A Dear Sister

[Eidolon]

Enough time had passed. The emotions stirred by her visit to Ebou Dar had resettled, leaving a fine mist of impartiality in its wake. Routine without Kasimir had continued; her studies, alone and with her ajah, her visits to the city, and her deep contemplations. The morning had seen a combination of those already, including a particular interesting meeting in one of the Brown’s alcove common rooms, which had left her with a parchment scribbled with notes to follow up. These she deposited by her favoured armchair, where she would not forget them. A netted shawl of cream and white slipped from her shoulders, and was laid idly on another piece of furniture – an armoire, she thought vaguely in passing, since the shawl had been a gift and one she would undoubtedly feel indebted to wear again.

Her soft footsteps had purpose, but her mind still lingered with the meeting. If any had been present to witness her expression, it was the epitome of Brown stereotype, brows gently drawn, gaze caught in an intensity that lacked focus in the physical world. Fortunate, then, that she could navigate her rooms with her eyes closed. Her left palm pressed again her bedroom door, and saidar brought tender flame to various ensconced candles within. It was the only room in her apartments she would feel uncomfortable letting another see, the only part of her sanctuary she had made any effort to make her own. Convincing herself she had the right to do that – to put her physical mark on an actual space – had taken time, and made slow advances even now. One might struggle to see how – it was still very much generic – but to Malaika’s sensitivities, it was like a portal to the most private recesses of her mind.

She sat on the edge of the bed, and retrieved the key from her pocket. There was no hesitation; Malaika had made this decision, and arduous though the decision-making may have been, once it was made she did not balk. The ward about her bedside cabinet unravelled at her touch, the faint traces of saidar wrought by her own hand yielding to its mistress. The key turned, the drawer pulled out, and the envelope sat in the shadows within. She pulled it out, memories simmering at its touch, and flicked it open. The page within was folded neatly, and she smoothed it out on her lap. The script at its centre was in Chakai’s utilitarian hand; to the point, nothing extraneous but for the few details he had imparted from his sick bed, perhaps to remind her that the longer she let the wick burn, the less time before even this information would be useless.

She read it twice in quick succession, words carved in mind as if on stone, then the glow inflamed her and the paper burned. She watched impassively as it curled and blackened from the edge, and caught the ash in her right hand, where the heat found no purchase on pain.

Now she knew, and now there was a bigger decision to be made.

---

It was difficult to train her thoughts to the idea of time, to ingrain within her mind that – if she was going to do this thing – then she was going to have to work to a schedule. There was no leeway to spend a few days contemplating, as she would have liked, because if after her slow and laborious meditations she decided yes, then it would leave her no time to prepare - and that would simply be suicide. So she must organise herself and consider whether she did the right thing while she did so. There was no commitment; she could change her mind – come to her senses – even up until the last minute. It felt rushed, terribly rushed, but she had needed the last few days to steel herself to open the envelope, and the deadline was a thing outside of her control.

It will be what it will be. The Wheel Weaves as it wills… The thought calmed her, at least a little.

The only thing she wished for was an ally, someone she could trust enough to divulge what she was thinking and why. She thought of Byron, probably because he had a knack for making the crazy sound sane. No doubt he would even be able to convince her she was doing the right thing, which would have been welcome amid the flurry of her fears. And, well, if he told her she was stupid, then she would know her plans really were crazy. But she didn’t have the luxury of an outside opinion – not his, or anyone’s. She didn’t trust her sisters to advise her in this matter, because she doubted a single one of them would understand, or would be able to give their advice without salting it with their own interests. And Kasimir? Even if he was not in Ebou Dar, she would not involve him in something so risky. She was truly alone in this.

It was not so bad. Though she wished for someone to talk to, she also knew that an Aes Sedai ultimately made decisions for herself, and she could not expect someone to shoulder the burden for her. She considered this as she sat at her desk, quill held aloft in her hand, head tilted to one side. It was truly strange to not have to answer to someone anymore - to truly be able to make decisions for herself, and reap either rewards or consequences. There were her Ajah Sitters, of course, and the Council, but there was also the fact she was Brown. How many women snubbed their noses at the Ajah because of its reputation for being cloistered and fusty, when it truth it was perhaps the most free Ajah of them all. Even Blues, who travel the world on whim, must rationalise their Causes, must ground themselves in morals. A Brown's only fences were the pursuit of knowledge, and that was such a vast and uncompromised field that Malaika did not think she could detect the fences at all.

