Filling the Days

[Morven]

Devika Sirideán

Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah

✥

Though Devika was determined to hold herself unreadable inside, as unmarked as cold steel, Jole provoked a fury in her chest that darkened the ire in her eyes. He didn’t deny his intention, and his goad suggested he thought her lacking; that she must be further led towards the judgement that Arikan must be dealt with, one way or another. Oh, she had no intention of leaving the dreadlord free on his merry way, now that she knew not only that he lived but that he was integral to the Shadow’s plans. But while Jole could be relied upon for his docility when it suited him for survival, Arikan had nothing to recommend him to their cause. A weapon that could not be used must be destroyed for precisely the reasons Jole so blithely stated – to prevent it falling into the hands of another.

But she realised the slippery creature in front of her was her best chance of finding the light-forsaken man in the first place. A man who evaded both Light and Shadow this past decade and longer.

And Ashtaroth knew it as well as she did.

She considered that any of the Forsaken could grant him at least part of what he apparently wanted – the return of his gift. Should any of them find the motivation for it at least, and that seemed unlikely after thirty years abandoned as the Dragon’s lapdog. But none of them might grant the latter of his desires – the freedom to renege on his dark oaths.

Only the Dragon’s victory could do that.

It did not safeguard her life, of course. Nor did it mean he would not betray her should he find a better way to achieve his ends. But use worked both ways, and Devika’s life was a paltry thing when compared to the fate of the world. Arikan was a single man, and one made weak enough by circumstance that he’d been driven into hiding. The Tower would condone none of this, not even if the Dragon demanded it, and he would not. Jole’s allies were few and thin, and for now Devika was the best shot he had.

She gave a short, irritated sigh.

“I cannot protect you in the world of dreams,” she said eventually. For all her fieriness she was not without calculation. Jole was unlikely to risk himself; she trusted that was true, even if she didn’t trust anything else. The words were a wrench, but they were blunt. Even with a ter’angreal to enter, she would not risk the disadvantage – she had no power there, no experience. Bait or bargain, she didn’t enquire which Jole intended – she would not believe whatever yarn he spun anyway. Whichever it was, once Arikan realised someone was on his tail, she did not imagine he would ignore it. 

Her thoughts instead moved to her own plans. She needed to speak with the Highest. Light how she hated Tar Valon. Jole would feel the shift in her emotions, the sense of focus. The anger eased away, replaced with her habitual sultry manner. “I want you to enjoy what's left of your evening, Jole. A bath would indeed not go amiss. Tonight we finally put you to work, and you prove your worth.”

[Sámiel]

((Continued from Triumph))


The gold still weighed warm in Roedrick's pocket as hurried through the Stone. This part of the fortress was quieter than the rest: thicker floors, fewer guards, the kind of quietude that came with guest quarters.

He reached the door and hesitated only a moment before raising his fist and rapping twice, firm but not aggressive.

Moments passed.

Then the door cracked open.

Master Jorin stood in a tunic and no pants, eyes bleary, dark curls tangled from sleep. He blinked down at the servant with the slow irritation of a man pulled from slumber.

“What is it?”

“Begging your pardon, Master Jorin,” he said, bowing low. “There’s a man at the South Gate. Says his name is Cassius Grimwood. He told me to tell you… he brings word of your mother. He said you’d want to hear it.”

Jorin’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Now? In the middle of the bloody night?”

“He insisted it was urgent, sir.” The servant hesitated, then added, “Paid double just to make sure you came quick.”

That gave Jorin pause. “What’s he look like?”

The servant swallowed and tried to find the right words. “Pale. Too pale. Hair like white ash, high-cut and wild like he forgot what a brush is. Dressed in black from throat to boot. Gloves, too. Tall coat, real fine. Looked military, I'm not sure. And he’s got these dark round spectacles like he’s hiding from the sun.”

Jorin stared at him for a moment, all sleep gone from his face.

“Fine. Wait here. I'll put on some bloody pants," he said.

The servant bowed again, waiting.

[Jaxen Marveet]

“I’m flattered you feel so protective of me,” he smirked, knowing that wasn’t what she meant. She didn’t trust him with a potential ally, not alone. And frankly, he was getting tired of offering suggestions she refused to consider.

The bath was bitterly empty of company, but the lukewarm water eased the tightness in his muscles. Later, he collapsed into bed, still damp, and wished foolishly that he’d wake to find all of this was just a ridiculous dream....  No, he wouldn’t seek out Arikan in the dream tonight. But a wander through the old places wouldn’t hurt. Just in case.

+++

For decades, not a word. No messages. No dreams. No whispers from the Great Lord’s deeper circles. And now. Everything. It felt like a bottle of old sand suddenly overturned, everything long-settled tumbling free. He was still fumbling with the drawstrings of his trousers when he burst into the corridor, boots half-laced, cursing under his breath. He barely avoided slamming into the Aiel woman who materialized in front of him.

“Dark One’s ashes…” he muttered, trying to sidestep her.

She didn’t budge. “Where are you going, Jorin?” she asked, her tone neutral, but the way she emphasized his false name made his skin crawl. He gave her a half-hearted grin. “Devika thinks I need a babysitter?”

He made a show of trying to move around her, but she blocked every step. Her eyes were unreadable. “Tell her to meet me in the tunnel to the South Gate.”

