02-01-2024, 11:29 PM
If she was nervous, it showed not one whit.
The woman was already seated, legs crossed, arms loose on her knees. The bracelet on her delicate wrist glinted like fire, drawing Malaika’s eyes dangerously in that one moment before her barriers strengthened. She was not here to address fears, or be made senseless by them. Cold as stone, she turned her gaze to the leashed one by the woman’s feet. The damane sat on the floor, arranged in a way that made her seem both servile and graceful, her grey dress pooled like water. Her long black hair was brushed to a glowing sheen, her eyes cast down at the floor. Something in the Aes Sedai snapped. Sister.
If Malaika failed here, it would be her emotions that did it. The sad sympathies that tugged at her heart, or the fierce anger that boiled in her gut – which, she did not know, but betray her they would, if she gave them the chance. She must be like stone, impervious to all that was risked this night, and it was a balance as fine as a knife-edge. Her gaze drew up carefully, meeting that of the woman opposite her. Eyes as green as her own stared back, smoked by kohl and drawn out so that it was like looking into the sly gaze of a cat.
“Greetings.” The accent was stronger than she had heard in a long time, stronger than Chakai’s by far, and yet still tempered like the woman had lived among mainlanders for some time. Malaika nodded, did not yet trust herself to speak. Her mouth was dry, and within her emotions raged like a storm despite her outward self-control. She refused to look at the damane, did not allow herself to acknowledge who it was; if she did, she would fall apart.
The sul’dam tilted her head, considering something, and then her gaze swept the entirety of the room behind Malaika’s head. Malaika took the time to examine her; face powdered to porcelain perfection, the palest blush to her cheeks, a darker rouge to her lips. She looked like a doll, but for those eyes. Her lithe body was draped in a sul’dam’s uniform, but she appeared to carry no weapons. Apart from the obvious. She watched as the woman raised a hand to signal a server. The woman approached warily.
“Drinks, for me and my…” For a moment her lips twitched, as though in distaste. “Companion. Your finest wine for myself, the drier the better, and she,” her gaze settled on Malaika, “will have a glass of water, or whatever passes as close as.”
Something was going very wrong here. Malaika shifted in her seat, made sure her legs were not cramping beneath the small table – she daren’t stretch out, did not even want to contemplate accidental contact with the woman sitting on the floor. A gentle persuasion crossed her mind, aweave secret to the Ajah. It might make the meeting run smoother, but the damane would know if she embraced.
As though aware of her thoughts, the sul’dam pressed a hand to the damane’s head, smoothing the silk of her hair like a favoured hound. “Tula would tell me, marath’damane. You would be incapacitated before you could blink.”
Something in Malaika turned cold. Her hands, resting in her lap, gripped each other – fingernails driving into the flesh to control her reaction. She had hidden her presence from other channelers; it had been necessary, so very necessary for any of this to work. Chakai betrayed me after all. The final hope in her snapped like a frayed thread, but with that softness for her brother gone, a new steel appeared in its place.
“You appear to know more of this meeting than I,” she said. “And it appears my pretence is no longer necessary.”
“Apparently so, if you think the Aes Sedai stink is not all around you.” She sneered, dismissing Malaika’s entire being in that one look, the intensity of her gaze eventually diffusing to encompass the rest of the room. Searching for those drinks, or something else? Malaika cursed their alignment in the room, with so much of it behind her. It had been foolish to accept a seat at such a disadvantage.
Things had crumbled before they’d even began, and would have to progress faster than she’d like. It seemed the gamble would be steeper also. She chanced a look at the damane, at the sister she had preserved for years in her mind’s eye, and allowed that strength to infuse her resolve. If only the girl would look up, if only she could be sure Chakai’s deception did not run deeper than betraying her channeling identity. A free damane is still a free damane whether she be my blood sister or not. Saidar lapped at her consciousness, like a luxuriant river to a thirsty traveller. She was stronger, her senses told her that – soothed her with the knowledge, encouraged her to draw battlelines. But was she strong enough? And could she best her sister without killing her, or her leash-holder? If the sul’dam had secreted allies, Malaika’s efforts would be futile. Might even be futile anyway.