I have to know. The mantra of any true Brown, and she wrote it at the head of her parchment, above all the pros and cons she had thus far ordered into neat columns. It someone negated everything she had just written. She had spent years under Broekk Sedai's wing, had even considered White at one time, and it showed in the logical progession of her thought patterns - even in her habitually chaotic way, she liked order and reason. But this... this feeling washed away logic. I have to know...

---

How time passed quickly when you willed it not to – when you were counting on those seconds and minutes to prepare. She had poured over maps, practised weaves with a precision and diligence she had not needed since the one hundred weaves, researched every obscure eventuality she could think
of – and all the while she maintained her usual appointments and gentle mannerisms, despite the blooming uncertainty and late nights contemplating.

Two weeks had not been long enough, not for everything, but it would have to suffice.

Her dress was unusual, more fitted and practical for travelling. A belt cinched her waist, Kasimir’s daggers sheathed on either side of her hip. A thick cloak negated any self-consciousness she felt over her figure, so uncommonly blatant (by her standards) in these unusual clothes. It felt conspicuous, but in fact cut an ordinary, plain figure. The serpent ring she kept on her finger, for now at least, and she twisted it lightly around her finger, her only outward concession to the tight ball of anxiety she felt within. Her gaze took in her rooms, shadowed in early morning light, and she wondered if she had remembered everything.

A finger strayed to the hilt of one dagger, its weight unfamiliar despite being balanced on both sides. Kasimir had warned her against carrying weapons you were not one hundred per cent proficient with, because more often than not they would be used against you rather than serving for your protection. She understood that, but it was better than nothing. Where she was going, she might not be able to rely on the One Power, and this was as close to a contingency plan as she had. She might have gone to the Master of Arms for aid – one did not have to bond a gaidin or gaidar to benefit from their assistance – but she had been loath to share these plans with anyone. They were too personal, too close to her heart, and she did not want to share them with a stranger. Even if it put her person at additional risk.

The Light send she did not live to regret it.

Do I have everything I need? Her heart quickened in these last moments. A mental check, the rote of it intensifying that flutter in her stomach. Her purse, filled with far Tar Valoni coins, hung a heavy weight in the deep pocket of her skirts. She had checked her satchel a thousand times, unpacking and repacking it with everything she could imagine needing. It lay at her feet, neatly buckled, waiting. Eyes half lidded she counted the contents twice in quick succession, and then her eyes opened, steely in resolve. If she had forgotten something, it was not going to come to her now; she was ready, as ready as she could ever be.

She considered the planes of her furniture, the velvet fall of her curtains, the fresh cut flowers of her sideboard, and wondered if she would ever see any of it again. An Aes Sedai wanted for no luxury, and sometimes Malaika felt a burrowed guilt for how little she noticed the lavishness. She was not vain or proud or over-indulgent, but sometimes ignorance seemed as bad; to not notice when servants scented her bedsheets with lavender to help her sleep, or when they tidied the debris of living without prompting; whisking away empty plates, bundling laundry and plumping pillows – the smallest kindnesses, and that was how she thought of them, despite knowing it was a servants job. How much she had to be grateful for, and she was risking it all on the whims of her heart.

She wondered if she should say goodbyes, then wondered who she would say it to if she could. Some sisters were close, but her life was sometimes… lonely. That feeling had been nestling in her soul since Kasimir left, haunting her nights and urging her thoughts to her sister. Her damane sister, she knew now. That song of sorrow captured her heart, her thoughts, her everything; like calling to like across the distance. Foolish, selfish… human. She was stalling, thoughts running in melancholic circles with all the philosophic meanderings of a White. Allowing her lips to purse, to steel the evanescent emotions within to something sturdier, harder, she lifted her bag and settled it on her shoulder. She turned her back on her room; it was filled with things, trappings of a life that meant nothing if she could not put the power she had built to use. The door to her study opened with a click, and saidar flooded her aspect – bringing certainty and beautiful calm. 

