old! For shame. So what if he couldn't handle his drink quite as well as he could in his youth, well, that had nothing to do with age. The ale wasn't as watered down as he remembered was all.

"Has he now? Wonderful! I've a feeling you might be a good influence on the boy. You're very thoughtful I think. Might be good to have someone like that around him for a time, help bring him back to earth?" She cast Byron a calculating gaze, absently pondering how bad an influence he might be on Malaika, but dismissed the notion in the end. The young woman did seem to have a level head on her shoulders, and wasn't likely to be too direly influenced by Byron's oddities.

He didn't seem sure what to make of either her statement or her look; he frowned at her pensively, cheeks puffing as he blew a lock of hair away from his eyes again, much like a petulant child being scolded. But all the while he had that playful glint in his eyes, clearly not nearly so unsettled by her meaning then he might have seemed.

"I doubt you could find anyone better suited for a tour of Tar Valon though. He knows more then he lets on. Probably knows near every nook and cranny of the city like the back of his hand. Or so he'd like everyone to think anyways." She smiled then and looked back to Malaika, clearly approving of the entire idea despite what her spoken opinion of Byron might seem. It was true, she enjoyed teasing him.

Byron sat up a bit, casting her a challenging glare before looking back to Malaika, one fist on the tabletop and leaning in, seeming quite serious, "Back of my hand indeed! No doubt the architecture is a wonder...but honestly, isn't it just a tad much? I mean, how about the Twins? Why build two huge statues as store fronts? Really, just a tad gaudy isn't it? Waves and birds in flight and flowers and animals. The city is like a yard of stone-worker's finished projects on a grand scale, all sorts of strange things jumbled together and waiting for sale."

"No, it's the people. Always has been always will. The Grove, however, is more then enough to warrant a visit. At least there you can truely enjoy the view. But a city is made of the people within, not how fanciful a palace the rich live in. Taverns and tea houses and markets is where the city lives and pulses."

He nodded pointedly, clearly indicating Mistress Osilia's own establishment as a fine example of what truly made Tar Valon such a great city, and she couldn't help but beam proudly at the off hand compliment. She was always proud of her little restaurant, especially thanks to that donation and letter from her departed brother all those years ago. Forged and delivered by a young boy she never realized was Byron on his way to the Tower.


Malaika had only meant to express disbelief that he would ever even consider settling, but he seemed to think she was calling him old. It really did seem to be a sore point, and she almost felt bad for teasing him. Almost. Payback for making her blush, she reasoned. Despite the glower, which usually would have sent her scuttling back into her shell - and certainly would have diminished her presence in the conversation - she only looked amused, chin resting in a cupped hand and eyes twinkling with the mischievous energy of the conversation. It was probably the lateness of the hour, but she looked relaxed, and quite unguarded. Whatever that meant of an Aes Sedai.

Good influence? She thought it might be the other way around, actually. Browns as a whole were often considered naïve, and Malaika had more cause than most to be ignorant. Though educated to a standard beyond even the richest of nobles, she was far from worldly, and if she ever truly wished to leave the Tower to her own ends then it was a weakness that needed remedying, lest she find her life cut shorter than she’d like. By Osilia’s deliberating stare and Byron’s faux petulance she assumed the woman was considering the consequences of unleashing the influences of a scoundrel on a ‘young Lady.’ But Byron’s gambling, drinking and roguishness were all facets of a persona that lost their perilous edge under his gaidin title - and she an Aes Sedai, too. She didn’t think he would truly get her into any sort of trouble (would he?). Or, if he did, that it wouldn’t be anything she couldn’t get herself out of.

Gaudy? Malaika, usually so humble and conservative in her tastes, did not see that when she looked at Tar Valon; she saw a beautiful cohesion, with everything seeming to be in its perfect and proper place. The waves and birds and shells, the spires and sky bridges. She had heard that even the ordinary buildings here could pass for palaces elsewhere, and it was far too organic to resemble a stone-worker’s yard. But she understood that his point was not to belittle the architecture, but to exalt the people that made up the community. She smiled to see Osilia’s beam, and felt warmed as though the woman’s pride was her own.

“Osilia, I think that rant is aimed at me. A tour of the people is what he promised, not of the buildings.” She stifled her laughter, though only because he seemed so suddenly serious and she did not wish to provoke another glare. The two did not seem so mutually exclusive to Malaika, but people appeared very important to Byron, in all their various forms. Malaika cared for those around her, but she did not think she could be quite so personable - or let herself grow so attached. The lives of ordinary people were such an ephemeral thing to a channeler, and she imagined it was one reason why so many Aes Sedai adopted cold facades; not heartlessness, but self-preservation against loss. Aes Sedai protected the lives of the ordinary, but they did not live them. Unless the Wheel intervened, she would outlive every non-channeler in the city. A jaded thought for one so young, and she suddenly felt dizzyingly out of touch.

