The solar of Fal Sion was modest by Shienaran standards. Less a place of opulence than one of lineage and stone-bound honor. Light filtered in from tall narrow windows, casting amber patterns across the old oak floorboards and over the carved sigil of House Armendariz above the hearth: the gryphon, wings unfurled, claws extended in mid-flight framed in blue and silver of their colors.
A single tapestry hung behind Lord Xavier’s high-backed chair, a depiction of the Battle of Garen’s Wall, where an earlier Armendariz had held the line against a thousand Trollocs with no more than fifty men.
Xavier sat now in that same chair, a goblet untouched beside him. He did not look like a man burdened by power, yet neither did he wear it lightly. He wore it the way he wore his dark, richly layered coat, fit for war or peace, but made to last through storms. Kenta stood before him, hands clasped behind his back in imitation of his father, a flicker of boyhood still in his eyes but none in his posture.
“He is not borderlander, I’m sure of it,” Kenta said. “His accent is soft, but… not Shienaran. Not Kandori. Not arafellian, I believe, though I have not heard many Arafellian men speak in person. Only in Council or passing patrol. The rest I know from my studies, as you required, Father.”
Xavier inclined his head once. Silent encouragement. Kenta pressed on.
“I do not know his House. ‘Fel’ is not a name I recognize, and he wore no House colors. But he was respectful—to me, to our guards. More respectful than I expected, considering what I’ve heard of the Black Tower. He bowed. He used the Old Tongue. I believe he is an honorable man.”
Xavier’s eyes softened just enough to be seen, and he stood, crossing to rest a hand briefly on his son’s shoulder.
“Well judged. You read more than his words. That is the duty of a lord. You did well, Kenta.”
Kenta’s chest rose a little. Not prideful, but steady. Grounded. “Thank you, Father.”
A knock sounded at the door.
The steward entered first, Zarem, a gaunt man with a limp from a wound taken years ago in the Blight. He bowed once. “Asha’man Zoradin Fel, my Lord.”
There was a shift in the air when Zoradin entered, not from One Power, but from presence. He moved like a soldier, but stood like something more. His coat was deep black, too fine to be ordinary, with the sword pin of a dedicated and the crimson-and-gold dragon marking him as Asha’man. His boots bore the wear of travel, but the man himself was sharply kept. His hair neat, his eyes alert despite the long road.
Lord Xavier met his gaze directly. No warmth, not yet, but no distrust either. Only the weight of a judgment not yet rendered. The Asha'man's greeting words hung in the room like steel left on stone.
For a moment, there was only the crackle of the fire and the faint clink of Kenta’s ceremonial boots as he shifted his stance.
Xavier rose from his seat and stepped forward. “Suravye ninto manshima taishite, And may peace guard your path, Asha’man Fel.” His voice was measured and deep. “You are most welcome in Fal Sion, and in House Armendariz, as both guest and blade.”
He turned slightly, motioning toward the other occupants of the room.
“You will find here those who know our walls best. Captain Vilo Moren, who commands our inner guard.”
A dark-haired man with a blunt scar across his chin gave a single nod, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“High Steward Zarem, who sees to the needs of our Keep.” Zarem bowed again, wordlessly.
“Aelin, Voice of the Light within Fal Sion.” A slender woman in simple robes with a braided gray belt at her waist folded her hands. Her eyes lingered on Zoradin with cautious interest. Voice of the Light was not a common term. He suspected there might be questions about Aelin's role here, for she was clearly not Aes Sedai.
“And Master of Horse Teven, whose business it is to see you are well-stabled, and that your mount fares no worse than you.”A wide-shouldered man with windburned cheeks chuckled softly, dipping his head.
Then Xavier gestured last to Kenta. “My son and heir, Lord Kenta Armendariz, who welcomed you in my stead, as is his right and duty.” There was something proud and unspeakably sad in Xavier’s tone. The weight of duty, perhaps. Or of what was absent: wife, daughter, mother, their names left unspoken in the silence that followed.
“I would speak with you, Asha’man Fel,” Xavier said, turning his full attention back to Zoradin. “Of the Black Tower, and of your mission here. But also of what you have seen on the road, and what you know of the other borderlands. Word from the east has grown thin. You come with the M’Hael’s sanction, and that alone is a banner we direly heed.”
