05-24-2020, 01:55 PM
[[Huh. So apparently I DID have more of this thread floating around on my laptop. Enough to cobble together the ending, and most of Nythadri's conversation with Araya. I'm just going to post it all in one. Andreu's part was written by @"Jay Carpenter"]]
Nythadri watched Andreu sort through the exchange, and wondered what conclusions he drew. She was quiet through his assessment of the paperwork, too. It was a thoughtful silence. Of course my oaths would be better. There was too much careless charm in his tone for her to believe him as much as she wanted to, and for once there was enough at stake to make her think twice before gambling. That, and his expression quickly drew in tight. Andreu embraced the darkness much more readily than Jai, and made no apology for it. It was a potential problem, but not one she had been unaware of before she came here. From what she had seen, none of these brothers seemed to have the greatest of restraint. Jai was hardly a bastion of control, though he worked hard to keep the mask in place, and even Zakar’s venom had seethed out viciously under a little provocation. So far Andreu held himself in check, but he wasn’t exactly subtle about it.
The veneer of businessman went somewhat out the window, and the tension left behind was palpable, although Nythadri was initially caught on a different realisation -- two weeks? That was all it had been? In other circumstances, in other company, she might have smirked at the insanity. Instead her gaze moved to the portrait behind Andreu; the proud hound. Operations Manager was such an empty title. By his own admission he’d had been absent for months, which suggested that - not only was he outside Zakar Kojima's inner circle - but that he wasn’t an integral wheel to Zakar’s well-oiled machine at all. He had his calling elsewhere, beyond Zakar’s machinations. He can sense a conspiracy in a snowstorm. For a drawn out moment it looked as though Nythadri planned to play innocent; her head was tilted curiously, her gaze benign. "Dog walkers are like servants. They’re a font of information to those who care to ask the right questions. Or who lay the foundations for the right relationship."
Someone who professed to work in the business of coin had little need for that kind of intel; not personally, anyway. The mysteries within his own family business rankled, but she doubted it was an isolated obsession. No, she knew it wasn't, because Jai had told her. Her tone wasn’t an accusation, but it grazed on the edges of recognition. He hadn't meant that by his comment, she knew that, but she twisted it to suit her purposes, and she did not think he would like the subtle inference that she had guessed things about him - or perhaps knew. A smirk caught the corner of her lips, like she really was trying to barb him into exploding. Not that she gave him time to do so, because she shrugged if off a second later, as if whatever Andreu really was behind the charismatic charm was none of her business. She shifted in her chair and rested her arms on the desk; a prim posture, still, her fingers neatly folded, her gaze attentive. Like she was being interrogated, perhaps, or was about to make her own proposition. A contrast to the vaguely disinterested countenance of before, either way.
Andreu was direct, and she appreciated that; even if the question had been rather menacingly laced. She was an Accepted, though; Light, she was Nythadri. It took more than a few curt words to put the fear in her. "A promise happened," she said. The words were heavy, like they meant something – which, of course, they did. If there was one thing she wanted to emphasise, it was that. She didn’t care how much or little he pieced together, really, and she wasn't here to set him straight about Zakar - not that he was off the hook. It disgusted her that Jai was so willing to take the blame; flamed a heat in her chest that made it excruciatingly tempting to tell the entire truth without omissions and misdirection. Once that match was struck, though, the whole family would burn; the whole family. And she wouldn't be responsible for that.
Her stare was intense; unblinking. It wasn't difficult to instil authenticity to it, to allow her barriers to thaw just enough to spill the burden of worry she had been carrying. That and the steel of determination which had led her here. It wasn't just her sincerity she wanted him to have time to comprehend, though, but the answer to the obvious question: a promise to whom? He'd work that out quickly enough, she'd wager, given the bruises still so fresh on his face and the coiled way he'd reacted to her dismissal of the money. She wished him to believe Jai was cleaning up the remains of his mess; that he'd made her promise to withdraw her account, but did not necessarily intend for her to do it in person. And she hoped, light she hoped, that Andreu did not react as poorly to the thought of Jai as Zakar had done. There were holes in this impulsive plan, after all; if Andreu chased the origins of her fortune regardless, eventually it would lead back to Ellis. And to Zakar. But she hoped that laying enough guilty admission on the table would absolve him of the desire; an Accepted, come to plead on the behalf of a man who had crossed the White Tower.
"But that isn't why I came. Now that you know what he did, what are you going to do?"
Dog walkers are like servants?
Andreu was amused by that admission. An Accepted from a downfallen Caemlyn House, slowly clawing her way out of the depths of conspiracy by hanging onto White Tower skirts, clutching for a shawl, and wedging her foot into every crevice she could reach. Nythadri was clever enough to earn Andreu's respect; a worthy right. However, Dru was clever enough to know those whom he respected were most likely his greatest adversaries.
She was hinting that he was not asking the right questions. A sliver of annoyance snaked its way across his immaculate brow. What else might there be? What bulbous form connected the seemingly detached tentacles slithering up his chair? If he did not find the head of this monster, one was sure to squeeze the life out of him. His chest had tightened uncomfortably by the time Nythadri splintered the last of his ignorance.
He was finally able to pluck the splinter from his eye and the world opened to his vision. The clouds broke on this airless mountain peak and he saw the enormous valley spread before his feet. Surrounded by nothing but parting clouds and cold sunlight, he was sure to choke to death.
Instinctively, Dru loosened his collar.
"Nythadri-" The name escaped his lips like a tightly held whisper. Dru's mind raced, connecting the dots, severing tentacles, and escaping chains.
He drummed his fingers on the table, staring, unblinking accusation at the woman to whom Jai was now beholden. For that must be it. In brotherly love, Dru was reluctant to take Jai at his word. Yet the bruises seemed to sting all the hotter now that the punch of truth landed its blow.
"He would really do that?" Dru asked of her in disbelief. He might be willing to love and cherish the woman to whom wore the wedding band which matched his own, but love did not equal trust. Jai -- even Zakar -- to a great extent, were two men on his side! To learn his closest confidant was not -- the blow was shattering!
He put his face to his hands, then. Blocking the view of this great valley of truths he had not wanted to see; blocking the cold blue of Nythadri's piercing gaze. He shook his head, muttering incoherencies to himself, and by the time he lowered his hands, Dru was hurt as a betrayed dog; a venomous one.
"Well the boy can make the rounds, can't he?" Dru spit defensively.
"Consider yourself bothered no more by the likes of Kojima men, Miss Vanditera. I will hope the White Tower finds no more offense with us than you do."
He signed the paper and shoved it angrily across the desk.
"If you'll excuse me." With Andreu broken of that last tentative trust in the world and with Jai severed of his family ties, that left one Kojima heir to guide this ship. For surely, Andreu would not be sane enough to wield the helm. Zakar would get everything uncontested: business, fortune, fame and pride. Everything but the one thing he truly wanted: Asad's bloody sword and their father's great blessing to carry it. Then again, unbeknownst to Dru, none of them was going to inherit that heirloom.
