01-19-2018, 02:54 PM
The Accepted Tower
Later the same evening...
Restless, she was so bloody restless. There was too much to think about; too much to understand, balanced against a whole lot she was desperate not to think about. She couldn’t sleep. The accepted tower had been quiet for a long time - even the usual late-night whispers through the walls silenced as their owners succumbed to sleep - when Nythadri finally gave up staring blindly at her ceiling. She’d slipped from her bed, remarking at how quickly the warmth went from so small a room after the flames of her hearth died. Her skin still pebbled, but the discomfort was only periphery now that she was settled into her studies at her desk. An earlier trip to the library had furnished it with a dozen and more books she’d not yet had the time to look at. Andoran House lines, the Black Tower judicial system and general history, as well as a few volumes likely to detail biographical profiles of a few public figures (most of them Green Ajah). Bubbles of light made a halo of her head, which was bowed over a hefty tomb of lineage she was not sure she was permitted to have liberated from the library. It was not the usual Accepted study material.
The Winther line sprawled across a double page, at a first glance too ancient to be of any use. A finger scrolled down the unfamiliar names, then flipped a page in frustration, until she found Matias’ entry. Names reignited the vague recollection of faces, but the associated memories were maddeningly elusive. She’d put so much effort into ignorance back then that it was like squinting in smoke. Three sons branched from the High Lord’s name, no daughters. It was a moment before the curling script roused anything close to the memory of living breathing flesh, and what did surface was not exactly an epiphany so much as a dismal reminder of the daughter she had been.
She remembered her father begging her to attend another in a long line of functions, but the words were muddled by the resonance of harp strings. She could even recall the piece she had been playing at the time – that was so clear the resonance of each note still vibrated a memory through her fingertips. It must have been after he had tried to coerce her into letting him sell the instrument, after he had exhausted all of Caemlyn’s banks and money lenders. She had never loved that harp more than when he had tried to take it away. Her fingers had burned, plucking harder to drown out the voices, but it only brought discord to the music. So she’d agreed, irritated, and her father had retreated, Tashir on his heels. He didn’t wear the pendant back then. She remembered that with a pang, and then an echo of his scathing comment sparked in her memory; moments before the door had clicked shut, and the harmony of her retreat continued. “—doesn’t matter anyway. Winther isn’t interested in wedding one of his sons to a family begging for his money.”
Her finger hovered over a name: Pathor. Her father had wanted to introduce them, but she never had gone to that function, and she never had met Matias’ youngest son. And I can’t have insulted a man that I never met. One theory disproved, but another already sprung up to take its place. Though she’d known of her family’s impending financial turmoil, she’d never shown interest in the details. If her father had borrowed coin from the Winther’s, Nythadri had been unaware at the time. But the pieces fit perfectly in hindsight. A dangerous gamble, to owe money to your competitors in the game; which would have been exactly why her father would have wished to cultivate an alliance of marriage – to buffer that risk. And it might have worked, if only he could have gotten through to his daughter. In the dead of night, emotion tattered and mind overworked, guilt simmered beneath the surface of this new understanding. But familiar ice froze it over before it took hold. Nythadri couldn’t change anything. It happened. It’s over.
She pushed the book away, still open, and pulled another from the pile. And now Lord Winther has been arrested. Conjecture abounded, rational and irrational both, but she wasn’t going to find the answer to that in dusty books from the Tower’s library. So she moved on to something more concrete; she could at least find out what Jai faced - the punishment Lythia had suggested was down to Nythadri’s meddling.
Her mind was buzzing, but she was too worn to concentrate properly. She read the same page three times before anything sank in, and she skipped ahead from the introduction to the pages labelled Crime and Punishment. A graphic illustration of the Traitor’s Tree marked the title page, and she stared at it for a long time in the flickering light cast from her spheres of saidar. “Do you know what they do to one of their own that commits a crime short of alliance with the Shadow? It can be rather cruel.” Lythia had insinuated that whatever Jai had done, Lord Winther had spun it as a play for power on the Asha’man’s part. Harming someone with the Power aside (and he must have had a reason, right? Even his attack on Tamal had not been unprovoked), that was the most serious infraction; or would be, in the eyes of the Black Tower. Years after the taint had been cleansed, negative rumour still held strong. Any tarnish to the fragile beginnings of a better reputation would be a serious issue. And for a crime committed so close to the Black Tower’s own doorstep? She flipped the page, and began to read.
She ended up reading the whole book cover to cover, sickened. The subject focused her mind, at least, once she had unhooked it from her reasons for seeking the information in the first place. So absorbed, it took her from the blackest part of night to the first peeks of dawn on the horizon. The bell for breakfast had already tolled, half unheard, when she flicked the pages back to the image of the Traitor’s Tree. Her thoughts, so jagged and jerking not hours ago, were still now; dull. The horror sat placid. She had a good idea of what he might face, but it seemed so much depended on the M’Hael. What kind of man was he? That information was scarce; this book had been written some time after Shadow al’Mere’s death and Tambrin’s succession. At least one more M’Hael had reigned since then. As such, she knew next to nothing about him. Or his notion of justice.
Suddenly exhausted, she let the redundant balls of light wink out, and massaged her head. Her neck ached, and she was freezing. Thank the light for a channeler’s endurance; a long day loomed ahead.