Not much of that thought showed on her face, though she did appear to have faded from the conversation a moment; Browns were wont to do that, though. “I imagine there are a number of interesting characters who call Tar Valon home.”


"Light yes, there can be no doubt of that. With enough effort, you can usually find someone that's been anywhere, seen anything. All sorts of interesting knicknacks can be found, stories can be heard, jokes told and dice tumbled. If you know where to look." His knowing smile clearly indicated that he knew just where to look, but even the vague limitations she had put on their activities for the tour would be a bit of a problem. He was rather prone to finding trouble after all.

Mistress Osilia suddenly stiffled a yawn, then seemed clearly embarresed over it, absently fussing with her hair, "It doesn't seem all that long ago that I could sit up all night, you know. But, either today was busier then I remember, or maybe I'm getting on in years."

She shifted about on her chair, sitting up a bit straighter as if to try and keep herself up. It was rare that Byron brought a woman over, and rarer still that she could keep up a pleasant conversation. "I am sorry, but I suppose it's time I close up for the night. Plenty to be done in the morning." She seemed genuinely disappointed over the thought, and even having said it made no move to abandon her seat.

Byron's crestfallen look came and went in a flash, riding the ever present waves of his energetic personality, and he smoothly swept to his feet to circle the table to pull Mistress Osilia's chair for her, "Well, perhaps we will stop by during good Lady Malaika's tour, if she so wishes. I promise to stop by sometime soon with my lute."

The well aged woman slid to her feet with a bit of effort, rubbing at a sore back tiredly then turning to pat Byron appreciatively on the cheek, "You had better, you promised to entertain weeks ago, so you had best stop putting it off." She spoke with a smile then let Byron circle the table to Malaika's seat, playing the role of the gentleman to pull her chair as well.

"Yes yes, a promise is a promise and I do keep my promises. Eventually." He flashed her a teasing grin, looking down to Malaika, "Care for some company on the walk home, good Lady? The streets of Tar Valon are painfully safe late at night. It can be a real bore, I swear."


Malaika didn't doubt that he knew where to look - and without much effort, as her wry look suggested. She was quite sure the tour would prove interesting, if for no more reason than the company; as abrupt as the thought to ask him had been, it had had a reason, subconscious or otherwise. She wanted to see through the eyes of someone so starkly different from herself. A boundless curiosity and a relative naiveté was certain to make the most mundane of things of interest to the young Brown, and there was very little he could show her that she would not find some fascination in.

Her gaze returned to Osilia at the yawn. Malaika was used to the oddest of hours, and an Aes Sedai could function on very little sleep at the best of times; she had meant to keep an eye out to make sure she did not overstay her welcome, but her mind had wandered and she was glad the tea mistress was so direct. Light, but the woman had probably been on her feet before the sun even rose, and it was well after dusk now.

”Of course.” There was gentle emphasis on the word that spoke of genuine friendliness. Malaika was not so used to these sorts of social dynamics, but Osilia actually seemed disappointed at the lateness of the hour. She imagined it was Byron’s presence more than her own that made Osilia reluctant to turn in, but it still made her warm to have felt so welcomed by the woman. And when Malaika liked a place (or a person), she was quick to return to it and make it a sanctuary. In fact, that inclination had probably been the first step she had made towards a Brown shawl all those years ago, when she had found refuge amongst the books. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Osilia. Light keep you safe.”

A pleasant evening. And unusual, all truth told, for more reasons than one. She pulled her cloak from where it had fallen in repose in the chair around her, and fastened the clasp at her neck. A few moments later, a few coins were pushed onto the table, beside her empty cup. Her notion of currency was rather... weak, given that she had never needed to use money in her life, so she erred on the side of too much rather than too little. Then she stood, amused that Byron should pull her chair, because she was really not used to such formality. “Only if you‘re going the same way. I won’t keep you from a late night tipple and a last throw of the dice before the sun greets us.”


Mistress Osilia smiled warmly, a bit of her exhaustion fading for the moment and she moved to give Malaika an all too motherly hug. "You get your rest dear girl, that boy will have you hustling and bustling all day if you let him. Much too fond of helping people, he is, as you'll soon come to see."

Byron's eyebrow shot up at that, glancing between the two women and likely trying to figure out how to protect his reputation of 'insufferable lout,' but to no real avail as Osilia was stepping up to him next and he was forced to give over another hug, "Yes well. If I've a chink in my armour, it's women with beautiful eyes." He grinned down at Osilia and got a swat on the arm for his comment, although both were smiling.