It was painful to watch, the slow descent of realisation. Nythadri’s jaw set like steel, her expression impregnable in its stillness. But beneath it was she uncomfortable. The way he buried his head in his hands, he could have been Jai. She’d been prepared for instability, but not for how deep the wound cut; Andreu looked pained, far more than she would have anticipated. Light, as if the past few weeks had not been trying enough. She’d be damned before showing softness now, but she felt it none-the-less. She understood the sting of betrayal after all; knew the irreconcilable snap of trust between souls, and how it hurt. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and how easy it would be to instead tip his attention toward the real culprit. She had no ready proof, but given his reaction she imagined he would be eager to test Zakar’s guilt. It was not too late.
She said nothing.
Andreu wasn’t entirely forthcoming with his conclusions about her presence and words, but she didn’t care; so long as he believed what Jai wanted him to believe, and so long as she was satisfied this was an end to it. Ideally she wanted more than indirect confirmation; she wanted a promise. But she was also balanced on thin ice. From what she had seen, she did not think Andreu would be driven by bitterness to betray his brother, and demanding his oath now might only exacerbate the tenderness of treachery; she would not be so stupid as to make herself an easy vent for his wrath. There was little more she could do, though she felt less satisfied than she’d hoped. Still, if Andreu shared his knowledge with Zakar, she imagined the man would play along. And feel smug in his good fortune. Jai’s trail was probably safe.
“The White Tower finds no offense with the Kojimas at all. I intend it to stay that way.” Firm words, tight with promise. She accepted the paperwork and returned it to her bag, unmoved by his anger. It was an end, if a bitter one. When all the choices were poor ones she expected little else, yet she did not stand. Jai would hate this every bit as much as she’d been furious with him for Tash’s pendant; she knew that, yet in the moment she could not leave the wound so raw and festering.
“No. I won’t. Not yet.” She might wear the bands of an Accepted, but her tone carried the weight of one who expected him to listen. Nothing softened her; she did not let it. “Asha’man are not Aes Sedai, and the Black Tower is not the White. Necessity has made a weapon of him, as it must." Perhaps Andreu would not listen; perhaps he could not. Her jaw tightened as she finally found her feet. She wanted to say more, yet shouldn't even have said this much. The last words were quiet, not meant to wound further, though no doubt they would. "It’s not an excuse; it’s an explanation. He loves you, Andreu. But let him go.”
The Asha'man Araya had been surprisingly easy to find. The first Tower servant she’d tested his name on, a child with large muddy eyes and raggedy brown hair peeking beneath her cap, had lit up like a beacon. Servants were a veritable network of information, if you asked the right questions of the right people, but she hadn’t expected so effusive or enthusiastic an answer. Nor so quickly. It transpired that he’d lived at the Tower for a time, and had apparently been popular amongst the servants for his kind words and stories. Now he lived in the city, which of course made a logical sort of sense. Jai would not have returned to Tar Valon of his own volition. What she did not understand was why an Asha’man would choose to live in the shadow of the White Tower in the first place.
A woman answered the door, stern faced and grey-eyed. She wore black beneath a lightly dusted apron, and nodded a succinct and genial greeting despite meeting eyes with a pale-eyed stranger. No surprise ruffled her expression, though an Accepted must surely count as an unusual visitor. There was something other-worldly ancient about her; not in years, for there was still blonde amongst the silver in her hair and smoothness yet in her cheeks, but like she had weathered countless storms and stood unyielding. Just as she stood now. Waiting.
Nythadri did not preface herself with idle greetings or meandering intent. She returned the nod, more out of politeness than anything else, then spoke. “I’m looking for an Asha’man. His name is Araya.”
The woman did not miss a beat, though she did now straighten a fraction. “He is not here, Accepted.” Her eyes had a calm, studious quality. Though it was a quiet, subtle thing, Nythadri saw a curiosity there too. “However, he left by conventional means and it usually means he will return by them. Do you wish to wait?”
He’s not here. That was an inconvenience, and one Nythadri did not have the time to pursue; the morning was pressing into afternoon and she needed to return to the Tower. It wasn’t even important, not really; just a whim. A personal whim. But she hesitated
She said she would wait.
The kitchen was a hub of heat and warmth, and the stark normality of it – the unpretentiousness of it – soothed her after the morning she’d had. A child shared the table with her, a small dark-haired thing with her head bowed over a book she’d as yet to even peer up from. Hana – as the woman introduced herself – checked the pots balanced on the stove; stirring one, returning another to the flame. She indicated the girl with half a nod. “Araya’s ward, Korene. Forgive the child her silence. She does not speak. Korene, this is Accepted Nythadri.”
The dark-haired head buried a little deeper. It might have been a nod. Nythadri did not deign to care.
She watched Hana return to work with a swift, economical efficiency. Her fingers were never still, her feet never settled in one spot. It was common work. Plain and homely. Yet there was something melodic to it that drew her eye, like watching flames. The ordinary lulled her, then tugged sharp. Years back, in Caemlyn, Nythadri had never been the kind to seek escape hearthside. But Tash had, and wisps of fragrant childhood memory rose from ashes. His cheeks pinked from sitting too close to the fire. His hands behind his back and that serious, pale stare. The betraying scent of fresh baked cinnamon. His pockets littered with stale crumbs.
As a child she’d always known where to find him. Even as a young man, when life hung heavy on his shoulders. But – whatever she had gotten up to in the city at night, and whomever her company – Nythadri had always kept herself separated from the servants at home; like those parts of her life were neatly and completely partitioned. She’d never joined him. Never accepted the offer of smuggled pastries. Why did it suddenly sweep her so full of regret? He’d been gone more than five years.
Melancholy cast a new light on Hana; one Nythadri could not be sure was reflection or sudden recognition. There was a smooth beauty to the woman’s movements, a very precise kind of grace, but also a necessity; like to stop would be to unravel the woman Hana was. Like to stop would cease her very existence. She turned and offered refreshment with a pragmatism it felt suddenly unkind to refuse, besides which Nythadri’s throat was rasped dry. When she offered to heat the water for tea it surprised her that Hana accepted with barely a blink, though in hindsight she was clearly used to the small miracles of the One Power. She lived with an Asha’man.
Embracing soothed what remained of her worn emotions, and she was glad to find the balance. Water bubbled quietly in the pot, almost effortless, and Nythadri let the light of saidar flood a numbing calm through her veins. When she looked up it was to find the child staring at her with disturbingly hollow eyes. They were not the eyes of a child; they were too dark for that, too deep. Too scarred. A ward. What had happened to her parents, that she had ended up in an Asha’man’s care? Nythadri stared back, unperturbed by the captive horror she saw there; the slick of filth marring what should have been only innocence, like oil on water. She’d looked into deeper pits.
“What are you reading?” Her fingers stretched out over the table in curious gesture, though there was no pandering in her tone.
