Crimsonthorn

[Eidolon]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tower was the safest place she had ever known.

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

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