He gave over a moment to put the room's chairs up on the tables, to make it easier for Osilia to sweep in the morning, "You needn't worry about that, good Lady Malaika. I shall undoubtably be able to find myself some trouble to get into no matter which way you live. If one were to trust anything I say, that should be it."

Osilia just sniffed in mock disdain and shook her head, letting Byron fuss over the chairs while looking to Malaika instead, glancing down at the coins on the table then pausing in apparent confusion. Over payed, no doubt about that, it took the tired woman a moment to do the math then she quickly scooped the few extras and moved to press them back to Malaika's hand, "No no dear, too much is too much." She didn't seem offended, more so honestly worried that Malaika had over payed.


Later Malaika would be touched by the gesture, but in the moment of the embrace she could not help but stiffen, as miserable as she felt for her reaction and how the woman might perceive it. The close softness, the warmth, the faint scents of cooking and soap. Every point of contact felt intensified - worse because the young Brown had been taken unawares by the spontaneous endearment. If Osilia noticed she did not say, and perhaps only thought it the snobbery of the upper class she believed Malaika to be, else a modicum of awkwardness in one so young and inexperienced. Either way Malaika felt rather awful, and her expression remained very, very still, as though the smallest slip would let all that negativity some flooding out of her.

When she stepped back she felt strangely as though she had contaminated the woman, left dirtiness all over her. Logic and reason told her how ridiculous that was, but she still felt like she had broken a rule, and her heart was racing like a child who knew she had just done something terribly wrong. Eithne Sedai always encouraged her to face her fears, those obscure shadows of the past that followed her still but never really effected her day to day living until unusual moments like this, and Malaika leaned her hand on the edge of the table as Osilia moved to say goodbye to Byron, taking a moment to calm those irrational thoughts.

She smiled vaguely at Byron’s joking comment, watching as he set about stacking the chairs above the tables until Mistress Osilia spoke; at that, her distant thoughts returned to the reality around her and one might never have known that she had been so unsettled a moment before, her green gaze flickering between the coins in the woman's hand and the concerned look on her face. It took a second to piece it together, to recall the words.

"Oh." She assumed there were social conventions for this, but she did not know them. Malaika looked at the money in the woman's hand and made no move to retrieve it; it was not purposeful generosity so much as pure indifference; she had plenty, more than she could ever know what to do with, and she thought the trade as fair as one could when they placed so little value in coin. Mistress Osilia clearly did not agree, though, and Malaika didn't want it to seem like charity. She looked back up at the woman, for a moment a little unsure because she really did not want to offend, and then her expression resolved. "A promise then? A promise that we'll come back... like a, a... a prepayment?" She smiled softly - hopefully, in fact, because if tea mistresses were anything like seamstresses then she was probably walking on a quagmire.


Mistress Osilia didn't seem offended by Malaika's stand-off-ish reaction to the hug. More then anything, she seemed concerned. Had she offended her with the embrace? No...that didn't seem the case. Perhaps the young Lady was simply not used to such displays? Understandable, some nobility were rather odd after all. But, Malaika's honest attempts to recover and even ease Osilia's own uncertainty's was too heart warming to let the moment last. She only smiled warmly and quietly tucked the coins away, "So be it. You just let me know when, and I will have something extra special ready for you, Lady Malaika." For the amount of coin she had left, it would be quite a meal, made even more extravagant for the fact that Osilia was already rather fond of the quiet young woman.

Byron popped up again at the vague comment, a carefully raised eyebrow and an almost tentative tone, "Maybe...maybe even a pecan pie? One of good Hadna's pies? I dare say they rival anything I've tasted across the lands. As far as pecan pies go at least. A true miracle worker." He grinned at the thought, then looked to Mistress Osilia with a look of mock worry, like a man caught in the midst of doing something foolish, and his voice came in a quick 'dig my way out of this hole' stammer, "Not that your pies aren't suitable for the Creator himself, of course! Magnificent."

Osilia only spared him a long, flat look then looked to Malaika again, the smile returning, "He, of course, will get a plate of meat and cheese again. But for you, only the finest we have to offer, I assure you Lady Malaika."

He sighed heavily, shoulders drooping in defeat but let the moment pass, slowly moving towards the door, "Yes well, can't allow my taste buds to be spoiled I suppose. At my age, likely the pie would go straight to my gut hmm? Be weeks working it off. Yes, I suppose it's for the best then." His mopping tone was, of course, a farce, and he was hard pressed to hide a grin all the while.


It felt like more generosity than the simple coins were worth, but Malaika conceded to her own ignorance on the matter and only smiled gratefully. Watching Byron’s antics with idle amusement, she wondered if the face he attributed to his fictitious mother of gold light ever bore Osilia’s features. The already unusual gaidin certainly reverted to something quite child-like and free when in her company, and Osilia was nothing if not motherly in return - even whilst the two teased each other mercilessly. Malaika’s smile deepened to something more expressive than usual, and she lamented that the hour had grown so late and the evening must end.