A heartbeat passed. Korene slipped quietly from her too-tall chair, feet first reaching out tentatively for the ground, then paused to pull the book down with her. She padded around the table and slipped the book up on Nythadri’s lap. Her gaze moved from Nythadri’s face to the open book and back, a silent, cautious appraisal. The corners of her lips were downturned as her small fingers traced the embroidered bands at Nythadri’s sleeve cuff. The brush of her hand was clammy and warm, like she’d been clenching her hands under the table; she pressed a sticky hot finger against the serpent ring like a greeting.
Then her posture shifted; she turned, her head pressed against Nythadri’s arm, empty gaze fixed on the words spread across Nythadri’s lap. Waiting.
Hana turned, brows quirked. But she said nothing. So Nythadri began to read.
Jai hadn’t come back. He'd disappeared, leaving the taste of ill feeling as a parting gift. Concern had pressed Araya from his doorstep early that morning, but not really fear; Jai was not some young pup who’d slipped loose from his collar and gotten lost in the city, and Araya was neither jailor nor babysitter. But he wasn’t heartless, either. Dawn tinged the snow pink as he wandered, crunching velvet underfoot. He offered a cheerful smile and good-morning to those he passed, and paused now and then to help neighbours clear the snow. Fear struck the gaze of a few when they extended a shovel and instead the snow just fizzed and melted away, but most thanked him. None had seen a uniformed Asha’man, and Araya was content to hear no bad news, nor to find a slumped, black-clad figure with bottle in hand sitting on steps or tucked in an alley. Asha’man drew attention even in Tar Valon; if Jai had in any way made a spectacle of himself, Araya was confidant the news would have spread. He’d been in a bad way when he’d stalked off, but he’d been seeking solace. Distraction. Araya hoped he’d found it.
He strolled nonchalantly, hands slunk into his pockets. Hana had been up when he’d returned last night, dressed in robe and nightcap but unrepentant when he told her she should be sleeping. Care had creased the edges of her gaze, and he knew then that she’d heard Jai’s tirade. Enough of it, at least. He felt guilty for her night vigil, then and now; not that she wanted the concern. Her lips pressed a thin line when he’d placed a comforting hand on the side of her neck and gently pulled her in to kiss her forehead, but for half a beat she’d stayed still and silent. The tension in her had trembled, a tide of old, old grief that almost strangled in her throat before it ebbed back down. Then she’d pulled away, muttering something about him being a soft-hearted fool. She’d made them tea and pressed stew and bread into his grasp and made him eat. They talked for most of the night.
Unwatched footsteps led, as they nearly always did, to the Grove. The snow here was untouched, casting the huge trees ethereal white. Peace emanated from the stillness, natural and ancient. It should have cheered him; when in Tar Valon he came here often just to sit under a heavy blanket of tranquillity, to grin and marvel at the existence of such a place at the heart of the same city that housed the White Tower. Not today, though; today it was just a touchstone to sober thoughts. The cold beckoning of duty, and Light it had been a long time since it’d felt so onerous.
The Seanchan disturbed him. Daryen’s welcome of them disturbed him. For a long while they had been things he resolved to watch from the sidelines, content to simply do his job in Arad Doman and let those who would play with power do it. Araya steered clear of politics, always had, but rumours of a violet-eyed gaidar had nudged him close to breaking that private vow. Seeing her in Daryen’s cliff-side palace had tipped a balance, and it was for her he had Travelled back to the Black Tower with quiet concerns to place in listening ears. To listen to counsel. Not that he’d ended up with much of that, particularly when it had coincided so neatly with Jai’s punishment, but the intention had been there. Now concern was impaled in his head like a spike. And something else, but he didn’t want to think about that. Still, it left him in a quandary; poised between action and inaction. She should be bonded to an Aes Sedai by now, not ghosting at Daryen’s side.
Eventually his boots turned him toward home, but his thoughts were still cast deep; away from Arad Doman and Seanchan now, closer to home. He thought about the imminence of goodbye, a Gate that would see him hundreds of miles away, and the things that Jai had said - those stuck like little persistent splinters in the back of his mind. They weren’t new thoughts, of course, but that didn’t make them any less unpleasant.
The door opened, bringing a rush of winter air, and Nythadri’s head popped up. Her voice trailed off. She was surprised to recognise him, though the man she’d seen in Arad Doman had worn ghostly pale imitations of the colours he wore now. There was a moment his expression was grave, almost wounded, before curious recognition welcomed a smile to his face. He looked a little tired, perhaps, but not discomfited to find a child of the White Tower sitting in his kitchen. “Accepted,” he greeted, voice a strained whisper. “Ny?” A pause. “Nythadri, was it?”
The girl at her side stiffened, and she pried the book from Nythadri’s grasp. Korene's retreat was not hasty, but it was sullen, as though a clear sky had suddenly been ruined by rain clouds. She tucked the book to her chest and stared at the Asha’man under a fringe of dark hair as she made her escape into the shadows of the house beyond. A door opened and closed. Hana sighed, almost inaudible; when Nythadri glanced up, her eyes were on the Asha’man, who in turn looked wearily grey-faced.
“Excuse me.” That was for Nythadri’s benefit. The woman moved one of the pots off the heat of the stove, wiped her hands on a cloth, and followed the direction the girl had gone. Nythadri half nodded, though her interest in domestic affairs was zero. The privacy was convenient, though incidental; if she truly wished it she would have woven a ward against prying ears. She did not.
Her pale eyes swept back to the Asha’man, just as his were prizing themselves from the retreat of Hana’s shadow. He smiled, faintly apologetic, and moved to claim Korene’s vacant seat.
The woman remembered him even before he spoke her name; he could see it in the pinch of her gaze, though that first reaction smoothed itself out quickly to something more neutral. Her lips flickered upwards in brief imitation of a smile, but there was a chill in her eyes. No, maybe not a chill exactly, but a distance. Justified, he supposed, if she assumed he had anything to do with Daryen’s machinations in Arad Doman. He had no idea what an Accepted had been doing so far from the Tower in the first place, marshalled by a Sister or not, but it could not have been a pleasant ambush to find Seanchan as the honoured guests at Daryen’s table. Not that Araya could do much to assuage her fears; he had no idea what the man was up to.
She studied him for a moment, like she were riffling through the thoughts in his head and comparing those notes to her own. There was a singular burning intensity to her that made him feel inclined to hold up his palms in peaceful surrender; Light, she only had to ask her questions and he’d answer, as he would for anyone, but she seemed determined to do this the White Tower way.
He endured the measuring; just looked back at her, waiting for her to speak.
She seemed to come to a decision.
“You took him from the Black Tower. After Lennox left him for dead.”
Not a question, just a statement of fact. Which hadn’t been at all what he was expecting. For a moment Araya was confused; he had been thinking about Arad Doman, where he had seen her. Not Jai – though that was clearly who she meant. He’d assumed she’d come here filled with doubts about what she had seen – of the Seanchan, of Daryen’s plans in Arad Doman. The Aes Sedai never gave straight answers, and Liridia had seemed unsettled by the feast’s announcement, if how close her Warder had stuck to her side afterwards was anything to judge by. An unsettled Aes Sedai was even less likely to give answers, and he couldn’t blame an Accepted’s curiosity. Even concern.