“Oh – my – goodness, he didn’t tell you.” The sul’dam’s eyes, fallen to the damane Malaika studied so avidly, rose and widened. She began to laugh, and an awful sound it was. The serving girl returned with drinks, hesitating at the sound of that cruel merriment. Her hand shook as she delivered the glasses from the tray, but not a drop spilled. Malaika tried to pass some kindness with a look, but the girl scurried away without a glance at either of them. The sul’dam wrapped slender fingers about the stem of her glass, tipped it in a toast, and seemed to lavish in her triumph. She clearly thought this matter was finished, was only a matter of slipping the collar about her neck.
Didn’t tell me what? Anything at all, it seemed. Any skeleton of a plan that remained turned to dust with the knowledge that her cover was blown – had in fact never been a cover at all. Appropriate words failed her, and the sul’am seemed fond of her voice, of the power of knowledge she wielded. Behind her still mask, deceptive in its absolute emptiness, Malaika thought furiously. There was something else, something she was missing, else why was she still sitting here free? She looked doubtfully at the water left for her, thinking of all the poisons one might mix colourless and odourless in clear liquid. Death was the least of them, and the one least feared as well. There were concoctions that could shield a woman from saidar, and if that should happen here and now, she would rather be dead than face what was to come.
“His beautiful, golden sister, and he did not tell you!” The Seanchan woman sipped her wine, glorifying in the taste, or in the splendour of her words, or both. The phrasing, this time, struck a chord, and the ferocity of Malaika’s thoughts calmed like a world suddenly held in a vacuum.
Realisation dawned like ice in her blood, cooling her from within so she felt nothing but the pain of it.
“You really are rather dull, Malaika” She said the name like purr, with all the fondness of a pet. The way she spoke the name Tula. Malaika’s skin prickled, and something inside her closed like a vice. “Do you not have words to spar with me? I must admit I expected more. It does not take an ordinary woman to escape the leash, and the way Chakai always spoke of you, one would have thought the Light shone out of your backside.”
“Zurafai.” Light, but the connection hurt, ached in a depth of her heart that had been so precious for so long. Logic floated like leaves blown from a tree in a gale, and within she was floundering, senseless, blind, and afraid. Outwardly she sat very still, carved as if from marble, as though she were not human at all. It was her only defence, that there was not a single witness to the sheer panic within, that her Aes Sedai walls still had a physical hold. It makes no sense! Why had Chakai denied both sisters, if both were not damane?
It took the apex of her Tower training to place both her hands on the table, to look the woman straight in the depths of her green eyes, and ask. “Chakai denies us both. Girls are only erased from the records if they are channelers. You can’t be Zurafai, no matter what you say or how deep your knowledge of our family.”
But the woman’s smile only deepened, gaze over Malaika’s head as though she wasn’t worth the effort of eye-contact. “You know nothing, marath’damane.”
Her eyes had lingered about the other patrons from time to time as they spoke, and Malaika realised suddenly what she must be looking for. A Warder. One she didn’t have, of course, but an advantage of perception none-the-less. She thinks I would not be so foolish as to come here alone. And how very wrong she was.
“Why agree to this? To these… terms.”
“What? Well, curiosity of course. You are quite the family ghost, you know.” Her lips curled into a smile. “And I know you will not fight me, your beloved sister, because you will listen and realise that I am right. The White Tower is an abomination – I know you will not like to hear it now, but it is, and soon you will understand that it is your duty to return. It is your place.”
Saidar hovered in her periphery, golden and beautiful. She did not embrace, did not want to make the first move, but it was there, only a moment’s submission away. Her muscles felt tight as cord, her fingers driving into her palm. Zurafai only smiled, and sipped her wine.
“Perhaps I shall save the whole story. Something to look forward to, yes? I shall take good care of you, I hope you realise that. Not like Riana.” She spat the name. “In fact, I hope it warms you to know that the woman was punishment severely for the way she treated you – certainly, she shall trouble us no longer.”
The shield came from nowhere, like sand flicked into the face of an opponent. Saidar flooded Malaika like bright light, slicing the weave before it found purchase. She stood, scraping back her chair, unaware of the many eyes that turned at the sharp action. Zurafai frowned.
“I hope you are not going to insist on making things difficult, Malaika.” Zura twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers, but did not look happy. The damane had lifted her head, eyes dark as ink wide and intent. She glowed with the One Power, as bright as the sun. To her, Malaika must look the same; the power of it filled her with a calmness she wasn’t sure she really felt within; there was a shake in her bones, in her being, a fear so intense that maybe it was only saidar that held her together.