“We'll leave you to some much deserved rest. Goodnight, Mistress Osilia.”

The air outside was chill after the cosy warmth of the teahouse, but Malaika found it refreshing. An Aes Sedai did not feel the cold if she did not choose it, anyway. Her gaze lifted to the dark sky, and she made no effort to hide the fact that she was orienting herself. Now that they were out of the cramped dockside alleys, the Tower was not difficult to find in the distance, many of its windows still bright with light. The Wheel Weaves… The streets were mostly empty, but a city like Tar Valon never totally slept. There was little for an Aes Sedai to fear - the gaidin had said it himself - and she didn’t expect him to walk her back if he did not wish to. She would welcome the company, though.

“I can see why you like her.”


Mistress Osilia let them leave without much more fuss, then finally shut the door and shuttered the windows, the front room eventually falling dark as she put out the last of the lanterns and retired for the evening. Outside, Byron couldn't help but study the shop a moment, dwelling on Malaika's observation. He smiled wistfully to hide the frown he wanted to wear, wondering for likely the hundredth time whether Mistress Osilia brought out the best in him, or simply one of his more pleasant masks. Before his time at the Tower, Byron the boy had never been that trusting and even his most skilled of masks never seemed nearly so trusting.

Finally he shrugged and turned towards the Tower, hands clasped in the small of his back and his stride kept to a controlled, leisurely gait well matched to Malaika's own pace. "Nothing like her brother, Light's blessings for that. A good woman, no doubt about it, will make that oaf of a blacksmith a fine wife. She deserves it, and he's a good man too. Not much longer now before she gets the idea into her thick skull and does something about it."

He fell silent for a moment, pondering the few hints and inklings he had gleaned of her past. Even if he wished to seem modest, he had little illusions that his own past was a touch on the darker side; no few Warders came from solid families, sometimes even from rich parents and heritages. Aes Sedai were a much more eclectic mix; from fisherman's daughter to High Noble's child. His musings went from his scitter-scatter inner monologue to spoken observation without missing a beat, "Or, all too few, are freed Damane. Wheel Weaves and all that, but I think I am particularly glad that you were left on the docks of Tear. Whomever it was certainly left you rather out of the way though."

He pondered that a moment, gazing up at the night sky distractedly as he tried to piece it all together. "Not many Aes Sedai that travel by boat back then. Not that region anyways, and not for any length. Had to be a boat with Aes Sedai on it. Channellers at least, to have freed you from that life. But an Aes Sedai...well, I doubt even the most arrogant would have simply dumped you alone in the Maule. Sea Folk perhaps? Likely. Sounds like something they would do."

He frowned again, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as if worried he was off the mark. There was no end of possibilities of course; the world was a strange place, even twenty years ago. Strange and frightening. "I'd dare to say...even my most frightening of memories must pale in comparison to that day. Everything you know stripped away? Never had that. There was always something familiar for me, and the changes, while radical, were always slow coming. Takes a brave soul to make it through something like that. Just be forewarned..."

His tone trailed off a bit, as if leading into a particularly dire warning, letting it hang in the air a moment just for the added dramatic effect, before he finally looked to her with his usual charming smile, minus the hint of mischief that was usually there. This time, for the moment at least, it was more a warmth then the sly glint. "Mistress Osilia will not give in until you hug back and mean it."

Byron seemed contemplative, and Malaika didn’t interrupt his thoughts - she in fact turned her gaze away from watching the expression on his face, as though it was something private, though she did wait for him before walking. Nothing like her brother. It sounded like he felt he still owed Osilia, was responsible for her happiness and security because he had taken her brother - or perhaps he even felt a debt towards Dekan, who for all his flaws had still taken the young Byron off the streets. Certainly he seemed to have Mistress Osilia’s best interests at heart, though she didn’t discount that it could just be simple kindness on his part. He seemed that way inclined.

When he spoke again, Malaika had still been thinking of Mistress Osilia, so the dramatic change of subject threw her for a moment. Had she missed something? She half suspected she had drifted from the conversation, but it was only a passing observation; as a Brown who tended to flow from thought to talk without much consideration for the other person (and their lack of ability to read minds), she barely even blinked at the oddness. Malaika was accustom to others knowing about her past without her imparting much detail, so the inferences didn’t startle her; she’d not gone to any lengths to hide or reveal much about herself, and whatever else might make the Brown uncomfortable, talking about her past was not one of those things. When it was asked of her.