The space behind her desk split like molten silver, then widened, shimmering the air like heat. Malaika did not look back when she stepped through.

---

Malaika blinked, gripping the edges of the basin, droplets of water pooling on her lashes. Cold water slid down her nose, down her cheeks, and trickled from her chin. She watched each droplet as it hit, contemplating the tiny ripples as they spread outwards, before she finally pressed her palms to her face. When she looked up, the face that greeted her in the mirror opposite was not her own. The eyes were dark and unremarkable, the nose stronger in profile. The hair brown, straight, and pulled back in a braid that tucked round and tied at the base of her neck. Over the past weeks she had worked hard on that face, hoping to create a physical representation of the strength and determination she would need. And to erase any trace of her ancestry; that was imperative.

She turned away. The cold water hadn’t eased her anxiety or cleared her head, but it had been better than brooding – better than worrying. It was a strange sort of stasis up here, counting the moments before she would descend to the common room below, and then her thread in the pattern would play out its fate. In these last moments of calm she paced. The room about her was small and serviceable; thin mattress, warm blankets; a water basin and mirror, an antiquated chest of drawers. No hearth, but a thick, well-worn rug over the floor-boards. The shutters fit well, preventing any draft, and there were no unwanted guests. It was far from the comforts she was used to, but it was the least of her thoughts.

She was at an inn on the edge of a merchant route in rural Altara. At this time of year it was near vacant of patrons, but there were enough that she didn’t feel isolated or overwhelmed.  That had been part of Chakai’s criteria in establishing this meeting; somewhere out of the way, alone. She was not sure how he had managed that, and kept herself from wondering too deeply. All her brother had been willing to impart was that she was to be representative of a party interested in seeking a sul’dam’s aid. The Empire must have changed much if sul’dam were open to such private persuasions, but it had been many, many years since Malaika had shared anything of Seanchan but her blood. It was enough that the meeting would take place at all, and should she find herself in a dangerous situation as consequence… well, she had been aware of the risks before she had ever woven the silvery Gate to Ebou Dar.

She had arrived early with thought to steel herself, but now that she was here she only felt anxious impatience. It had taken three days to travel from the Gate she had opened outside Ebou Dar, to here; she had planned her route carefully, and had encountered no problems. Everything had run smoothly. Too smoothly, if she was going to be cynical, but she choose to believe in her own control of the situation. She wondered if that control would fall apart when she saw the collar about her sister’s throat. Sweet Zurafai, the single hope that had comforted her for most of her life since the collar. Anger swelled, and hope and despair and determination.

I am coming for you Zurafai, I am coming.

[Eidolon]

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.

[Eidolon]

 
Zurafai & Malaika

 
Out in the night, Malaika finally let the weaves distorting her features fall. Saidar she kept, infusing herself with its warmth as much as she dare without losing control. Battling the damane had taken it out of her, and she was relieved she could still touch the Source, that it was still pliable to her will. There would be no Travelling tonight, though; that much was beyond her instinctual safety parameters, unless necessity dictated otherwise. But neither could they stay here.

She had studied the area beyond this inn long before her journey, and didn’t need to fish the map from her bag. They walked the road south for a long time; hours passed, until the joys of saidar began to burn too intense, and she was afraid that if she didn’t let go, it would wrench from her control and the world would plunge dark. But she couldn’t trust Zura to walk, either, so she led them off the deserted path and into the adjacent trees. She dumped her bag at the base of one, her legs a trembling mess at the thought of rest. She moulded Zura into a position more comfortable at the base of a tree, tied the flows of Air and then let saidar go. It felt like the roaring rush of a passing waterfall, and she sat quickly, before her legs gave way beneath her.

Now what? The tentative plans she had made in her head, the results of every eventuality she could fathom, had never included this. She had never once considered that Zurafai might be sul’dam, not damane. Had not ever had reason to even suspect it.