He gestured to a chair opposite his own. “Sit, if it please you until the dinner is prepared. We are not so grand as Fal Dara, but our welcome is no less true."
A single tapestry hung behind Lord Xavier’s high-backed chair, a depiction of the Battle of Garen’s Wall, where an earlier Armendariz had held the line against a thousand Trollocs with no more than fifty men.
Xavier sat now in that same chair, a goblet untouched beside him. He did not look like a man burdened by power, yet neither did he wear it lightly. He wore it the way he wore his dark, richly layered coat, fit for war or peace, but made to last through storms. Kenta stood before him, hands clasped behind his back in imitation of his father, a flicker of boyhood still in his eyes but none in his posture.
“He is not borderlander, I’m sure of it,” Kenta said. “His accent is soft, but… not Shienaran. Not Kandori. Not arafellian, I believe, though I have not heard many Arafellian men speak in person. Only in Council or passing patrol. The rest I know from my studies, as you required, Father.”
Xavier inclined his head once. Silent encouragement. Kenta pressed on.
“I do not know his House. ‘Fel’ is not a name I recognize, and he wore no House colors. But he was respectful—to me, to our guards. More respectful than I expected, considering what I’ve heard of the Black Tower. He bowed. He used the Old Tongue. I believe he is an honorable man.”
Xavier’s eyes softened just enough to be seen, and he stood, crossing to rest a hand briefly on his son’s shoulder.
“Well judged. You read more than his words. That is the duty of a lord. You did well, Kenta.”
Kenta’s chest rose a little. Not prideful, but steady. Grounded. “Thank you, Father.”
A knock sounded at the door.
The steward entered first, Zarem, a gaunt man with a limp from a wound taken years ago in the Blight. He bowed once. “Asha’man Zoradin Fel, my Lord.”
There was a shift in the air when Zoradin entered, not from One Power, but from presence. He moved like a soldier, but stood like something more. His coat was deep black, too fine to be ordinary, with the sword pin of a dedicated and the crimson-and-gold dragon marking him as Asha’man. His boots bore the wear of travel, but the man himself was sharply kept. His hair neat, his eyes alert despite the long road.
Lord Xavier met his gaze directly. No warmth, not yet, but no distrust either. Only the weight of a judgment not yet rendered. The Asha'man's greeting words hung in the room like steel left on stone.
For a moment, there was only the crackle of the fire and the faint clink of Kenta’s ceremonial boots as he shifted his stance.
Xavier rose from his seat and stepped forward. “Suravye ninto manshima taishite, And may peace guard your path, Asha’man Fel.” His voice was measured and deep. “You are most welcome in Fal Sion, and in House Armendariz, as both guest and blade.”
He turned slightly, motioning toward the other occupants of the room.
“You will find here those who know our walls best. Captain Vilo Moren, who commands our inner guard.”
A dark-haired man with a blunt scar across his chin gave a single nod, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“High Steward Zarem, who sees to the needs of our Keep.” Zarem bowed again, wordlessly.
“Aelin, Voice of the Light within Fal Sion.” A slender woman in simple robes with a braided gray belt at her waist folded her hands. Her eyes lingered on Zoradin with cautious interest. Voice of the Light was not a common term. He suspected there might be questions about Aelin's role here, for she was clearly not Aes Sedai.
“And Master of Horse Teven, whose business it is to see you are well-stabled, and that your mount fares no worse than you.”A wide-shouldered man with windburned cheeks chuckled softly, dipping his head.
Then Xavier gestured last to Kenta. “My son and heir, Lord Kenta Armendariz, who welcomed you in my stead, as is his right and duty.” There was something proud and unspeakably sad in Xavier’s tone. The weight of duty, perhaps. Or of what was absent: wife, daughter, mother, their names left unspoken in the silence that followed.
“I would speak with you, Asha’man Fel,” Xavier said, turning his full attention back to Zoradin. “Of the Black Tower, and of your mission here. But also of what you have seen on the road, and what you know of the other borderlands. Word from the east has grown thin. You come with the M’Hael’s sanction, and that alone is a banner we direly heed.”
He gestured to a chair opposite his own. “Sit, if it please you until the dinner is prepared. We are not so grand as Fal Dara, but our welcome is no less true."