But, Jai?
He thought back, frowning openly. They’d arrived at the party together, in a whorl of courtly bows and flourishes that set a ripple of whispers behind hands. But she’d hardly seemed impressed. After that Araya barely recalled seeing her at all, but for when he had interrupted her conversation with Imaad Suaya. Soon after she’d been tucked tight under the Aes Sedai’s wing.
Wait. How did she even know what had happened at the Black Tower?
“Did Daryen send you to help?”
“No. I was just—I. No-one sent me.” He didn’t intend for the bitterness to ring so blatantly in his tone, but he heard it when the words whispered out. Was the world so bereft of camaraderie that a man needed to be sufficiently motivated before he would help another? The Accepted hadn’t meant it as an accusation, he knew that, but the twisted webs of his existence were an old wound. And she’d startled him with unexpected questions.
She took a moment to internalise his response, though whether or not she found the answer agreeable Araya couldn’t tell. Her façade seemed to soften a little, inasmuch as her gaze moved away and her fingers reached out to cradle her half-empty cup.
“What happened to him?”
Araya sighed, considering how best to frame an answer. The Towers were fundamentally different, and if both might be described as unrelenting in their cultivation of channelers, it was in vastly distinct ways. The Black Tower had a grim past; it had been forged in a world where saidin meant certain madness and an early death. Cruelty was necessary, because without it they would be too soft to hold the front lines. Did he agree with it? No. But he accepted it, as he accepted so much that ultimately turned his stomach.
“Asha’man are valuable, Accepted. But we must be forged in steel, and it is a brutal education. Jai--”
“No, Araya. Not Jai. Lennox.”
It took a moment to understand what she meant. There was no sense of disgust to accompany her words, no intonation or expression to explain her interest. Her gaze was intent, though. He might not be able to see beyond the glacial barrier of it, but he was suddenly aware, at least, that there was a barrier there. Why hide so much, little Accepted? Did the Tower really strip so much humanity from their children, or was this a conscious effort? He had the absurd inclination to pat her hand, though he refrained. She would not appreciate the intimacy, he suspected, but he was weighed down by a sad and heavy sympathy none-the-less. If she was looking for justice she would not find it. Lennox’s actions were deplorable, but they broke no law.
Araya had no secrets to hide, and certainly not in this line of conversation. He answered plainly. “Jai attacked Lennox. He had the right to defend himself.”
She blinked her gaze away, though only for a moment. Her face was smooth, her pale gaze cut like diamond and just as unyielding. Nothing touched her expression, at all, and for once the absence spoke louder than the blankness. Araya floundered in the raging tides of the Great Game, but he knew something of empathy. He couldn’t say what she felt, but he was aware she felt something. Why had she come here? They hadn’t even exchanged names in Arad Doman, which meant it had taken conscious effort on her part to seek him out. If she needed aid he would help, if it was within his power. All she had to do was ask. But he was still trying to piece things together, to think of words that would chip the ice and thaw her caution, when she spoke again.
“It doesn’t matter. I wanted to say thank you, that’s all. For what you did.”
Thank you? His natural inclination was to shrug, but she seemed so sincere that he nodded instead.
He had an open face, like every thought that crossed his mind left an imprint on his expression. A rare thing in a full grown adult, let alone one who’d carved a slice of Tar Valon to call home; it was as beautiful as it was fragile, but it didn’t mean she trusted it. She wondered why he had helped Jai; why he had been in Arad Doman in the first place. Did tendrils of Great Game loop around events and she just couldn’t see them, or were things really as uncomplicated as his honest expression suggested?
“No. I was just—I. No-one sent me.”
The immediate defensiveness in his words settled it. He was so earnest that it made her chest tighten at the tragedy of him. No man who held the pins did so without the scars it took to earn them. She knew what the colours he wore meant; of course she knew what the colours meant, and she wanted to express sorrow somehow, but she doubted he would understand that it would not be pity. It took a certain kind of man to cling to ideals contradicted by the very thing he was, but it seemed Araya was unusual. There was an ironic measure of comfort in his sincerity; it was a relief to search for games within games and instead find plain honesty. Tension drifted from her shoulders. She had the answer she had sought, and did not feel compelled to drag it from the Asha’man’s lips. It was a token of trust to his nature that he probably had no idea she bestowed.
She wrapped her hand around her tea, idling in the warmth as it prickled through her palm. The favour she had come here in mind of eliciting was unnecessary now, and there was little else to say; just gratitude for what he had done, and a grudging respect that it had been unbidden.
It was only the comfort of her surroundings that coaxed her to stay a little longer. A small piece of calm within which her thoughts were able to breathe a little clearer.
“What happened to him?”
Araya misunderstood her, and for a moment she considered letting him. She knew the answer he tried to offer; an approximation tinged by horror, maybe, but she knew enough. Someone would have dragged Jai to the infirmary, where his fate would have balanced on whether a skilled Healer had been manning the station at the time. Supposing the worst of his injuries were fixed, he might have spent weeks bed-ridden while his body recovered. And his mind? She imagined the forced inactivity would have gnawed the edges of his sanity. Jai wasn’t built to sit still; it was probably why he’d confronted Lennox in the first place. Caged by a broken body, alone with memories of the legacy he thought he’d failed, he’d either have grown numb or drowned himself in oblivion. Perhaps cold, equal measures of both. He would have survived, she was certain of that. But she didn’t like to think what he might have become.
“No, Araya,” she interrupted his answer quietly. She was hovering on the precipice of a question she was not sure she really wanted to hear the answer to, but the words spilled with so little effort. “Not Jai. Lennox.”
He grew quiet.
There was a sad tilt to his gaze. It almost looked like pity. For a moment Nythadri blazed indignantly, but it faded quickly. A weary ocean washed the fire away, and left her feeling hollow. Araya was an odd man, too guileless for his own good. If her masks slipped and every ounce of emotion flooded out, she did not think he would blink. Nor judge her, even for the feelings that were less than pure. Containing herself was strenuous in the face of such perceived acceptance; there was a patient pitch to his expression, open and forgiving. I’ll listen, that face said. But in the end it was for the benefit of them both that she said nothing. A wry smile twisted her lips, though after a moment it softened to something rarer and kinder.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, though it did. It mattered very much. “I wanted to say thank you, that’s all. For what you did.”
She stood, aware of the Asha'man's openly bewildered expression. He did not follow her.
“Accepted.” Nythadri’s hand was on the door to the threshold when Hana’s voice sounded out behind her, and she realised the woman had followed her down the hall – halfway, at least. Their gazes touched, and something there caused Nythadri to pause and listen. Hana’s grey eyes were tight at the edges, but they were firm, ardent – like they offered out a kinship Nythadri did not fully understand. “Look after that boy, Accepted.”