---

The dropping temperature did not bother her, but she was far from comfortable. Her arm throbbed, her head spun. Exhaustion had been chasing her since the inn, but she could not sleep – dare not even let her lids drop, because there was no one to watch her back if she did, and she had no energy to construct a ward. The road had been deserted at this time of the evening, and they were far enough away that they were not visible from it, but Malaika was not accustomed to this kind of travel. All she knew was that they were two woman, alone, and if they were approached, she wanted to be awake when it happened.

She pressed her head back against the tree, thinking through the situation with as much clarity as she was able. When morning came, she would have to make a decision. Whether Zurafai would accept it or not, she had the capabilities to touch saidar, but Malaika was under no disillusion that the former sul’dam would go quietly to the Tower. How could one force another to embrace, if she were set against it?

“So, what now, dearest sister?” From the folds of Malaika’s thick cloak, Zurafai’s eyes glared like augers. It was the first time had spoken since the death of her damane.

Entering a dialogue was probably stupid, but Malaika would forever be tugged by the softness of her heart. She might deny it when necessity struck, when it was important to function without the trappings of emotion, but for all her blank stares and void expressions, Malaika was far, far from immune. Cupped in the shadows of the tree, she sat very still. Despite the conflicts within, her face betrayed none of it. It never did.

“The feast-day I was taken, you were barely more than a babe,” she said. Her expression was even, as was her voice, and her gaze met her sister’s without hesitation.  It was important to show Zura the depths of her control; not simply with the Power, but with every aspect of her life. “I remember how love for me withered from our parents’ eyes. How Assaru stared, suddenly afraid of the young sister he had always tormented. Do you remember that you cried, Zura? That you reached out your arms to me, because you did not want them to take me. That memory has fuelled me for much of my life. That I was loved, even at the height of my shame.”

“I don’t remember,” she answered, smiling with sugary sweetness. “I was a baby. Life continued without you, marath’damane, as it always does when a girl is collared. I forgot you quickly enough. Whatever my memory was to you, you were never anything to me. Not even the whisper of a memory, not even a dream.” Even now, ensnared in threads of Air and barely able to move, Zaura displayed an innate confidence; she was sharp where Malaika was soft, quick of tongue where Malaika was slow. Were it not for the ring on her finger and the years of training behind her, she might have crumbled under that strength, have doubted her own control of the situation. Zura’s smile turned sly, her eyes like slits in a mask. Even as Malaika considered the sister she had always coveted, Zura was five steps ahead.

“Forgot until our brother returned, that is.”

“Chakai.” She said the name carefully. How dangerous would it be to pursue this path? The furtive beat of her heart, the restlessness in her soul, was desperate to know – to grasp at the connections to her past, and to make some sense of the present. How muddled her memories were with her Arches, which had been filled with Seanchan and Chakai. But could she even trust that the truth sprang from Zura’s lips? Her words cannot hurt me if I don’t let them.

“Dearest brother Chakai, home from his adventures as morat’torm. He was inappropriately upset to find you gone." The sul’dam kept pausing, stretching the painful memories to breaking before continuing, her slurred voice agonisingly slow. Malaika said nothing, but her gaze never wavered. Whatever games Zura played, she would not win against an Aes Sedai. The Brown defended herself with her walls and barriers, created a fortress about herself that words could not penetrate. She would listen, she would remember, and later – when she was safe, when she was alone, she would let the reaction come.

“He simply couldn’t let you go, refused to believe that you were an abomination. It was such an unhealthy interest. Tragic, really.”

“If you have a point, I suggest you get to it.”

“But it’s such a beautiful night for telling stories. And you did ask to hear this one.”

More cryptic than a Blue. When Malaika did not grace her with an answer, she continued, that knowing smile never far from the edges of her lips. “I looked for you when I earned the right to be called sul’dam, but by then you were long gone – in fact, I thought you dead until recently, and would never have given you a second thought, but for Chakai. He never believed; he thought I hid you from him, wanted to see with his own eyes what you had become. He could never… accept, and that is an ill quality for a person to have. It was far below his station to even think on a damane, let alone worry about one. It concerned me. I am a dutiful citizen, marath’damane – in fact duty is very important to me. Everyone has their place in the Empire, and must shoulder their responsibilities accordingly.