She saw signs of the second shield, and deflected it easier than she thought possible, like a flick of the wrist, but the weave on its heels startled her – a sturdier connection of power meant to knock her senseless. Defensives threads cut it before it solidified, dispersing the power in a thunder clap that startled the patrons behind her. She was aware, then, that she had her back to the room, and noticed Zurafai eyeing behind her head. Still searching for signs of a warder, or for an ally of her own? Malaika’s gaze snapped back to the damane as the woman climbed to her feet, the silver chain of the a’dam jangling.
“I don’t wish to hurt you.” Simple, direct, and utterly useless – the damane had no conscious choice to her actions. There was a moment of calm as Malaika slowly edged from the table, thinking to put the solid wood of a wall to her back, instead of the unstudied mass of inn customers behind her. How long before her hand was forced? The damane was weaker, and now that Malaika was filled with saidar a successful shield was unlikely. Knots of Spirit, Air, Water, with a dash of Fire – meant to stun before shield – had also failed. If the damane could not subdue her, she would try to kill her. A dead marath’damane was better than a free one.
“Do not make me hurt her, Zurafai.”
“Then come quietly, marath’damane. It is your last chance; I grow weary of this idiocy.”
There was no time to think, no time to fathom a way to separate the two from one another.
Cutting Air came next, swirling like a gale in the small space. Through whipping hair, Malaika saw the majority of the inn’s clientele flee. Her body stung like there were razors in that wind, until she wove threads of Fire and Earth that rent a line through the ground, cracking a table in two and displacing the damane’s footing. In the moment of weakness, she forced a shield – hoping beyond hope that it found purchase, but the wind died and her shield cracked in half. Fire spun in a sweeping spurt, deflected by a wall of Air. Flames licked at the furniture; there was a cry behind, and screaming. Malaika urged the wall forward, meaning to crush the damane against the wall, but her flows were severed.
A blunt block of Air knocked her sideways. Where did that come from? She braced herself against a chair, and channelled blind threads in the damane’s direction, rewarded with a scream. Something felt loose at her side. More weaves shot forth and were severed in quick succession, faster and more complex with every passing moment. Saidar rushed a seductive storm, her damane and Tower training a tight cohesion of power and control. Time became indistinct, and even pain receded beyond the resolute, single-mindedness to survive.
Thought retreated; accountability, carefulness, humanity - all diminished until there was only action and a strange silence broken only by the devastation of the raging battle weaves. Threads for protection and attack grew more elaborate and intense, but it was like Malaika no longer existed in the moment. Instinct and training were all that remained.
Time had no purchase, until the abruptness of the conflict’s end.
The damane’s eyes widened in pain, injected suddenly with blood red. Shocked realisation was her last expression before she crumpled; limp before she even hit the floor. Zurafai gasped. A flick and the bracelet hit the ground, but Malaika barely noticed. Light, what have I done!? She knew, of course she knew. As soon as the fateful threads flew from her like coloured silk, it was like her soul returned to her body and comprehension snared her in the same seconds the damane understood how she was to die. Tears sparked like diamonds, regret and guilt like a raging waterfall damned by Aes Sedai detachment.
A net of water soaked the remaining fires with a sizzle, almost an afterthought as she hurried to the girl’s side. Dead, she knew that without touching her, her expression still caught in that of surprise, black hair splayed over her face, in her mouth, down her neck. Not a mark on her, but for those eyes. I promised. She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to battle the harrowing memories of the last time she had unleashed that weave.
Physical pain tugged her back. A sudden burning, tearing slice through her upper arm; she tumbled backwards, rolling wide-eyed as Zurafai came at her again, and with a blade she recognised. Her hand went to her side, only to find the dagger’s sheath empty. Had the damane done that too? A slash missed her by a hair’s breath, and then saidar flooded her system. A tight band of Air coiled about the sul’dam’s body. The knife – one of a twin pair gifted to her by Kasimir – clattered to the floor, and then the woman herself toppled like a felled tree, right beside her.
It was over.
Light, it was over.
Malaika’s heart beat furiously, and saidar winked out. Burning, smoke, blood – even without heightened senses she was aware of it all with aching realisation. She pushed herself up, denying the dizzying shake of her body, the unsettling knowledge of what she had done. Only their corner of the common room bore the most visible damage, but damaged it was. Floorboards cracked, split to spill earth amidst the woodchip. Smoke hazed the air, spots of tapestry and wall and table blackened with fire, the table they had sat at riven in two, a number of chairs snapped to pieces.