“Sea Folk,” she confirmed, though she did not think he was as uncertain as his look suggested. The memories didn’t stoke much emotional reaction - internally or externally. She’d long since separated herself, and didn’t even wonder at the miracle of it, now. And it had been miraculous, especially in hindsight. Only the Creator himself knew why they had not killed her; blinded by fear, she had not made amnesty easy. Or maybe it had simply been a flux in the Pattern and there really was no logic to it at all. The latter, probably; she could see no reason why the Sea Folk should have spared her after what she had done, irrespective of her state-of-mind at the time. That part she didn’t share; never had with anyone.

He seemed serious in his sympathies; most people were when they thought on what she had been, and it always amused Malaika to some degree. The majority spoke of the leash as the worst possible thing to have lived through, but he cut to the heart of what had truly been terrifying; the freedom from it. She had been frightened, of course; hysterically frightened and utterly senseless. But the memories of it were choppy and fleeting, like a disturbing dream that loses all potency in the waking world.

“I remember little and less, to be honest, but you give me too much credit to call my survival bravery. I had no choice but to live through it, and even then had I not been found, cared for and ultimately sent to the Tower, I’m quite sure I’d be dead.” Even at the Tower it had been duty for the longest time, not bravery or fortitude or any such thing - she had not had the self-worth for those qualities. To live, to embrace, to learn all that novices were required to learn; she had done those things because she had been told to do them. Had the Tower abandoned her back then, she would have abandoned herself without question; Malaika had no doubt about that. She spoke as though she was talking about someone else, which she was in a sense. Shea had not been a part of her for a long time.

And then Byron got to his point, and Malaika smiled wryly. The Light forbid that he should not have noticed her awkwardness with the tea mistress, busy stacking chairs and acting the fool at the time or no. There was no tease in his voice, though, or in the way he smiled, so she did not dismiss the words as humour. Not necessarily concern, either; just observation: I see you. Perhaps he simply thought her reaction to the embrace cold; it was probably easier if he did, but the fact he had chosen now to impart what he had pieced together of her past suggested an insight that spoke otherwise.

“She … caught me by surprise.” For a moment she said no more, perhaps wondering if she should. He had been nothing but candid this evening, though, and it inclined her towards explaining herself in a way she would not normally bother to. “They taught us our touch was defiling. It's not that I believe that” - there was an unspoken ‘anymore’ - “but habits seldom die without conditioning. Aes Sedai are hardly known for their affection. You don't think I offended her, do you?"


Byron listened quietly, gazing ahead as they strolled along but there could be no hesitation she had his full attention. Well, as full an attention as a Warder could spare from giving his full attention to everything else; he sometimes wondered just how much attention a Warder could truly have. Could it be measured or factored in some manner? His mind immediately snapped back to the moment, and he offered her a comforting smile; none of the boyish charm or mischievous glint about him. Simply calm and understanding.

"That's true enough I suppose, at least to the common person. Aes Sedai are often more aspects of nature, forces beyond understanding. Few see the woman, once they know of the ring. But we both know better, yes? There are some very affectionate folk about the Tower, in any of the Ajahs. Some Yellows are like grandmothers you never knew, personally interested in making you feel better. But there are the others that simply see an injury as a problem to be fixed. See the same in every group."

He brought one hand up to gently pat her shoulder, just a brief pat-pat intended to be well seen coming and hopefully comforting. Best to start small with such things, after all. Light if it hadn't taken an age to get over his discomfort of heights. "No, you really needn't worry about offending Mistress Osilia. She's a tougher hide then most...just don't word it quite like that about her, if you've a mind to save yourself a talking to? It didn't help that I brought her a very tasteful, and expensive, jar of a Domani cream that's supposed to wonders for your skin." As always, he had brought the trouble on himself, carefully masking the gift with a poke and jab that had led to quite the long-winded speech on Osilia's part.

"A person can be convinced to believe anything, given time. All male Channellers are evil, cursed and spat upon by the Dark One himself, meant to bring nothing but death and destruction. Wasn't so long ago that was the Truth. Period. With no exception, no wiggle room. Written in stone. And the sentiments are still there, if you go to the right place." He shrugged it off; it was just a matter of time now until everyone accepted the truth of that matter.

"Takes time, takes effort. But you have to be willing to try. You'll come around eventually, although I rather doubt you will quite the...what was the word? Sensationalist? Yes, I believe that's what she called me. Well, I doubt you will be quite so fond of touch and taste and sound and sight as I am. Rather known to indulge, after all." The mischief was back and he cast her a grin and a wink, hands clasped lightly behind his back as he walked. He'd also been called overly empathic, overly interested and involved in how others felt. But since he thought that was probably a good thing, he left it unsaid.