“He asked me for a favour, blood to blood. He wanted to see you, to put his final ghosts to rest.

“So I reported him.”

Malaika blinked, her only outward reaction to the way this … tale… was unfolding. There was a storm outside her fortress, but within its walls she was impassive, calm, serene.

“I hoped he would realise his error, would finally come to his senses. Morat’torm are hard to come by, and our brother was among the best of his ilk. Oh I’m sure they gave him chances, and perhaps he did repent, I don’t honestly know. All I know is that they took that which he held dearest to his heart, and crushed it into a thousand pieces. Lesson learned. Never cross the Empress, May She Live Forever.”

His leg, she realised suddenly. He had not fallen, had not faced the random wrath of the animals he so loved; that story had never sat right with her, if she’d never given it enough thought to work out why. All animals had loved Chakai, and he’d had a flair with the torm that was unrivalled. Light above…

“They exiled him to Ebou Dar, but they never let him go. And that is why he hates me, sister dearest. And why he hates you too. His little … obsession… ended his career.” A tinkling of laughter caressed her throat. “And to think, all the while you were a matter of miles away. He lost everything for you, and it was all for nothing.”

And then I carelessly shunted my way back into his life, reminding him of everything he had lost for a ghost, for a memory. I had everything, and he nothing. And then I took the one thing he did have left. I took his son. Things crashed together with astounding finality. Malaika’s head was going to explode, terrible thoughts and realisations banging at her gates, risking a suddenly fragile composure. She knew it was what Zurafai wanted – perhaps was even counting on. Beneath the warm wool of the cloak, she imagined the woman’s arms straining, searching for the smallest weakness in the bonds that held her immobile.

The scar in her palm flared pain, hot as the day Chakai’s blade had sliced through her flesh. Love overflowed for the brother she had idolised, for the tragic man he had become – all because of her and her cursed gift – then regret for the pain she had caused him, and would always cause him because now he knew she alive. That she was Aes Sedai. She had to shutter it out, to maintain control despite the fatigue and the grief. Her Tests, her training, they all culminated in the way Malaika’s expression glazed over, that she was able to simply close her emotions down, deny them all.

“So Chakai let me think he disowned you because you were damane, when in fact it is because you are heartless. He thought that I would be caught unaware, that you would collar me, and he would never have to see my face – or yours – again.” The flicker of a smile. Perhaps her words had not been as even and impassive as she’d have liked, but at least she had finally grasped the truth of it. “You are a channeler, Zurafai. Given the right training, you would touch the One Power as effortlessly as me.” Zura stared blankly – looked as though she may have tried to shrug the statement away – but her eyes flashed fear, denial. She already knows. Malaika felt a grim satisfaction at the way the tables had finally turned. She locked away the feeling stirred by Zura’s words, buried it for now as if it had never happened, and circled back to Zurafai’s initial question: So, what now, dearest sister? She held the woman’s eyes, stretching the silence in cruel mockery. “You realise that it means you belong to the Tower.”

---

Cold morning rose pink then white, light like great shards of ice. It wasn’t until she shivered awake that she realised she’d dozed some time in the night, foolish as it seemed in daylight. Zura still had her cloak, and the plummeting temperature had burrowed into her skin while she slept. Her shoulder flared pain as she moved, her arm cold and heavy and painful – more so than it had been yesterday. Dull eyes found the sul’dam motionless at the base of a tree; asleep or feigning, Malaika couldn’t be sure. The events of the evening rushed back in as her senses readjusted to her surroundings, each and every querulous emotion forced back into cool submission. Somewhere inside of her, she imagined a child weeping. Sadness was like a seed in her heart; yet to grow to its forbidding potential, but there like an illness. Inevitable.

“Zurafai.” Her mouth was dry as bark, her voice scratchy. No response. She supposed she hadn’t expected it. With gentle caution, she opened herself to the flow of saidar, and found her strength returning in delicate measures. Enough to Travel, perhaps.

Would that she could open the silvery gate this very moment, and leave her memories here to wither and die.