Later the same evening...
Restless, she was so bloody restless. There was too much to think about; too much to understand, balanced against a whole lot she was desperate not to think about. She couldn’t sleep. The accepted tower had been quiet for a long time - even the usual late-night whispers through the walls silenced as their owners succumbed to sleep - when Nythadri finally gave up staring blindly at her ceiling. She’d slipped from her bed, remarking at how quickly the warmth went from so small a room after the flames of her hearth died. Her skin still pebbled, but the discomfort was only periphery now that she was settled into her studies at her desk. An earlier trip to the library had furnished it with a dozen and more books she’d not yet had the time to look at. Andoran House lines, the Black Tower judicial system and general history, as well as a few volumes likely to detail biographical profiles of a few public figures (most of them Green Ajah). Bubbles of light made a halo of her head, which was bowed over a hefty tomb of lineage she was not sure she was permitted to have liberated from the library. It was not the usual Accepted study material.
The Winther line sprawled across a double page, at a first glance too ancient to be of any use. A finger scrolled down the unfamiliar names, then flipped a page in frustration, until she found Matias’ entry. Names reignited the vague recollection of faces, but the associated memories were maddeningly elusive. She’d put so much effort into ignorance back then that it was like squinting in smoke. Three sons branched from the High Lord’s name, no daughters. It was a moment before the curling script roused anything close to the memory of living breathing flesh, and what did surface was not exactly an epiphany so much as a dismal reminder of the daughter she had been.
She remembered her father begging her to attend another in a long line of functions, but the words were muddled by the resonance of harp strings. She could even recall the piece she had been playing at the time – that was so clear the resonance of each note still vibrated a memory through her fingertips. It must have been after he had tried to coerce her into letting him sell the instrument, after he had exhausted all of Caemlyn’s banks and money lenders. She had never loved that harp more than when he had tried to take it away. Her fingers had burned, plucking harder to drown out the voices, but it only brought discord to the music. So she’d agreed, irritated, and her father had retreated, Tashir on his heels. He didn’t wear the pendant back then. She remembered that with a pang, and then an echo of his scathing comment sparked in her memory; moments before the door had clicked shut, and the harmony of her retreat continued. “—doesn’t matter anyway. Winther isn’t interested in wedding one of his sons to a family begging for his money.”
Her finger hovered over a name: Pathor. Her father had wanted to introduce them, but she never had gone to that function, and she never had met Matias’ youngest son. And I can’t have insulted a man that I never met. One theory disproved, but another already sprung up to take its place. Though she’d known of her family’s impending financial turmoil, she’d never shown interest in the details. If her father had borrowed coin from the Winther’s, Nythadri had been unaware at the time. But the pieces fit perfectly in hindsight. A dangerous gamble, to owe money to your competitors in the game; which would have been exactly why her father would have wished to cultivate an alliance of marriage – to buffer that risk. And it might have worked, if only he could have gotten through to his daughter. In the dead of night, emotion tattered and mind overworked, guilt simmered beneath the surface of this new understanding. But familiar ice froze it over before it took hold. Nythadri couldn’t change anything. It happened. It’s over.
She pushed the book away, still open, and pulled another from the pile. And now Lord Winther has been arrested. Conjecture abounded, rational and irrational both, but she wasn’t going to find the answer to that in dusty books from the Tower’s library. So she moved on to something more concrete; she could at least find out what Jai faced - the punishment Lythia had suggested was down to Nythadri’s meddling.
Her mind was buzzing, but she was too worn to concentrate properly. She read the same page three times before anything sank in, and she skipped ahead from the introduction to the pages labelled Crime and Punishment. A graphic illustration of the Traitor’s Tree marked the title page, and she stared at it for a long time in the flickering light cast from her spheres of saidar. “Do you know what they do to one of their own that commits a crime short of alliance with the Shadow? It can be rather cruel.” Lythia had insinuated that whatever Jai had done, Lord Winther had spun it as a play for power on the Asha’man’s part. Harming someone with the Power aside (and he must have had a reason, right? Even his attack on Tamal had not been unprovoked), that was the most serious infraction; or would be, in the eyes of the Black Tower. Years after the taint had been cleansed, negative rumour still held strong. Any tarnish to the fragile beginnings of a better reputation would be a serious issue. And for a crime committed so close to the Black Tower’s own doorstep? She flipped the page, and began to read.
She ended up reading the whole book cover to cover, sickened. The subject focused her mind, at least, once she had unhooked it from her reasons for seeking the information in the first place. So absorbed, it took her from the blackest part of night to the first peeks of dawn on the horizon. The bell for breakfast had already tolled, half unheard, when she flicked the pages back to the image of the Traitor’s Tree. Her thoughts, so jagged and jerking not hours ago, were still now; dull. The horror sat placid. She had a good idea of what he might face, but it seemed so much depended on the M’Hael. What kind of man was he? That information was scarce; this book had been written some time after Shadow al’Mere’s death and Tambrin’s succession. At least one more M’Hael had reigned since then. As such, she knew next to nothing about him. Or his notion of justice.
Suddenly exhausted, she let the redundant balls of light wink out, and massaged her head. Her neck ached, and she was freezing. Thank the light for a channeler’s endurance; a long day loomed ahead.