It was true enough; Aes Sedai weren't heartless (not all of them, anyway), and beneath the glamour and extended years of their lives, they were just women. She hadn't meant to imply otherwise, and was still mulling over a reply when he reached over to pat her shoulder. Since it was a slow and obvious gesture she made sure not to flinch, and even looked sort of amused that he should bother; it seemed he thought her aversion was something that needed curing? The brief touch seemed almost consolatory, as though she were missing out on some hugely important part of human existence, though she couldn't see how; it was something she had lived without for the longest time, and she did not crave the intimacy. Why would she?

Does he think I'm broken? Malaika could endure touch when she had to, and even offer it after a tentative fashion when appropriate; the better she knew someone, the easier it generally was. She had never really thought about it in any great deal - not as something akin to a phobia, and certainly not as something she should work on changing. Or even could. It was simply an understanding that she had always had of herself, for as long as she could remember. She might have dismissed the whole notion, except that there was still no hint of mirth in Byron's tone or demeanour. He was perfectly sincere, which clearly perplexed the young Aes Sedai. She was not quite sure what to make of it, or how she was supposed to respond.

"I... suppose not." There was not much time to ponder it. A grin and wink marked the return of Byron's more usual manner - at least usual by what she had observed in this one evening - and Malaika relented to smiling and shaking her head. Mask or otherwise, he was utterly disarming. "Yes, it does seem to be the part of your reputation that you enjoy the most."


"Ah but the greatest curse one could bestow upon me would be to steal my tongue. I am rather fond of it, as you've noticed. What with the words and the stories. But I suppose I could write...although I've little patience for such things usually. Most of my writing is to mimic someone else's hand for some nefarious deed or another." He glanced at his hands briefly, likely pondering what it would be like to be without them...it would be a fair bit harder to juggle, or roll the dice. Eating would be a challenge too. And instruments! His poor lute would go abandoned, unable to entertain crowds ever again. He would have to find someone to pass that on to. "Perhaps losing my hands is second..."

His tone was boyishly curious, giving the rather upsetting idea a moment's more thought before moving on, "I've often wondered though. As I understand it..." he paused as if struggling for a way to explain it, speaking of a topic that he often seemed relatively uneducated in, "Embracing? Yes? Well, as I understand it, it can heighten the senses yes? I've spoken once or twice with the Asha'Man on the subject, and the whole 'constant struggle' never appealed to me. But they often speak of the ability to feel, to sense, being heightened. Almost addictive. And it's similiar for women? Light, but that would be distracting."

He frowned briefly, pondering it a moment longer, "Back when I worked for Master Dekan, I learned of a tea rarely and quite secretively imported from Shara, beyond the Aiel Waste. Too expensive for any but the most ostentatious and foolish of Nobles, usually along the south coast. Tear mostly, although it's quite hush hush you see. Well, the tea is supposed to be rather unpleasant tasting, so you would mix it with something else to help mask the flavour, but then you would have to drink quite a bit for the effects. Hallucinations, heightened senses, eratic emotions."

He clearly considered the entire idea in rather negative terms, wearing a frown the entire time, "Such things are common amongst more degenerate nobility. There is no shortage of herbs and plants that can have all sorts of strange effects on the mind. Often expensive, because those few who might sell it are all too aware of what it might be used for. Not the common 'cure the cold' medicinals, to say the least."

He wasn't simply flaunting his knowledge on such obscure and generally frowned upon topics. Sensation, in his mind, was an important thing. Hugs were hugely beneficial for a person's psyche, simple day-to-day contact. To excess, however, was to be frowned upon. Aes Sedai were always cautioned not to grow addicted to the Source, and equally so he frowned upon those who grew addicted to such dubious substances. Sensation in excess, for the simple sake of feeling, wasn't the point at all. But, Byron couldn't claim to be philosophical, and would never claim to be thoughtful for that matter.

"Well, I suppose my point, if I even have one, would be that even my reputation for excess is a bit inflated. Why, no doubt plenty think I've bedded no end of women. Likely they think that's all I do with my nights. Drink and gamble and womanize. Quite to the contrary. Well, the womanizing at least. Much more interested in talking and laughing. Conquest is best left to those with nothing else to offer." He ended with a grin, back to his chipper self. There were no shortage of men who could woo a woman to his bed, and likely he was amongst their numbers. But he was always more interested in laughs and smiles at leaving it at that.


Malaika did not think it would much phase her to lose her voice, not that she would actually wish the disability down on herself. Her hands, too; to lose them both would be an inconvenience, but not an impossibility to adapt to. But of course she had saidar to compensate, and therein lie what she would most fear losing; cause of all the upheaval in her life, and yet the one thing she would not trade for anything one could think to offer.