Her chest tightened. She nodded, and was gone.
[[Nythadri continues at The Wheel Turns and Jai continues at Living the Dream]]
Nythadri watched Andreu sort through the exchange, and wondered what conclusions he drew. She was quiet through his assessment of the paperwork, too. It was a thoughtful silence. Of course my oaths would be better. There was too much careless charm in his tone for her to believe him as much as she wanted to, and for once there was enough at stake to make her think twice before gambling. That, and his expression quickly drew in tight. Andreu embraced the darkness much more readily than Jai, and made no apology for it. It was a potential problem, but not one she had been unaware of before she came here. From what she had seen, none of these brothers seemed to have the greatest of restraint. Jai was hardly a bastion of control, though he worked hard to keep the mask in place, and even Zakar’s venom had seethed out viciously under a little provocation. So far Andreu held himself in check, but he wasn’t exactly subtle about it.
The veneer of businessman went somewhat out the window, and the tension left behind was palpable, although Nythadri was initially caught on a different realisation -- two weeks? That was all it had been? In other circumstances, in other company, she might have smirked at the insanity. Instead her gaze moved to the portrait behind Andreu; the proud hound. Operations Manager was such an empty title. By his own admission he’d had been absent for months, which suggested that - not only was he outside Zakar Kojima's inner circle - but that he wasn’t an integral wheel to Zakar’s well-oiled machine at all. He had his calling elsewhere, beyond Zakar’s machinations. He can sense a conspiracy in a snowstorm. For a drawn out moment it looked as though Nythadri planned to play innocent; her head was tilted curiously, her gaze benign. "Dog walkers are like servants. They’re a font of information to those who care to ask the right questions. Or who lay the foundations for the right relationship."
Someone who professed to work in the business of coin had little need for that kind of intel; not personally, anyway. The mysteries within his own family business rankled, but she doubted it was an isolated obsession. No, she knew it wasn't, because Jai had told her. Her tone wasn’t an accusation, but it grazed on the edges of recognition. He hadn't meant that by his comment, she knew that, but she twisted it to suit her purposes, and she did not think he would like the subtle inference that she had guessed things about him - or perhaps knew. A smirk caught the corner of her lips, like she really was trying to barb him into exploding. Not that she gave him time to do so, because she shrugged if off a second later, as if whatever Andreu really was behind the charismatic charm was none of her business. She shifted in her chair and rested her arms on the desk; a prim posture, still, her fingers neatly folded, her gaze attentive. Like she was being interrogated, perhaps, or was about to make her own proposition. A contrast to the vaguely disinterested countenance of before, either way.
Andreu was direct, and she appreciated that; even if the question had been rather menacingly laced. She was an Accepted, though; Light, she was Nythadri. It took more than a few curt words to put the fear in her. "A promise happened," she said. The words were heavy, like they meant something – which, of course, they did. If there was one thing she wanted to emphasise, it was that. She didn’t care how much or little he pieced together, really, and she wasn't here to set him straight about Zakar - not that he was off the hook. It disgusted her that Jai was so willing to take the blame; flamed a heat in her chest that made it excruciatingly tempting to tell the entire truth without omissions and misdirection. Once that match was struck, though, the whole family would burn; the whole family. And she wouldn't be responsible for that.
Her stare was intense; unblinking. It wasn't difficult to instil authenticity to it, to allow her barriers to thaw just enough to spill the burden of worry she had been carrying. That and the steel of determination which had led her here. It wasn't just her sincerity she wanted him to have time to comprehend, though, but the answer to the obvious question: a promise to whom? He'd work that out quickly enough, she'd wager, given the bruises still so fresh on his face and the coiled way he'd reacted to her dismissal of the money. She wished him to believe Jai was cleaning up the remains of his mess; that he'd made her promise to withdraw her account, but did not necessarily intend for her to do it in person. And she hoped, light she hoped, that Andreu did not react as poorly to the thought of Jai as Zakar had done. There were holes in this impulsive plan, after all; if Andreu chased the origins of her fortune regardless, eventually it would lead back to Ellis. And to Zakar. But she hoped that laying enough guilty admission on the table would absolve him of the desire; an Accepted, come to plead on the behalf of a man who had crossed the White Tower.
"But that isn't why I came. Now that you know what he did, what are you going to do?"
Dog walkers are like servants?
Andreu was amused by that admission. An Accepted from a downfallen Caemlyn House, slowly clawing her way out of the depths of conspiracy by hanging onto White Tower skirts, clutching for a shawl, and wedging her foot into every crevice she could reach. Nythadri was clever enough to earn Andreu's respect; a worthy right. However, Dru was clever enough to know those whom he respected were most likely his greatest adversaries.
She was hinting that he was not asking the right questions. A sliver of annoyance snaked its way across his immaculate brow. What else might there be? What bulbous form connected the seemingly detached tentacles slithering up his chair? If he did not find the head of this monster, one was sure to squeeze the life out of him. His chest had tightened uncomfortably by the time Nythadri splintered the last of his ignorance.
He was finally able to pluck the splinter from his eye and the world opened to his vision. The clouds broke on this airless mountain peak and he saw the enormous valley spread before his feet. Surrounded by nothing but parting clouds and cold sunlight, he was sure to choke to death.
Instinctively, Dru loosened his collar.
"Nythadri-" The name escaped his lips like a tightly held whisper. Dru's mind raced, connecting the dots, severing tentacles, and escaping chains.
He drummed his fingers on the table, staring, unblinking accusation at the woman to whom Jai was now beholden. For that must be it. In brotherly love, Dru was reluctant to take Jai at his word. Yet the bruises seemed to sting all the hotter now that the punch of truth landed its blow.
"He would really do that?" Dru asked of her in disbelief. He might be willing to love and cherish the woman to whom wore the wedding band which matched his own, but love did not equal trust. Jai -- even Zakar -- to a great extent, were two men on his side! To learn his closest confidant was not -- the blow was shattering!
He put his face to his hands, then. Blocking the view of this great valley of truths he had not wanted to see; blocking the cold blue of Nythadri's piercing gaze. He shook his head, muttering incoherencies to himself, and by the time he lowered his hands, Dru was hurt as a betrayed dog; a venomous one.
"Well the boy can make the rounds, can't he?" Dru spit defensively.
"Consider yourself bothered no more by the likes of Kojima men, Miss Vanditera. I will hope the White Tower finds no more offense with us than you do."
He signed the paper and shoved it angrily across the desk.
"If you'll excuse me." With Andreu broken of that last tentative trust in the world and with Jai severed of his family ties, that left one Kojima heir to guide this ship. For surely, Andreu would not be sane enough to wield the helm. Zakar would get everything uncontested: business, fortune, fame and pride. Everything but the one thing he truly wanted: Asad's bloody sword and their father's great blessing to carry it. Then again, unbeknownst to Dru, none of them was going to inherit that heirloom.