And the body.
She turned despite the burning pain of a million tiny lacerations – and one decidedly big one – and looked over the fallen damane. She smoothed the hair from her head, noticed how her flesh still felt so warm. Her brows knitted at the senseless loss of life. I’m sorry I could not give you the life you deserved. She pressed her fingers over the woman’s eyelids, closing them over the bloody-red eyes, the only evidence of the Weave that had ended her life. [/color]
“Mistress…” The voice came from behind, reminding her that the inn had not completely emptied. She glanced up once, to assure herself she was safe for the moment, then unclicked the silver collar about the woman’s neck, careful to lower her head to the ground softly, despite the fact she was very, very dead. Malaika baulked at even looking at the a’dam, let alone touching it, but such a dangerous weapon should not be left unattended. She did not truly know for sure that Zurafai had not brought allies. Weakened, injured, she would not survive another altercation. She did not want this thing lying around.
That done, her gaze returned to the man who had addressed her. “Aes Sedai.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, but she was critically aware that she was hardly safe and secure in Tar Valon. Her ring was upstairs, with her satchel, and her face – even changed with the One Power as it was – was neither ageless nor slowed. If she couldn’t convince this man with presence alone, she did not like to think of the consequences. She stood on quivering legs, the a’dam in her hands. It felt like ice that sucked the warmth from her blood, but she could ill afford to succumb to its intimidations.
The man – the owner, she assumed, by the way his dark eyes grievously took in the damage – eyed her warily, but acknowledged her statement with a nod. Malaika held his gaze a moment longer, to assure herself he was genuine, before fumbling one handed with the clasp of her cloak. She shrugged the garment off, painfully aware of the blood that soaked the remains of her sleeve and slicked down her arm, then wrapped the a’dam away in its woollen confines. A little strength bloomed once the offending item was out of sight and touch, safe in her control.
“Your name?” After the exertions of the evening, her voice took on a tired softness incongruous with the destruction she had caused. The steel that had fuelled her struggle – an unyielding, hard side of her that few in the Tower had ever witnessed, or even thought to associate with Malaika Sedai – evaporated. Still, she held his gaze firmly enough – quiet, thoughtful, yet edging on impatient.
He was not immediately trusting. It was a lot to take in, she supposed, how quickly the evening had turned from pleasant and ordinary to bloodshed and demolition. She wondered if he was deciding whether to argue, or considering how far he could trust her. No rogue channeler could have fought the way she did, but he could not see the tight flows or the immaculate control. He only saw broken furniture, blood and a body.
“Danvar, Aes Sedai.”
“Master Danvar, the White Tower will recompense the damages done to your property. I apologise for the inconvenience.” She pulled a purse from her pocket in her skirts, suppressing the sharp protest of pain in her arm. “I regret I cannot spare the time to aid the clean-up.” She meant the body, but could not bring herself to say it. The purse she lay on a table; it was all she possessed, and a goodly sum. “Ensure she receives a proper burial. The rest is yours, to begin your repairs.”
He nodded, teeth grinding in a closed mouth. He wasn’t happy, clearly, but he would accept her words, and thank the Light for it too.
“Bloody Seanchan.”
Something like a grim smile flickered her lips, grateful too that her face was still distorted. “I will need the bag from my room, sir, and then I will trouble you no more.”
Only once Master Danvar had taken leave did she turn her gaze to Zurafai, lying stiff on the floor. A thousand words passed through her mind, to bring closure to this terrible evening. But in the end she said nothing.
Master Danvar was not long with her bag, and she thanked him for its retrieval. He did not stay long, murmuring excuses of patrons upstairs who had been unsettled by the noises below. She nodded, glad for the privacy. The a’dam she shoved in her satchel, eager to pass it from sight and mind as soon as possible. Then flows of Air righted Zura from the floor. Malaika noticed the sinuous muscles of her arms straining; clearly she still fought the power binding her rigid. Futile. The quiet sympathies in her gaze as she approached said as much; dark gaze to dark gaze, neither looking away from the other, though Zura’s expression was markedly more sinister. Her sister was taller, though not by much; Malaika swung the cloak about her shoulders, clasped it beneath her neck, and pulled the hood up. She did not touch her skin as she did so, or linger about the task. Though her emotions roiled as dark as a churning sea, there was so compassion in her movements, no softness. Just function. It was dark out, which was fortunate, and the cloak would help conceal that Zura did not move of her own accord.