“I’m not a messenger,” she replied.

He leaned in, voice low. “Tell her Samóch has come. And he wants to talk.”

Her expression darkened, but she turned and disappeared into the shadows. Finally, some cooperation. 

The tunnel to the South Gate was lit unevenly, torches casting more shadow than light. Each flicker left a smear of darkness on the stone walls, like blood bleeding through parchment.

He paced.

Why Samóch?

Of all the Chosen, Samóch had been Eshamir’s shadow: devoted, sycophantic, imitating him like a hollow echo. When Asristin fell and the great Dreamweaver had been turned. When the legend had been made into a puppet.

Was Samóch following Eshamir’s will or acting on his own? Did this have something to do with Asristin? 

Could Asristin have broken the Turning?

Could the Rod be used twice?

Could someone be... unturned?

At least Devika couldn’t sneak up on him. He felt her presence moments before she appeared in the light. If the Maiden followed behind, he couldn’t tell, though.

“You need to listen to what we say. I will find out what he wants, but he cannot know that you are near. If he finds out about us, we will be completely ruined. Not to mention completely fucked.”

He chose this path to the gate because the tunnel led to a guard tower over it. She should be able to watch if she stayed quiet. One last thing: “No matter what happens, do not interrupt. Do not interfere. I will handle him.” 


Through the bond flowed a course of determination, but beneath it was one of fear. Jole would never admit such an emotion, he didn’t even sense it in himself other than the caution that they had to tread carefully. Samoch was arguably the most twisted and sadistic of them all, and Jole was walking into battle completely defenseless.

Chapter 13: Samóch

The South Gate was a trade access, not a noble entry. Barges unloaded food, weapons, supplies. Nothing glamorous. It was reinforced, of course: high walls, guard slits, and the long iron spikes that jutted from the fortress exterior like ominous thorns.

He'd noticed them on the way down, vaguely amused. Overkill. Now… they loomed like giants watching his every move. 

He strolled out, posture loose, hands in pockets, hair a mess, scowl firmly in place. He looked like a man dragged from bed by a bothersome chore. Which was completely authentic.

And there was Samóch waiting in the deepest patch of shadow, of course, his black coat swallowing the light, those absurd spectacles perched on his nose.

Jole raised a brow. “I hear my mother’s died,” he said dryly. “Strange. She’s been dead for three thousand years.”

Samóch turned without smiling.

“I need you to cast an illusion.”

Jole tilted his head. “No greeting? No 'good to see you, Astharoth', no ‘how’s the spying going, Ashtaroth’? But alright. I’m listening. Ask nicely and I might conjure something worthwhile.”

Samóch just stared. “I’m not talking to a mirror,” Jole muttered, waving a hand at his own face to indicate the glasses. “Take off those things.”

With a slight flick, Samóch slid the spectacles into a pocket. His face was pale, unreadable, disturbingly still.

“It needs to be King Daryen of Arad Doman,” he said. “You’re the only one of us with the skill to make it perfect. You’ve seen him here, I'm sure. You can copy him.”

Jole’s brows rose. “The King? Are we playing body doubles now? Why would I bother?”

“I don’t have time to explain. The Nae’blis commands it. No clothes needed. Just the form.”

“No.” Jole spread his hands. He turned to walk away.

Samóch’s hand landed on his shoulder. Jole shoved it off immediately, posture snapping into tension. His fingers twitched reflexive and instinctual. But there was no Power to answer his call. Not anymore.

“We all know what Evelara did to you. I can remove her shield if you agree to help me.” His voice was mock softness.

Jole stilled. “You can’t untie her weaves.”

“I act on the will of Nae’blis,” Samóch snapped. “Don’t test me, Ashtaroth.”

“Then answer me this,” Jole said carefully, sensing Devika just beyond the torchlight. “What are you doing in Arad Doman anyway that you should wear the king's face?”

Samóch’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The King is… occupied. But no throne should go empty for long. Imagine the chaos.”

“Get a wig,” Jole muttered. “You’ll be fine. Maybe a tan...”

Samóch’s hand moved. But Jole knew the signs. He was going to channel. Or he was already.

Jole didn’t flinch. He took a step forward instead, tilting his head in that slightly broken, too-loose way he adopted when amused. A performance. A distraction.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Samóch. You can’t kill me.”

“True,” Samóch said quietly, almost affectionately. “You know, Ashtaroth, there are few pleasures in this world. Even fewer in this Age." He reached into his coat and slipped the glasses back on, slowly.

Jole relaxed a fraction, but Samóch's words were little warning. “Which is why I’m going to savor this.”

A burst.

Jole’s body was hurled backward.

He hit the wall. And the spikes.

One pierced his pelvis, shattering bone. Another rammed through his navel. The third lodged under his sternum. The fourth through his throat, silencing any scream he might have made.

He didn’t die. He couldn’t die. But pain... Pain he could feel.

He hung, twitching, blood pouring down the stone in rivers. His limbs convulsed. His vision blurred. Any attempt to say Devika's name drowned in a gush of blood. 

And Samóch’s voice, calm and satisfied, drifted up to him.

“Yes. I did enjoy that.” Then he was gone.

Jole's body spasmed once more, then stilled.

[Sámiel]

Samiel continued at: "The compromised king"