"It heightens the senses, yes. But there is no struggle for women; it's like falling, letting go of all control. Light and warmth and peace. Not distracting, just... beautifully natural." Something so profound could not really be captured by words, and Malaika was no wordsmith to even try; she could think of nothing the experience was even comparable to. Even now saidar lay dormant in her peripherals, an ocean of serenity and comfort she had only to yield before to flood with bliss. She didn’t of course; she had been channelling for far too long to succumb to the dangerous seduction. “I would show you, if I could.” She shrugged, since such things were impossible for any man, let alone one that couldn’t channel anyway.

He made quite the flowing leap from talking of the Power to talking of mind-altering drugs, and she imagined his distaste was intricately linked with his opinion of Dekan and the things he had been party to when he had worked for the man. She did not like the comparison between saidar and something so negative, but she decided it was the notion of heightened senses he was talking about. The abuse of it. Saidar could certainly be abused, just as anything else could; a woman could kill herself or burn the ability from her body by overwhelming herself with more than she could handle. It was the first lesson any new novice learned.

He deflected the topic with his usual humour, but she felt like she had touched a nerve. It was the second time he had explained himself as being contrary to the masks he adopted, as though there were definite boundaries to the falsities he was comfortable letting others believe of him. "I wasn't judging you, you know,” she said, wondering if that’s why he had corrected her. He’d said before that not many had ever showed an interest in his past, and she supposed the same was true of this; who would care to look beyond the veneer? She had contemplated that before, but had kept the question to herself. At risk of offending the man who had told her he rarely grew offended, she decided to break silence. “But why the mask if it’s so contrary to who you are? If that’s not too personal a question.” There was open curiosity in her tone, and one might have likened it to the brazen honesty of a child rather than the machinations of an Aes Sedai; she clearly did not mean to pry deeper than was acceptable to the situation... but the intrigue was too much to dismiss a second time.


It was an interesting question, and something he had pondered on occasion on those warm hill tops, watching clouds roll by. He was all too aware of the things he could do, with the proper reasons behind them. "The ends justify the means. A dangerous thing, that little statement. Men have used it for who knows how long, to explain the most horrid of attrocities, as long as the end goal was good. Stirrings of a plague? Kill anyone that might be infected, burn it from society. And easily justified, as more oft then not it's the poor that catch it first. In the long term, who knows how many lives you've saved at the expense of the few? Is it right though?"

He spoke thoughtfully, and he himself wasn't even clear as to where he was going with it. "Why the masks? Why the masks." Another moment's silence as he walked along, the Tower growing closer, the streets widening as they neared it's gates. "Well, for starters...I suppose I'm scared of what I am. Or could be? Might have been? Have been. Have done. Light, but often I wonder what path leads a person to swearing dark oaths, and shiver at the thought of how close I might have come. Master Dekan did horrible things, no doubt about it. For money, for knowledge that he could sell for more money, or hold as leverage over those of power. He and his crew, the men that had raised me, some terrible things I'll never forget."

"Fear, I suppose. Worry and doubt and all sorts of things like that. But I wasn't too far gone I suppose. One fever dream and here I am. And someone truely warped and twisted can't possibly enjoy making people smile quite as much as I do. Maybe I'm stubborn? I've met people, known people that have been crushed by loss and pain. Maybe I know something's broken, but refuse to give in to it. Oh, I can't deny I see problems differently then most, think of solutions none would even care to think of."

He frowned briefly, more a 'how does this work' contemplative frown, less so one of disappointment or unease. "Maybe I like the challenge? Of tricking everyone into seeing something other then what I am. The Fool is much less likely to be spared a second thought or looked at too closely. Brave, strong warrior men are an object of fear, distrust, jealousy. The Fool? Everyone wants the Fool around. You don't fear the Fool. Ah, maybe it's that I'm afraid people will fear me? Rejection? Perhaps that's it. Before the Tower, I was a pickpocket and boyhood thug. Then I was a spy, a killer. And here, a Warder."

He slowed to a stop near the gate of the Tower, offering the guards on shift a familiar wave but lingering too far for them to hear anything. One called out briefly, letting him know of the end of their shifts, of a game of dice that would ensue, coin that would be won back. The usual comraderie of friends and equals. "Warders are things of legend and myth, icons of both the good and bad of Tar Valon. Glowing, powerful warriors that stand between all that's good and Dark. The strong arms of insipid Aes Sedai, conspiring to bring thrones and nations to heel. Both to be feared and respected. But the Fool? Is a travelling Gleeman out of motley, a familiar face at the dice circle, the handsome man with the funny tales and lover of dance and music."

His gaze finally settled on her again, offering a vague shrug. "Or maybe? I just like being unique."


The question troubled him, even if he didn’t baulk at answering it with startling honesty. If Malaika had not been so interested in his answer, she might have felt bad for asking; might have backed away from the topic in the face of such naked truths, each one offered so seemingly freely. But as much as she enjoyed his effervescent personality, to the vulnerabilities that lay beneath she was like a moth to flame. So she listened quietly and did not interrupt, watching his thoughtful expression quite openly as they walked, that familiar intensity to her gaze suggesting she was absorbing everything carefully.