The woman was already seated, legs crossed, arms loose on her knees. The bracelet on her delicate wrist glinted like fire, drawing Malaika’s eyes dangerously in that one moment before her barriers strengthened. She was not here to address fears, or be made senseless by them. Cold as stone, she turned her gaze to the leashed one by the woman’s feet. The damane sat on the floor, arranged in a way that made her seem both servile and graceful, her grey dress pooled like water. Her long black hair was brushed to a glowing sheen, her eyes cast down at the floor. Something in the Aes Sedai snapped. Sister.
If Malaika failed here, it would be her emotions that did it. The sad sympathies that tugged at her heart, or the fierce anger that boiled in her gut – which, she did not know, but betray her they would, if she gave them the chance. She must be like stone, impervious to all that was risked this night, and it was a balance as fine as a knife-edge. Her gaze drew up carefully, meeting that of the woman opposite her. Eyes as green as her own stared back, smoked by kohl and drawn out so that it was like looking into the sly gaze of a cat.
“Greetings.” The accent was stronger than she had heard in a long time, stronger than Chakai’s by far, and yet still tempered like the woman had lived among mainlanders for some time. Malaika nodded, did not yet trust herself to speak. Her mouth was dry, and within her emotions raged like a storm despite her outward self-control. She refused to look at the damane, did not allow herself to acknowledge who it was; if she did, she would fall apart.
The sul’dam tilted her head, considering something, and then her gaze swept the entirety of the room behind Malaika’s head. Malaika took the time to examine her; face powdered to porcelain perfection, the palest blush to her cheeks, a darker rouge to her lips. She looked like a doll, but for those eyes. Her lithe body was draped in a sul’dam’s uniform, but she appeared to carry no weapons. Apart from the obvious. She watched as the woman raised a hand to signal a server. The woman approached warily.
“Drinks, for me and my…” For a moment her lips twitched, as though in distaste. “Companion. Your finest wine for myself, the drier the better, and she,” her gaze settled on Malaika, “will have a glass of water, or whatever passes as close as.”
Something was going very wrong here. Malaika shifted in her seat, made sure her legs were not cramping beneath the small table – she daren’t stretch out, did not even want to contemplate accidental contact with the woman sitting on the floor. A gentle persuasion crossed her mind, aweave secret to the Ajah. It might make the meeting run smoother, but the damane would know if she embraced.
As though aware of her thoughts, the sul’dam pressed a hand to the damane’s head, smoothing the silk of her hair like a favoured hound. “Tula would tell me, marath’damane. You would be incapacitated before you could blink.”
Something in Malaika turned cold. Her hands, resting in her lap, gripped each other – fingernails driving into the flesh to control her reaction. She had hidden her presence from other channelers; it had been necessary, so very necessary for any of this to work. Chakai betrayed me after all. The final hope in her snapped like a frayed thread, but with that softness for her brother gone, a new steel appeared in its place.
“You appear to know more of this meeting than I,” she said. “And it appears my pretence is no longer necessary.”
“Apparently so, if you think the Aes Sedai stink is not all around you.” She sneered, dismissing Malaika’s entire being in that one look, the intensity of her gaze eventually diffusing to encompass the rest of the room. Searching for those drinks, or something else? Malaika cursed their alignment in the room, with so much of it behind her. It had been foolish to accept a seat at such a disadvantage.
Things had crumbled before they’d even began, and would have to progress faster than she’d like. It seemed the gamble would be steeper also. She chanced a look at the damane, at the sister she had preserved for years in her mind’s eye, and allowed that strength to infuse her resolve. If only the girl would look up, if only she could be sure Chakai’s deception did not run deeper than betraying her channeling identity. A free damane is still a free damane whether she be my blood sister or not. Saidar lapped at her consciousness, like a luxuriant river to a thirsty traveller. She was stronger, her senses told her that – soothed her with the knowledge, encouraged her to draw battlelines. But was she strong enough? And could she best her sister without killing her, or her leash-holder? If the sul’dam had secreted allies, Malaika’s efforts would be futile. Might even be futile anyway.