But she couldn’t. Not until she resolved what to do with Zurafai.

Home was like a beacon, but even that longing grew shadowed. She had hoped to return with a sister, her beautiful fragile sister whom she would help bloom to her potential. Instead she had snared herself a sul’dam, and was left with the distasteful decision of what to do with her. Last night she had threatened the Tower, and that was where Zura should go, but a dark reluctance grew in Malaika as coldly as her grief. She did not want Zura there, forever a reminder of the tattered remains of a past she had spent countless years coveting. But worse than the shame of having a sister who fought the Tower’s aid at every turn, reflecting shame and guilt on the young Brown who had thoughtlessly brought her there, was the possibility that Zura might endure. That she might outshine her sister in strength and sharpness, and all the qualities Malaika wished she had, but lacked.

It shamed her to admit it, even in the quiet privacy of her thoughts. How selfish it was, to deny another – and of her own blood – the support and guidance that might be the making of her. She ran a hand over her face, quite desperate to unearth some compromise that appeased both her conscience and her pride. When she looked up, Zura’s eyes were open.

She imagined the woman would be cold, and stiff, her limbs still incarcerated in unforgiving bonds of air. Darkness ringed her eyes like bruises, but despite it all her expression had the quality of steel. There was also resignation in that pale face, but the resignation of one who had no other choice, not of one who accepted what was to come. That apparent strength stoked faint anger in Malaika’s chest, but she cast that away with the rest of her quashed emotions.

For a moment, a long and painful moment, they stared at each other in silent battle. Malaika was surprised when it was Zura who broke.
“What now, marath’damane?” There was no mocking ‘sister,’ no sense of cruel scorn, just a blunt detachment. Malaika wondered how long and tortuous the night had been for her sister.

“You were right about something, Zurafai. I never wanted to be released. But it happened, and I am glad that it did.”

“Spare me the sermon, witch.”

“Do you know what I discovered at the Tower? I discovered that the Empress lied to us-” Malaika continued speaking over Zura’s muttered “may she live forever” – “and the whole institution of damane and sul’dam is built on those lies- -”

“That Tower is a monolith of lies, and it spreads its heinous deceit to justify the freedoms of channelers.”

“The Tower has existed for centuries, and has the world broken again? Do you know what caused the fall, Zurafai? It was the taint, the taint on saidin. Men destroyed the world, not women. Men driven mad by the Dark One’s touch on their half of the Power.”

Zurafai closed her eyes, a frown lining her brow, her lips pinched. Maybe she wasn’t even listening anymore, but Malaika continued on. She wanted Zurafai to hear this, to have it gnaw at her in the dark moments before sleep’s solace, to grow like a seed of doubt in even the staunchest moments of faith.

“That power you have within, you could grasp it if you wished. You could grasp it and the world would not end – indeed it would grow brighter and more beautiful. The Empress denies us that. She calls it filth, but it is purest light.” She struggled on stiff limbs to stand. Her sister’s head had dropped, but even if she tried to block those words out, she would hear them. Somewhere in her sub-consciousness, she would hear them.

“Zura, I’m not going to force you to the Tower. Without teaching, you will never channel.” Malaika opened her satchel, the a’dam within like silver poison. Her sister’s face had risen, eyes for a moment wide before they narrowed in suspicion. Malaika forced herself to withdraw the horrific object without flinching, keen that Zura should witness her fearlessness. The bag she tossed at Zura’s feet. “I have no more coin, not that Tar Valon gold would do you much good. But there’s a little food, some clothes.” Books, too, but they would have to be sacrificed.

[Eidolon]

The gate winked shut, darkness rushed in. Her head was spinning, from knowledge or blood-loss she couldn’t be sure. A step forward, a wobble; the room lurched and she crashed against the wall. Pain flared. She sunk to the floor, pulling herself together piece by piece until she was fairly sure she could stand. The a’dam slipped from her grasp with a beautiful clink, unnoticed. Her hand rested heavily on the door handle, turned, opened, and her eyes adjusted to the gloom without.

