The Seanchan Spy

[Eidolon]

Ke’sera circled the chair, grey silk skirts swirling about her ankles. The Seanchan man finally looked up, but Malaika dare not meet his eyes for fear of her own reaction. What should she feel?  Hatred, terror, anger? A mixture, perhaps, or nothing at all - what was Seanchan to her but a memory, and a bad one at that? Still, she was uncomfortable, certainly, as she headed towards the armour as bid - perhaps even a little guilty, as if she should be somehow responsible for her kin and their actions. But these were feelings that had no place in her Aes Sedai façade, and she let nothing of it touch her smooth expression. We are sisters three she thought, and here for a duty.

Ke’sera’s voice rang clear in the cell, but Malaika was focused on her own task and did not hear the barrage of questions nor their answers (or even if the Seanchan deigned to answer her at all). The pile of armour glinted dully in the light and she ran her fingers over the gilded metal, thinking. It was familiar - like a hazed memory at the edge of her mind, and yet so distant now; she no longer belonged to this foreign world, and it was as alien to her as to her sisters. She pulled out the beetle-like helm, with its curled mandibles, then turned her attention to the adorned breastplate. It was old and rusting, the once rich paintwork faded from lack of use. Parts of the gilt had chipped off and there were crumpled dents where the metal had been reshaped after countless battle-blows.

She ran her slender fingers over the beast emblazoned in the centre of the plate, a memory firing from deep within. Torm. She recalled the graceful beasts, a recollection not of book or parchment, but of memory. The deep bellow their call, the ripple of bronze scales and the intensity of their gaze. Such beautiful creatures. Deadly.

“Old,” she murmured to herself, placing the chest plate down with a chink. And there were no personal affects to be found here. Her attention rose to the sound of the man’s pleading. It was as the guard had said; he swore to his innocence.

“Blood and bloody ashes! Damn the Dark One. Damn the Creator! I’m no spy, I swear it. Bloody witches! Can’t you just read my mind or something? What use is the bloody power is you can’t even see I’m telling the truth?!” Despite his bravado, there was fear in his voice, and a deep desperation. His dark eyes were wide, glazed, and she noticed that beneath the bindings of his hands his fingers were trembling. A mop of onyx hair distorted his features (and hid some of the bruising to his right cheek) but despite the small tuft of hair beneath his lip it was suddenly clear that he was very young. Old enough to be a soldier, certainly - the Empire recruited young - but something did not sit right. He did not look Seanchan, not to her.

“This armour cannot be his - it looks older than he does, sisters.” Malaika stood and wished she had the Brown shawl to wrap tightly about her shoulders; the comfort should have been appreciated, but she made do with an expression as close to unruffled serenity as she could fathom.

“He is Ebou Dari,” Ke’sera agreed rather casually. Perhaps disappointed. “At least in part. An easy mistake to make, and the Domani have been flighty since the Seanchan invasion.”

“Yes, YES!” He tilted his head back, eyes heavenward. "How many times must I say it? This is all a mistake, a stupid bloody mistake! A trip around Tarabon, then on to Arad Doman - a tour of the world's finest women. I'm not a bloody spy!"

As his head tipped back, Malaika caught sight of the moist sheen of tears on his cheeks. No Seanchan spy. She glanced at Eithne, still apparently preoccupied with her book, and then at Ke’sera, as if seeking permission to speak - to interrogate the man herself. The gray inclined her head, for which Malaika was infinitely glad.

“Where did you come by this armour?” she asked.

“My father,” he insisted. “Blood and bloody ashes, if I’d thought it was going to land me in this much trouble…Light! Even Domani women aren’t worth the effort. I’ll swear on whatever you want. Tell me how to prove it and I will.”

Eithne snapped her book shut. “Then we are concluded, sisters?  The boy will need escorting home and a verification of his story.  If he is found to be lying he will fall under Tower jurisdiction, though I am sure Mother will keep Arad Doman appraised. If you would be so kind as to formalise our decision with the relevant authorities, Ke’sera?”

The gray nodded. “Consider it done, Eithne.  I can provide you with passage to outside the city, if you wish.”

Eithne tucked the book away and stood. The ball of illumination she had used to read by winked from existence, and the light of the room dipped to flickering flame and shadow. The pile of Seanchan armour now looked like some monstrous beast in the corner, fire catching in the metal like twitching movement. Malaika seemed the only to notice it, but Eithne's voice drew her away from the observation almost as soon as she'd made it.

“That would be wonderful." She smiled cheerily and one would never know they had spent the better part of the last hour in the gloomy interrogation cell. "And sister, your assistance in this matter has been most appreciated.”

The Domani Gray smiled and flicked her eyes to Malaika. “Indeed,” she replied, embracing saidar.  A silver gate sprung to glittering life in the corner of the room, and the prisoner boy’s bonds unknotted and slithered to the floor, though it was clear from his face that he was still unable to move.

“Here, sister.”  Though Eithne was her senior, Malaika was stronger in the Power so the older Brown was happy to pass the weaves and let her younger companion hold the prisoner.  Malaika took the responsibility gravely, glancing at the supposed spy, who stared back at her with wide, black eyes.