It was painful to watch, the slow descent of realisation. Nythadri’s jaw set like steel, her expression impregnable in its stillness. But beneath it was she uncomfortable. The way he buried his head in his hands, he could have been Jai. She’d been prepared for instability, but not for how deep the wound cut; Andreu looked pained, far more than she would have anticipated. Light, as if the past few weeks had not been trying enough. She’d be damned before showing softness now, but she felt it none-the-less. She understood the sting of betrayal after all; knew the irreconcilable snap of trust between souls, and how it hurt. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and how easy it would be to instead tip his attention toward the real culprit. She had no ready proof, but given his reaction she imagined he would be eager to test Zakar’s guilt. It was not too late.
She said nothing.
Andreu wasn’t entirely forthcoming with his conclusions about her presence and words, but she didn’t care; so long as he believed what Jai wanted him to believe, and so long as she was satisfied this was an end to it. Ideally she wanted more than indirect confirmation; she wanted a promise. But she was also balanced on thin ice. From what she had seen, she did not think Andreu would be driven by bitterness to betray his brother, and demanding his oath now might only exacerbate the tenderness of treachery; she would not be so stupid as to make herself an easy vent for his wrath. There was little more she could do, though she felt less satisfied than she’d hoped. Still, if Andreu shared his knowledge with Zakar, she imagined the man would play along. And feel smug in his good fortune. Jai’s trail was probably safe.
“The White Tower finds no offense with the Kojimas at all. I intend it to stay that way.” Firm words, tight with promise. She accepted the paperwork and returned it to her bag, unmoved by his anger. It was an end, if a bitter one. When all the choices were poor ones she expected little else, yet she did not stand. Jai would hate this every bit as much as she’d been furious with him for Tash’s pendant; she knew that, yet in the moment she could not leave the wound so raw and festering.
“No. I won’t. Not yet.” She might wear the bands of an Accepted, but her tone carried the weight of one who expected him to listen. Nothing softened her; she did not let it. “Asha’man are not Aes Sedai, and the Black Tower is not the White. Necessity has made a weapon of him, as it must." Perhaps Andreu would not listen; perhaps he could not. Her jaw tightened as she finally found her feet. She wanted to say more, yet shouldn't even have said this much. The last words were quiet, not meant to wound further, though no doubt they would. "It’s not an excuse; it’s an explanation. He loves you, Andreu. But let him go.”
Later...
The Asha'man Araya had been surprisingly easy to find. The first Tower servant she’d tested his name on, a child with large muddy eyes and raggedy brown hair peeking beneath her cap, had lit up like a beacon. Servants were a veritable network of information, if you asked the right questions of the right people, but she hadn’t expected so effusive or enthusiastic an answer. Nor so quickly. It transpired that he’d lived at the Tower for a time, and had apparently been popular amongst the servants for his kind words and stories. Now he lived in the city, which of course made a logical sort of sense. Jai would not have returned to Tar Valon of his own volition. What she did not understand was why an Asha’man would choose to live in the shadow of the White Tower in the first place.
A woman answered the door, stern faced and grey-eyed. She wore black beneath a lightly dusted apron, and nodded a succinct and genial greeting despite meeting eyes with a pale-eyed stranger. No surprise ruffled her expression, though an Accepted must surely count as an unusual visitor. There was something other-worldly ancient about her; not in years, for there was still blonde amongst the silver in her hair and smoothness yet in her cheeks, but like she had weathered countless storms and stood unyielding. Just as she stood now. Waiting.
Nythadri did not preface herself with idle greetings or meandering intent. She returned the nod, more out of politeness than anything else, then spoke. “I’m looking for an Asha’man. His name is Araya.”
The woman did not miss a beat, though she did now straighten a fraction. “He is not here, Accepted.” Her eyes had a calm, studious quality. Though it was a quiet, subtle thing, Nythadri saw a curiosity there too. “However, he left by conventional means and it usually means he will return by them. Do you wish to wait?”
He’s not here. That was an inconvenience, and one Nythadri did not have the time to pursue; the morning was pressing into afternoon and she needed to return to the Tower. It wasn’t even important, not really; just a whim. A personal whim. But she hesitated
She said she would wait.
***
The kitchen was a hub of heat and warmth, and the stark normality of it – the unpretentiousness of it – soothed her after the morning she’d had. A child shared the table with her, a small dark-haired thing with her head bowed over a book she’d as yet to even peer up from. Hana – as the woman introduced herself – checked the pots balanced on the stove; stirring one, returning another to the flame. She indicated the girl with half a nod. “Araya’s ward, Korene. Forgive the child her silence. She does not speak. Korene, this is Accepted Nythadri.”
The dark-haired head buried a little deeper. It might have been a nod. Nythadri did not deign to care.
She watched Hana return to work with a swift, economical efficiency. Her fingers were never still, her feet never settled in one spot. It was common work. Plain and homely. Yet there was something melodic to it that drew her eye, like watching flames. The ordinary lulled her, then tugged sharp. Years back, in Caemlyn, Nythadri had never been the kind to seek escape hearthside. But Tash had, and wisps of fragrant childhood memory rose from ashes. His cheeks pinked from sitting too close to the fire. His hands behind his back and that serious, pale stare. The betraying scent of fresh baked cinnamon. His pockets littered with stale crumbs.
As a child she’d always known where to find him. Even as a young man, when life hung heavy on his shoulders. But – whatever she had gotten up to in the city at night, and whomever her company – Nythadri had always kept herself separated from the servants at home; like those parts of her life were neatly and completely partitioned. She’d never joined him. Never accepted the offer of smuggled pastries. Why did it suddenly sweep her so full of regret? He’d been gone more than five years.
Melancholy cast a new light on Hana; one Nythadri could not be sure was reflection or sudden recognition. There was a smooth beauty to the woman’s movements, a very precise kind of grace, but also a necessity; like to stop would be to unravel the woman Hana was. Like to stop would cease her very existence. She turned and offered refreshment with a pragmatism it felt suddenly unkind to refuse, besides which Nythadri’s throat was rasped dry. When she offered to heat the water for tea it surprised her that Hana accepted with barely a blink, though in hindsight she was clearly used to the small miracles of the One Power. She lived with an Asha’man.
Embracing soothed what remained of her worn emotions, and she was glad to find the balance. Water bubbled quietly in the pot, almost effortless, and Nythadri let the light of saidar flood a numbing calm through her veins. When she looked up it was to find the child staring at her with disturbingly hollow eyes. They were not the eyes of a child; they were too dark for that, too deep. Too scarred. A ward. What had happened to her parents, that she had ended up in an Asha’man’s care? Nythadri stared back, unperturbed by the captive horror she saw there; the slick of filth marring what should have been only innocence, like oil on water. She’d looked into deeper pits.
“What are you reading?” Her fingers stretched out over the table in curious gesture, though there was no pandering in her tone.