Early morning light pierced gaps in the curtains, still drawn. Her rooms were cold, and she didn’t have the energy to bring light to the hearth or the ensconced candles. Familiar shadows of furniture loomed, her things strewn about in quaint idleness, unchanged from the day she had left. She was having trouble keeping her balance, blinked her eyes in quick succession to clear her head. Knowing she was finally safe – finally home – tempted her muscles to give in on her, but she couldn’t rest yet.

She fumbled through various drawers, looking for something to bring light to the dimness, found nothing, and so settled for tugging the curtains back from the grand windows. Outside, the sun spread gold fingers over an ordinary day. Servants and a few white-clad novices milled about in the grounds below, the earliest of the early risers already scurrying about their business. More wooziness hit her, and she turned away.

It took her some time to find a mirror; lacking much vanity, there were not many in her rooms, aside from those that had been part of the furnishings when she moved in. She shied from her own image, turning so that she could view the gory mess of her arm. The blood had congealed, sticking her torn flesh and the tatters of her sleeve together. She peeled it off painfully, and shrugged the garment from her shoulders, admitting silently to herself that the addition of maid would have made the effort considerably easier as she struggled to ease it over her hips with the aid of only one arm, and that with her already scarred hand. Eventually she was able to step out of the material pooled at her feet, fingering the sore skin while investigating its image in the mirror.

It would need Healing, unless she was willing to bear another scar. All Accepted learned herb-lore, and there were books she could use to assist cleaning and sewing the lesion closed, if she could reach where it sat on her shoulder. But she already had one scar, inevitable at the time, and it was more than enough to remind her that she should be more cautious when it came to her safety. She didn’t want another.

She was trying to concentrate, to ease the tide behind her eyes, but suddenly realised there were tears on her cheeks. She stared at herself, at that escaped weakness glistening in the dawn-light, and then brushed them away. More spilled in their wake, pooling on her lashes faster than she could wipe them from her cheeks. Emotion stirred dangerously, until she relented, pressing her hand over her face. Behind the curve of her palm the tears flowed unrelenting. Her sobs were so quiet, barely even there, but Malaika had not shed tears in years – had never felt so out of control.

She turned away from her reflection, unwilling to witness her own distress. There was no relief in the release, just a profound outpouring of sadness that flared then died to a simmer when eventually the tears slowed and stopped. After control returned, she brushed her hand over her head, pushing back the strands of silk-black hair stuck to the clammy remains of her grief. She sniffed, breathed deep, looked up at the ceiling. She couldn’t even be sure what had made her cry; Chakai and all the pain, old and new, bundled up with his memory? The damane she had killed, with a weave she had promised herself she would never use again? The sister she had sought to save, only to find she was a leash-holder and nothing akin to the memory she had cherished her whole life through?

My life has crumbled before, and I have rebuilt it. And she was stronger now. Not without her flaws, but still stronger. The throbbing in her arm brought her back to the physical world, and the chill that pebbled the flesh beneath her shift. She could not go to the infirmary in this state – was at loath to see anyone at all in this state – but it was necessary. She would wash her face, cool the remains of the tears from her cheeks, then she would change her shift and find a robe that would allow comfortable access to her wound without compromising her modesty.

---

Once those things were completed, the methodical routine of it like a balm to her distress, she called for a servant and had her run a message to the infirmary. There was no physical note; she did not have the energy to fiddle with ink bottles and quills, but the servant had been told to fetch a Yellow, and that Malaika’s door would be open when she arrived. The Light send the Aes Sedai was bold enough to walk right in, else the servant had the sense to escort her through; Malaika did not think she would find her feet again once she finally sat down.

When the door closed behind the woman’s skirts, Malaika settled into her favourite chair. Her eyelids felt like they had weights on their lashes, and she relented to letting them drift shut over her swollen eyes. Sleep beckoned a seductive escape from the dark nest of thought and regret squirming like tangled thorns in her mind. Her arm felt cold like it no longer even belonged to her, the pain so hot it was like ice in her skin. The limb was heavy, dragging her down, down, down, and it was a moment before she realised her dreams were invading reality. I mustn’t fall asleep, not yet.