He seemed to like answering questions with questions; his reply was full of conjecture and maybes, yet there was truth there too, hidden in plain view. Only the more she considered his words, the more they seemed to slip away from her. Perhaps he caught her in wordplay like everyone else and she was blinded by answers she wanted or expected to hear amongst his offered possibilities. She might have responded to his fears if she’d known him better, but as much as he elicited a sense of trust from her, a small fraction of her mind was wary of being played by an expert actor. She wanted to believe, but she was too naturally cautious to reveal the extent of her proclivity for empathy. Not until she was sure he wouldn't just laugh at her.

When they paused at the steps she was quiet for a time, folding her arms about herself as though she was cold, though she was not. The tests to become Aes Sedai pulled a person apart, and Malaika had faced the ugliest facets of herself; she understood, in some fashion, the sorts of doubts a person could have about the truth of themselves. She knew her own capacity for sin, for betrayal; had done and seen things in the Arches she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of. But it didn’t make her a monster; even the things she had done in the real world, as a damane and after, did not make her a monster. Things like that were not so easily categorised and labelled. She thought of sharing that observation, but only ended up watching the guards who had called out, letting her thoughts meander a moment before she finally gathered them back up.

She didn’t know Byron well enough to say whether the man that lay beneath the veneer of foolery and laughter was something he should fear revealing, though she had observed enough to have a cursory opinion. He had done horrific things in the past, and had to live with the knowledge that he had the capacity for it in the future. But he had also done good, or so she witnessed in his relationship with Mistress Osilia and the friendship extended by the guards at the gate. Fear, rejection, a challenge, a lark. Just because. All reasons, all valid - all likely a facet, and she still wasn’t sure she understood.

Those contemplations she internalised, the faint urge to console his insecurities abandoned in light of the strange confidence that assured her he did not need her sympathies or comfort. He’s a Warder, not an orphan-child. Her gaze flicked back to him, head tilted. She smiled.

“You are perhaps the oddest person I have ever met. But I like you.” He seemed to care what people thought, so she offered that out without thinking; the closest thing he would get to what she thought of all he had said. The way she used odd did not have a bad connotation; it was almost a compliment, and he had clearly left her with much to think about. She glanced up at the Tower, then back, assuming he planned to take leave back into the city, or perhaps join the guards, or whatever it was he truly did with his nights.


He had yet to figure what to make of her. She seemed to give everything he said such careful attention and painstaking evaluation. He wasn't used to anyone paying quite so much attention to anything he said. Maybe that was why he kept blurting things he had only ever voiced to walls. Or a rabbit once upon a time. "Odd really. Only other living thing I've ever voiced any of that tirade too. A rabbit, back in Murandy. Sitting on a hill, it had just rained, soaked to the bone trying to start a fire. And this fool rabbit hops out of it's hole and just stares at me. So I start talkin' about this and that, what got me there, the roads and the turns."

"Lost a good pair of boots too, worn the soles right out, had a hole in the toes anyways. From a knife actually. My own...dropped it, near took my own big toe off. That's what I get for trying to show off, I suppose. So it's me and this rabbit, and I just go on and on about this and that and the other thing. Soon enough, only topic left is me and the things in my head. Little runt listened long, just watching, nose twitching from time to time. Hungry as could be...gave the fur ball my last turnip. Never been fond of them myself, and he was happy as could be. Or she. Not too good an eye for rabbits I suppose."

His usual grin was back, the mischief back in his eyes, but beyond that was a strong hint of...joy? pride? for what she had said. He'd received it well; wasn't often someone called him odd in a good way. There were no end of people that liked Byron, but so very few that knew enough of him to be able to say it after everything he'd told her. It was...nice. His gaze lingered briefly on her, the tilt of her head and honest smile, then he puffed his chest and cleared his throat, rocking on his heels with hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"Yes. Well." His voice had a deeper tone to it, an attempt at gruff and manly, "Until later, good Lady Malaika? I think a night cap is in order before I tarnish my sheets. Bit late for a bath I'd think, and the Guard aren't fond of my taking a dip in the fountain no matters what the hour. And besides, I've some coin purses to plump up. Young Egger there's son turns three in a few days as I recall, and he's eager to win some extra coin for a present."

He ended the last speaking just loud enough that the guards could hear him, and the two barked a laugh, the older giving the younger man a friendly shove, "Aye, you going to get that vest Byron picked out? Suit your boy just fine that would, easy to tailor to fit for a few years yet." Then the two turned to friendly arguing and bickering, moods heightened and awareness sharpened just a touch for it.