A heartbeat passed. Korene slipped quietly from her too-tall chair, feet first reaching out tentatively for the ground, then paused to pull the book down with her. She padded around the table and slipped the book up on Nythadri’s lap. Her gaze moved from Nythadri’s face to the open book and back, a silent, cautious appraisal. The corners of her lips were downturned as her small fingers traced the embroidered bands at Nythadri’s sleeve cuff. The brush of her hand was clammy and warm, like she’d been clenching her hands under the table; she pressed a sticky hot finger against the serpent ring like a greeting.
Then her posture shifted; she turned, her head pressed against Nythadri’s arm, empty gaze fixed on the words spread across Nythadri’s lap. Waiting.
Hana turned, brows quirked. But she said nothing. So Nythadri began to read.
Jai hadn’t come back. He'd disappeared, leaving the taste of ill feeling as a parting gift. Concern had pressed Araya from his doorstep early that morning, but not really fear; Jai was not some young pup who’d slipped loose from his collar and gotten lost in the city, and Araya was neither jailor nor babysitter. But he wasn’t heartless, either. Dawn tinged the snow pink as he wandered, crunching velvet underfoot. He offered a cheerful smile and good-morning to those he passed, and paused now and then to help neighbours clear the snow. Fear struck the gaze of a few when they extended a shovel and instead the snow just fizzed and melted away, but most thanked him. None had seen a uniformed Asha’man, and Araya was content to hear no bad news, nor to find a slumped, black-clad figure with bottle in hand sitting on steps or tucked in an alley. Asha’man drew attention even in Tar Valon; if Jai had in any way made a spectacle of himself, Araya was confidant the news would have spread. He’d been in a bad way when he’d stalked off, but he’d been seeking solace. Distraction. Araya hoped he’d found it.
He strolled nonchalantly, hands slunk into his pockets. Hana had been up when he’d returned last night, dressed in robe and nightcap but unrepentant when he told her she should be sleeping. Care had creased the edges of her gaze, and he knew then that she’d heard Jai’s tirade. Enough of it, at least. He felt guilty for her night vigil, then and now; not that she wanted the concern. Her lips pressed a thin line when he’d placed a comforting hand on the side of her neck and gently pulled her in to kiss her forehead, but for half a beat she’d stayed still and silent. The tension in her had trembled, a tide of old, old grief that almost strangled in her throat before it ebbed back down. Then she’d pulled away, muttering something about him being a soft-hearted fool. She’d made them tea and pressed stew and bread into his grasp and made him eat. They talked for most of the night.
Unwatched footsteps led, as they nearly always did, to the Grove. The snow here was untouched, casting the huge trees ethereal white. Peace emanated from the stillness, natural and ancient. It should have cheered him; when in Tar Valon he came here often just to sit under a heavy blanket of tranquillity, to grin and marvel at the existence of such a place at the heart of the same city that housed the White Tower. Not today, though; today it was just a touchstone to sober thoughts. The cold beckoning of duty, and Light it had been a long time since it’d felt so onerous.
The Seanchan disturbed him. Daryen’s welcome of them disturbed him. For a long while they had been things he resolved to watch from the sidelines, content to simply do his job in Arad Doman and let those who would play with power do it. Araya steered clear of politics, always had, but rumours of a violet-eyed gaidar had nudged him close to breaking that private vow. Seeing her in Daryen’s cliff-side palace had tipped a balance, and it was for her he had Travelled back to the Black Tower with quiet concerns to place in listening ears. To listen to counsel. Not that he’d ended up with much of that, particularly when it had coincided so neatly with Jai’s punishment, but the intention had been there. Now concern was impaled in his head like a spike. And something else, but he didn’t want to think about that. Still, it left him in a quandary; poised between action and inaction. She should be bonded to an Aes Sedai by now, not ghosting at Daryen’s side.
Eventually his boots turned him toward home, but his thoughts were still cast deep; away from Arad Doman and Seanchan now, closer to home. He thought about the imminence of goodbye, a Gate that would see him hundreds of miles away, and the things that Jai had said - those stuck like little persistent splinters in the back of his mind. They weren’t new thoughts, of course, but that didn’t make them any less unpleasant.
The door opened, bringing a rush of winter air, and Nythadri’s head popped up. Her voice trailed off. She was surprised to recognise him, though the man she’d seen in Arad Doman had worn ghostly pale imitations of the colours he wore now. There was a moment his expression was grave, almost wounded, before curious recognition welcomed a smile to his face. He looked a little tired, perhaps, but not discomfited to find a child of the White Tower sitting in his kitchen. “Accepted,” he greeted, voice a strained whisper. “Ny?” A pause. “Nythadri, was it?”
The girl at her side stiffened, and she pried the book from Nythadri’s grasp. Korene's retreat was not hasty, but it was sullen, as though a clear sky had suddenly been ruined by rain clouds. She tucked the book to her chest and stared at the Asha’man under a fringe of dark hair as she made her escape into the shadows of the house beyond. A door opened and closed. Hana sighed, almost inaudible; when Nythadri glanced up, her eyes were on the Asha’man, who in turn looked wearily grey-faced.
“Excuse me.” That was for Nythadri’s benefit. The woman moved one of the pots off the heat of the stove, wiped her hands on a cloth, and followed the direction the girl had gone. Nythadri half nodded, though her interest in domestic affairs was zero. The privacy was convenient, though incidental; if she truly wished it she would have woven a ward against prying ears. She did not.
Her pale eyes swept back to the Asha’man, just as his were prizing themselves from the retreat of Hana’s shadow. He smiled, faintly apologetic, and moved to claim Korene’s vacant seat.
The woman remembered him even before he spoke her name; he could see it in the pinch of her gaze, though that first reaction smoothed itself out quickly to something more neutral. Her lips flickered upwards in brief imitation of a smile, but there was a chill in her eyes. No, maybe not a chill exactly, but a distance. Justified, he supposed, if she assumed he had anything to do with Daryen’s machinations in Arad Doman. He had no idea what an Accepted had been doing so far from the Tower in the first place, marshalled by a Sister or not, but it could not have been a pleasant ambush to find Seanchan as the honoured guests at Daryen’s table. Not that Araya could do much to assuage her fears; he had no idea what the man was up to.
She studied him for a moment, like she were riffling through the thoughts in his head and comparing those notes to her own. There was a singular burning intensity to her that made him feel inclined to hold up his palms in peaceful surrender; Light, she only had to ask her questions and he’d answer, as he would for anyone, but she seemed determined to do this the White Tower way.
He endured the measuring; just looked back at her, waiting for her to speak.
She seemed to come to a decision.
“You took him from the Black Tower. After Lennox left him for dead.”
Not a question, just a statement of fact. Which hadn’t been at all what he was expecting. For a moment Araya was confused; he had been thinking about Arad Doman, where he had seen her. Not Jai – though that was clearly who she meant. He’d assumed she’d come here filled with doubts about what she had seen – of the Seanchan, of Daryen’s plans in Arad Doman. The Aes Sedai never gave straight answers, and Liridia had seemed unsettled by the feast’s announcement, if how close her Warder had stuck to her side afterwards was anything to judge by. An unsettled Aes Sedai was even less likely to give answers, and he couldn’t blame an Accepted’s curiosity. Even concern.