“Oh – my – goodness, he didn’t tell you.” The sul’dam’s eyes, fallen to the damane Malaika studied so avidly, rose and widened. She began to laugh, and an awful sound it was. The serving girl returned with drinks, hesitating at the sound of that cruel merriment. Her hand shook as she delivered the glasses from the tray, but not a drop spilled. Malaika tried to pass some kindness with a look, but the girl scurried away without a glance at either of them. The sul’dam wrapped slender fingers about the stem of her glass, tipped it in a toast, and seemed to lavish in her triumph. She clearly thought this matter was finished, was only a matter of slipping the collar about her neck.
Didn’t tell me what? Anything at all, it seemed. Any skeleton of a plan that remained turned to dust with the knowledge that her cover was blown – had in fact never been a cover at all. Appropriate words failed her, and the sul’am seemed fond of her voice, of the power of knowledge she wielded. Behind her still mask, deceptive in its absolute emptiness, Malaika thought furiously. There was something else, something she was missing, else why was she still sitting here free? She looked doubtfully at the water left for her, thinking of all the poisons one might mix colourless and odourless in clear liquid. Death was the least of them, and the one least feared as well. There were concoctions that could shield a woman from saidar, and if that should happen here and now, she would rather be dead than face what was to come.
“His beautiful, golden sister, and he did not tell you!” The Seanchan woman sipped her wine, glorifying in the taste, or in the splendour of her words, or both. The phrasing, this time, struck a chord, and the ferocity of Malaika’s thoughts calmed like a world suddenly held in a vacuum.
Realisation dawned like ice in her blood, cooling her from within so she felt nothing but the pain of it.
“You really are rather dull, Malaika” She said the name like purr, with all the fondness of a pet. The way she spoke the name Tula. Malaika’s skin prickled, and something inside her closed like a vice. “Do you not have words to spar with me? I must admit I expected more. It does not take an ordinary woman to escape the leash, and the way Chakai always spoke of you, one would have thought the Light shone out of your backside.”
“Zurafai.” Light, but the connection hurt, ached in a depth of her heart that had been so precious for so long. Logic floated like leaves blown from a tree in a gale, and within she was floundering, senseless, blind, and afraid. Outwardly she sat very still, carved as if from marble, as though she were not human at all. It was her only defence, that there was not a single witness to the sheer panic within, that her Aes Sedai walls still had a physical hold. It makes no sense! Why had Chakai denied both sisters, if both were not damane?
It took the apex of her Tower training to place both her hands on the table, to look the woman straight in the depths of her green eyes, and ask. “Chakai denies us both. Girls are only erased from the records if they are channelers. You can’t be Zurafai, no matter what you say or how deep your knowledge of our family.”
But the woman’s smile only deepened, gaze over Malaika’s head as though she wasn’t worth the effort of eye-contact. “You know nothing, marath’damane.”
Her eyes had lingered about the other patrons from time to time as they spoke, and Malaika realised suddenly what she must be looking for. A Warder. One she didn’t have, of course, but an advantage of perception none-the-less. She thinks I would not be so foolish as to come here alone. And how very wrong she was.
“Why agree to this? To these… terms.”
“What? Well, curiosity of course. You are quite the family ghost, you know.” Her lips curled into a smile. “And I know you will not fight me, your beloved sister, because you will listen and realise that I am right. The White Tower is an abomination – I know you will not like to hear it now, but it is, and soon you will understand that it is your duty to return. It is your place.”
Saidar hovered in her periphery, golden and beautiful. She did not embrace, did not want to make the first move, but it was there, only a moment’s submission away. Her muscles felt tight as cord, her fingers driving into her palm. Zurafai only smiled, and sipped her wine.
“Perhaps I shall save the whole story. Something to look forward to, yes? I shall take good care of you, I hope you realise that. Not like Riana.” She spat the name. “In fact, I hope it warms you to know that the woman was punishment severely for the way she treated you – certainly, she shall trouble us no longer.”
The shield came from nowhere, like sand flicked into the face of an opponent. Saidar flooded Malaika like bright light, slicing the weave before it found purchase. She stood, scraping back her chair, unaware of the many eyes that turned at the sharp action. Zurafai frowned.
“I hope you are not going to insist on making things difficult, Malaika.” Zura twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers, but did not look happy. The damane had lifted her head, eyes dark as ink wide and intent. She glowed with the One Power, as bright as the sun. To her, Malaika must look the same; the power of it filled her with a calmness she wasn’t sure she really felt within; there was a shake in her bones, in her being, a fear so intense that maybe it was only saidar that held her together.
