Crimsonthorn

[Eidolon]

 

Malaika Sedai of the Brown Ajah

&

Brenna Sedai, Sitter of the Brown Ajah

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

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

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

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

She had been thinking a lot about the collar lately. 

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

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

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

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

“Then fetch my shawl, please, child.”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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