But, Jai?
He thought back, frowning openly. They’d arrived at the party together, in a whorl of courtly bows and flourishes that set a ripple of whispers behind hands. But she’d hardly seemed impressed. After that Araya barely recalled seeing her at all, but for when he had interrupted her conversation with Imaad Suaya. Soon after she’d been tucked tight under the Aes Sedai’s wing.
Wait. How did she even know what had happened at the Black Tower?
“Did Daryen send you to help?”
“No. I was just—I. No-one sent me.” He didn’t intend for the bitterness to ring so blatantly in his tone, but he heard it when the words whispered out. Was the world so bereft of camaraderie that a man needed to be sufficiently motivated before he would help another? The Accepted hadn’t meant it as an accusation, he knew that, but the twisted webs of his existence were an old wound. And she’d startled him with unexpected questions.
She took a moment to internalise his response, though whether or not she found the answer agreeable Araya couldn’t tell. Her façade seemed to soften a little, inasmuch as her gaze moved away and her fingers reached out to cradle her half-empty cup.
“What happened to him?”
Araya sighed, considering how best to frame an answer. The Towers were fundamentally different, and if both might be described as unrelenting in their cultivation of channelers, it was in vastly distinct ways. The Black Tower had a grim past; it had been forged in a world where saidin meant certain madness and an early death. Cruelty was necessary, because without it they would be too soft to hold the front lines. Did he agree with it? No. But he accepted it, as he accepted so much that ultimately turned his stomach.
“Asha’man are valuable, Accepted. But we must be forged in steel, and it is a brutal education. Jai--”
“No, Araya. Not Jai. Lennox.”
It took a moment to understand what she meant. There was no sense of disgust to accompany her words, no intonation or expression to explain her interest. Her gaze was intent, though. He might not be able to see beyond the glacial barrier of it, but he was suddenly aware, at least, that there was a barrier there. Why hide so much, little Accepted? Did the Tower really strip so much humanity from their children, or was this a conscious effort? He had the absurd inclination to pat her hand, though he refrained. She would not appreciate the intimacy, he suspected, but he was weighed down by a sad and heavy sympathy none-the-less. If she was looking for justice she would not find it. Lennox’s actions were deplorable, but they broke no law.
Araya had no secrets to hide, and certainly not in this line of conversation. He answered plainly. “Jai attacked Lennox. He had the right to defend himself.”
She blinked her gaze away, though only for a moment. Her face was smooth, her pale gaze cut like diamond and just as unyielding. Nothing touched her expression, at all, and for once the absence spoke louder than the blankness. Araya floundered in the raging tides of the Great Game, but he knew something of empathy. He couldn’t say what she felt, but he was aware she felt something. Why had she come here? They hadn’t even exchanged names in Arad Doman, which meant it had taken conscious effort on her part to seek him out. If she needed aid he would help, if it was within his power. All she had to do was ask. But he was still trying to piece things together, to think of words that would chip the ice and thaw her caution, when she spoke again.
“It doesn’t matter. I wanted to say thank you, that’s all. For what you did.”
Thank you? His natural inclination was to shrug, but she seemed so sincere that he nodded instead.
He had an open face, like every thought that crossed his mind left an imprint on his expression. A rare thing in a full grown adult, let alone one who’d carved a slice of Tar Valon to call home; it was as beautiful as it was fragile, but it didn’t mean she trusted it. She wondered why he had helped Jai; why he had been in Arad Doman in the first place. Did tendrils of Great Game loop around events and she just couldn’t see them, or were things really as uncomplicated as his honest expression suggested?
“No. I was just—I. No-one sent me.”
The immediate defensiveness in his words settled it. He was so earnest that it made her chest tighten at the tragedy of him. No man who held the pins did so without the scars it took to earn them. She knew what the colours he wore meant; of course she knew what the colours meant, and she wanted to express sorrow somehow, but she doubted he would understand that it would not be pity. It took a certain kind of man to cling to ideals contradicted by the very thing he was, but it seemed Araya was unusual. There was an ironic measure of comfort in his sincerity; it was a relief to search for games within games and instead find plain honesty. Tension drifted from her shoulders. She had the answer she had sought, and did not feel compelled to drag it from the Asha’man’s lips. It was a token of trust to his nature that he probably had no idea she bestowed.
She wrapped her hand around her tea, idling in the warmth as it prickled through her palm. The favour she had come here in mind of eliciting was unnecessary now, and there was little else to say; just gratitude for what he had done, and a grudging respect that it had been unbidden.
It was only the comfort of her surroundings that coaxed her to stay a little longer. A small piece of calm within which her thoughts were able to breathe a little clearer.
“What happened to him?”
Araya misunderstood her, and for a moment she considered letting him. She knew the answer he tried to offer; an approximation tinged by horror, maybe, but she knew enough. Someone would have dragged Jai to the infirmary, where his fate would have balanced on whether a skilled Healer had been manning the station at the time. Supposing the worst of his injuries were fixed, he might have spent weeks bed-ridden while his body recovered. And his mind? She imagined the forced inactivity would have gnawed the edges of his sanity. Jai wasn’t built to sit still; it was probably why he’d confronted Lennox in the first place. Caged by a broken body, alone with memories of the legacy he thought he’d failed, he’d either have grown numb or drowned himself in oblivion. Perhaps cold, equal measures of both. He would have survived, she was certain of that. But she didn’t like to think what he might have become.
“No, Araya,” she interrupted his answer quietly. She was hovering on the precipice of a question she was not sure she really wanted to hear the answer to, but the words spilled with so little effort. “Not Jai. Lennox.”
He grew quiet.
There was a sad tilt to his gaze. It almost looked like pity. For a moment Nythadri blazed indignantly, but it faded quickly. A weary ocean washed the fire away, and left her feeling hollow. Araya was an odd man, too guileless for his own good. If her masks slipped and every ounce of emotion flooded out, she did not think he would blink. Nor judge her, even for the feelings that were less than pure. Containing herself was strenuous in the face of such perceived acceptance; there was a patient pitch to his expression, open and forgiving. I’ll listen, that face said. But in the end it was for the benefit of them both that she said nothing. A wry smile twisted her lips, though after a moment it softened to something rarer and kinder.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, though it did. It mattered very much. “I wanted to say thank you, that’s all. For what you did.”
She stood, aware of the Asha'man's openly bewildered expression. He did not follow her.
“Accepted.” Nythadri’s hand was on the door to the threshold when Hana’s voice sounded out behind her, and she realised the woman had followed her down the hall – halfway, at least. Their gazes touched, and something there caused Nythadri to pause and listen. Hana’s grey eyes were tight at the edges, but they were firm, ardent – like they offered out a kinship Nythadri did not fully understand. “Look after that boy, Accepted.”
Her chest tightened. She nodded, and was gone.
[[Nythadri continues at The Wheel Turns and Jai continues at Living the Dream]]