She saw signs of the second shield, and deflected it easier than she thought possible, like a flick of the wrist, but the weave on its heels startled her – a sturdier connection of power meant to knock her senseless. Defensives threads cut it before it solidified, dispersing the power in a thunder clap that startled the patrons behind her. She was aware, then, that she had her back to the room, and noticed Zurafai eyeing behind her head. Still searching for signs of a warder, or for an ally of her own? Malaika’s gaze snapped back to the damane as the woman climbed to her feet, the silver chain of the a’dam jangling.
“I don’t wish to hurt you.” Simple, direct, and utterly useless – the damane had no conscious choice to her actions. There was a moment of calm as Malaika slowly edged from the table, thinking to put the solid wood of a wall to her back, instead of the unstudied mass of inn customers behind her. How long before her hand was forced? The damane was weaker, and now that Malaika was filled with saidar a successful shield was unlikely. Knots of Spirit, Air, Water, with a dash of Fire – meant to stun before shield – had also failed. If the damane could not subdue her, she would try to kill her. A dead marath’damane was better than a free one.
“Do not make me hurt her, Zurafai.”
“Then come quietly, marath’damane. It is your last chance; I grow weary of this idiocy.”
There was no time to think, no time to fathom a way to separate the two from one another.
Cutting Air came next, swirling like a gale in the small space. Through whipping hair, Malaika saw the majority of the inn’s clientele flee. Her body stung like there were razors in that wind, until she wove threads of Fire and Earth that rent a line through the ground, cracking a table in two and displacing the damane’s footing. In the moment of weakness, she forced a shield – hoping beyond hope that it found purchase, but the wind died and her shield cracked in half. Fire spun in a sweeping spurt, deflected by a wall of Air. Flames licked at the furniture; there was a cry behind, and screaming. Malaika urged the wall forward, meaning to crush the damane against the wall, but her flows were severed.
A blunt block of Air knocked her sideways. Where did that come from? She braced herself against a chair, and channelled blind threads in the damane’s direction, rewarded with a scream. Something felt loose at her side. More weaves shot forth and were severed in quick succession, faster and more complex with every passing moment. Saidar rushed a seductive storm, her damane and Tower training a tight cohesion of power and control. Time became indistinct, and even pain receded beyond the resolute, single-mindedness to survive.
Thought retreated; accountability, carefulness, humanity - all diminished until there was only action and a strange silence broken only by the devastation of the raging battle weaves. Threads for protection and attack grew more elaborate and intense, but it was like Malaika no longer existed in the moment. Instinct and training were all that remained.
Time had no purchase, until the abruptness of the conflict’s end.
The damane’s eyes widened in pain, injected suddenly with blood red. Shocked realisation was her last expression before she crumpled; limp before she even hit the floor. Zurafai gasped. A flick and the bracelet hit the ground, but Malaika barely noticed. Light, what have I done!? She knew, of course she knew. As soon as the fateful threads flew from her like coloured silk, it was like her soul returned to her body and comprehension snared her in the same seconds the damane understood how she was to die. Tears sparked like diamonds, regret and guilt like a raging waterfall damned by Aes Sedai detachment.
A net of water soaked the remaining fires with a sizzle, almost an afterthought as she hurried to the girl’s side. Dead, she knew that without touching her, her expression still caught in that of surprise, black hair splayed over her face, in her mouth, down her neck. Not a mark on her, but for those eyes. I promised. She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to battle the harrowing memories of the last time she had unleashed that weave.
Physical pain tugged her back. A sudden burning, tearing slice through her upper arm; she tumbled backwards, rolling wide-eyed as Zurafai came at her again, and with a blade she recognised. Her hand went to her side, only to find the dagger’s sheath empty. Had the damane done that too? A slash missed her by a hair’s breath, and then saidar flooded her system. A tight band of Air coiled about the sul’dam’s body. The knife – one of a twin pair gifted to her by Kasimir – clattered to the floor, and then the woman herself toppled like a felled tree, right beside her.
It was over.
Light, it was over.
Malaika’s heart beat furiously, and saidar winked out. Burning, smoke, blood – even without heightened senses she was aware of it all with aching realisation. She pushed herself up, denying the dizzying shake of her body, the unsettling knowledge of what she had done. Only their corner of the common room bore the most visible damage, but damaged it was. Floorboards cracked, split to spill earth amidst the woodchip. Smoke hazed the air, spots of tapestry and wall and table blackened with fire, the table they had sat at riven in two, a number of chairs snapped to pieces.
And the body.
