A Journey North

[Colette Moreau]

"Nicole Candraed”

Nicole crept as close to the command tent as she dared, her white cloak drawn tightly around her like a warding charm. The wool was thick, its weave fine, and it caught the snowlight in a soft shimmer, but even that felt too loud in her ears. A pale wisp against the muddied canvas world of soldiers and steel. She hunched her shoulders as if the posture alone could make her smaller, her breath rising in faint clouds, vanishing before they reached her lips.

The Aes Sedai had entered the tent only moments ago, and already the weight of her presence hung in the air like distant thunder. Nicole did not dare approach closer. The Sister might not sense her loitering outside not while her attention was on Leodon but others might. There were always eyes in a camp, and rumors sprouted like weeds from the cracks between tents. And she did not need any more rumors than there already existed. Light.

Did she have a Warder? Nicole glanced about, careful to move with purpose adjusting a crate, tightening a leather strap, brushing snow from a kettle already clean. She kept her back to the tent, hood up, eyes flicking from beneath golden lashes like a hawk pretending to be a dove. She saw no one who bore that stillness, that coiled grace, that told of a blade wrapped in flesh. But Warders could vanish in plain sight, if they wished it. Not seeing one meant little.

When Leodon summoned Berin (a cousin of sorts, seventeen years down the line and half-forgotten by his own kin) Nicole understood. Graciela, she thought. Of course. That’s who he would send for. That’s what she would have advised, had he asked. So she moved.

The wind curled around the tents, sharp and biting, as Nicole wound through the narrow paths of canvas and rope. She intercepted Berin with a polite murmur, far enough from Graciela’s quarters that they would not be overheard.

“Ahem.” She stepped into his path. “Do you need her Ladyship, Berin?”

The boy stopped, blinking. He had a kind face, if one easily lost in a crowd. Too many of his peers wouldn’t have remembered his name, but Nicole did. He was one of the forgettable ones: the middle son of a minor house, too proud to be ignored entirely, too plain to be seen without effort. But he always smiled when he saw her, as he did now.

“Yes, Lord Leodon requests her,” he said, moving toward the tent.

She tilted her head, cloak swaying softly. “At this time of day, you should let me inquire for her. It would be improper otherwise.”

Berin hesitated, looking toward the flap, as if the canvas might snap open and swallow him whole.

“He asks that if she be willing Lady Graciela join him to greet the Aes Sedai,” he said. He shifted his weight, the cold making him twitchy.

Nicole stilled. Her heart did not beat faster, exactly. It beat deeper, like a drum struck from within. “And did Lord Leodon say her name?”

“Ah… yes. Amelia Sedai. He said she was Andorran.”

Amelia Thorne Sedai.

The name landed like a blade turned in her gut. Her fingers found her stomach without thought, clutching the thick white wool as if it might steady her. Light, she had not heard that name spoken aloud in—

“Yeah, that’s right. House Thorne,” Berin added, with a sheepish shrug. “Though I don’t know any Amelias—” He caught himself mid-thought, as if realizing too late that an Aes Sedai was no courtly dancer to be spoken of so casually.

“Of course not.” Nicole’s voice was calm, too calm. “I’ll inform her Ladyship. Wait here.”

She turned quickly, before her face could betray her. The wind caught her cloak, billowing it behind her like the wings of some white bird about to take flight. But her steps were slow. Measured. Within, she was not walking. She was falling.

Amelia. Light help me. She wanted nothing more than to see her. To run to her, to fall into her arms like a child who had survived some terrible storm. But that life was behind her now. Corele Sedai had walked this land once, proud and unbending, but Corele was gone. Burned away in truth, even if no fire had touched her. And Nicole remained.

And what if Amelia was not what she seemed? What if she was Black Ajah? The thought curled cold in her belly. The world was breaking. Nothing was certain now.

She found Graciela quickly. The Lady of Fal Sion stood tall even in her moments of leisure, dark hair braided with silver wire, posture straight as a drawn blade. Misaki, her daughter, played with a leather-strung doll near the brazier, her cheeks flushed.

Nicole delivered the message without faltering. An Aes Sedai. Amelia Thorne. Graciela’s eyes widened, one dark brow rising as high as any banner. She asked no questions, only nodded and moved with purpose, Misaki trailing beside her with curious steps. Nicole showed them the way to Berin, then made her excuses and faded like mist into the camp.

She wrapped her cloak tighter, lowering her head, slipping back into the tide of soldiers and servants. But she could not help glancing as Lady Graciela and her daughter stepped through the tent flap.

Graciela and Misaki Armendariz

Lady Graciela Armendariz sat beneath a fur-draped canopy of the tent, her pen scratching softly across the pages of her leather-bound journal. The script was small and neat, a habit she had honed during her time in Tar Valon, where a letter improperly addressed could be a political misstep of unexpected consequence. Her thoughts had turned inward, reflecting on supply lines and diplomatic overtures left unanswered, when Nicole arrived with quiet urgency.

The words fell from the girl’s lips like polished stones: smooth, measured, impossible to ignore.

An Aes Sedai. In camp.

Graciela blinked. Once. Twice. The ink on her quill blotched slightly, as if even the page was startled.

Not that she doubted Nicole, and not that she doubted the Tower, Light no. But to hear that an Aes Sedai had come, and to know it with certainty—it struck her as though the Light had answered all her prayers at once. First, an army to escort her north. And now, a Sister of the Tower, a shawled emissary bearing the weight of Tar Valon’s silent will. She had begged the Amyrlin Seat for such aid and had been given only kind words, vague promises, and the Tower’s eternal concern. Yet now…

She stood at once.

“This is something Misaki must see,” she said aloud, though Nicole had already gone.

The child sat nearby, legs crossed, plaiting a strip of leather with more focus than necessary. Graciela caught her daughter’s eyes and gave a single nod. Misaki rose without a word, setting her work aside. There was something watchful in her expression, though she said nothing. She was only eleven, and yet her gaze was older; too old, Graciela sometimes feared, for a girl who still kept a carved fox in her satchel.

She would not make her mother’s mistakes. Misaki would know the world. The real world. The world where kings bowed to chairs in Tar Valon, and the Great Game played itself out with smiles and lies. The Borderlands had once stood apart from such things, proud and distant. But no longer. Even the Blight could not keep out politics forever.

They dressed quickly, though Graciela never presented herself in haste. Her dark gown was trimmed in silver and lined with fur, her hair woven in a crown across her brow, fixed with a circlet that marked both her nobility and her resolve. She wore no weapons, but her bearing alone made it clear she did not need them. There was steel in her spine, and more still in her gaze.

Misaki followed at her side, clad in the muted tones of the north, dark wool and finely stitched clothes. The girl’s coat bore the crest of Fal Sion subtle, but present. Her hair was neatly combed and tucked back in a practical braid. She did not fidget. She did not question. She only looked forward with eyes wide and heart steady.

They entered the command tent together, mud and snow clinging to the hem of their cloaks.

Leodon received them with the respect due her station, but it was Amelia Sedai who drew all the weight of the moment. The Aes Sedai stood like a pillar in the center of the storm, serenity cloaking her more fully than her shawl ever could. Graciela dropped into a graceful curtsy, Misaki copying her with only a half-second’s delay.

“You honor us, Aes Sedai, with your presence,” Graciela said, rising slowly.

Her voice did not tremble. It did not need to. Every word was weighed, every syllable measured. She had traveled too far, begged too many nobles, and endured too many polite refusals to waste this moment with anything less than full dignity.