She turned despite the burning pain of a million tiny lacerations – and one decidedly big one – and looked over the fallen damane. She smoothed the hair from her head, noticed how her flesh still felt so warm. Her brows knitted at the senseless loss of life. I’m sorry I could not give you the life you deserved. She pressed her fingers over the woman’s eyelids, closing them over the bloody-red eyes, the only evidence of the Weave that had ended her life. [/color]
“Mistress…” The voice came from behind, reminding her that the inn had not completely emptied. She glanced up once, to assure herself she was safe for the moment, then unclicked the silver collar about the woman’s neck, careful to lower her head to the ground softly, despite the fact she was very, very dead. Malaika baulked at even looking at the a’dam, let alone touching it, but such a dangerous weapon should not be left unattended. She did not truly know for sure that Zurafai had not brought allies. Weakened, injured, she would not survive another altercation. She did not want this thing lying around.
That done, her gaze returned to the man who had addressed her. “Aes Sedai.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, but she was critically aware that she was hardly safe and secure in Tar Valon. Her ring was upstairs, with her satchel, and her face – even changed with the One Power as it was – was neither ageless nor slowed. If she couldn’t convince this man with presence alone, she did not like to think of the consequences. She stood on quivering legs, the a’dam in her hands. It felt like ice that sucked the warmth from her blood, but she could ill afford to succumb to its intimidations.
The man – the owner, she assumed, by the way his dark eyes grievously took in the damage – eyed her warily, but acknowledged her statement with a nod. Malaika held his gaze a moment longer, to assure herself he was genuine, before fumbling one handed with the clasp of her cloak. She shrugged the garment off, painfully aware of the blood that soaked the remains of her sleeve and slicked down her arm, then wrapped the a’dam away in its woollen confines. A little strength bloomed once the offending item was out of sight and touch, safe in her control.
“Your name?” After the exertions of the evening, her voice took on a tired softness incongruous with the destruction she had caused. The steel that had fuelled her struggle – an unyielding, hard side of her that few in the Tower had ever witnessed, or even thought to associate with Malaika Sedai – evaporated. Still, she held his gaze firmly enough – quiet, thoughtful, yet edging on impatient.
He was not immediately trusting. It was a lot to take in, she supposed, how quickly the evening had turned from pleasant and ordinary to bloodshed and demolition. She wondered if he was deciding whether to argue, or considering how far he could trust her. No rogue channeler could have fought the way she did, but he could not see the tight flows or the immaculate control. He only saw broken furniture, blood and a body.
“Danvar, Aes Sedai.”
“Master Danvar, the White Tower will recompense the damages done to your property. I apologise for the inconvenience.” She pulled a purse from her pocket in her skirts, suppressing the sharp protest of pain in her arm. “I regret I cannot spare the time to aid the clean-up.” She meant the body, but could not bring herself to say it. The purse she lay on a table; it was all she possessed, and a goodly sum. “Ensure she receives a proper burial. The rest is yours, to begin your repairs.”
He nodded, teeth grinding in a closed mouth. He wasn’t happy, clearly, but he would accept her words, and thank the Light for it too.
“Bloody Seanchan.”
Something like a grim smile flickered her lips, grateful too that her face was still distorted. “I will need the bag from my room, sir, and then I will trouble you no more.”
Only once Master Danvar had taken leave did she turn her gaze to Zurafai, lying stiff on the floor. A thousand words passed through her mind, to bring closure to this terrible evening. But in the end she said nothing.
Master Danvar was not long with her bag, and she thanked him for its retrieval. He did not stay long, murmuring excuses of patrons upstairs who had been unsettled by the noises below. She nodded, glad for the privacy. The a’dam she shoved in her satchel, eager to pass it from sight and mind as soon as possible. Then flows of Air righted Zura from the floor. Malaika noticed the sinuous muscles of her arms straining; clearly she still fought the power binding her rigid. Futile. The quiet sympathies in her gaze as she approached said as much; dark gaze to dark gaze, neither looking away from the other, though Zura’s expression was markedly more sinister. Her sister was taller, though not by much; Malaika swung the cloak about her shoulders, clasped it beneath her neck, and pulled the hood up. She did not touch her skin as she did so, or linger about the task. Though her emotions roiled as dark as a churning sea, there was so compassion in her movements, no softness. Just function. It was dark out, which was fortunate, and the cloak would help conceal that Zura did not move of her own accord.
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