Rhiale could not rightly describe how much she loved being able to wear pants.
The Mistress of Novices had burned her cadin’sor upon her arrival. Technically, she shouldn’t have even been wearing that; Wise Ones did not wear working clothes. But Wise Ones did not usually leave the Three-Fold Land, either. But, when she made it clear that it was a matter of toh, she had been able to leave without feeling too much guilt. She owed Lorraine first. She wished she had been able to bring back her body to her beloved Grey Tower, but the journey was too long. Perhaps if it had been Tar Valon, it would have worked. But Hama Valon? So far west that it was practically a foreign planet.
But she did what she was told, dutifully, and lived as a novice. She did her chores, took her lessons – that was something that she had placed special emphasis upon. Lorriane had once mentioned something about being brown, and that browns collected knowledge – Rhiale had little choice but to honor that. Truly, some it was fascinating. She had a particular fondness for history and culture. But… It was nothing like home, and she could feel herself becoming soft. She cleaned, and she cleaned a lot, but that did nothing to maintain the sharpness of her mind.
It hadn’t taken any convincing once it had been relayed to her that she would be permitted to change out of novice whites if she wanted to work in the Warder Yards in her “free” time. She’d put on the soft grey clothing, laced up her boots with practiced hands, and devoted the day to cleansing her mind. She would not worry about chores, or Aes Sedai, or books, or written work – all that mattered was the gravel that crunched beneath her boots and the spear in her grasp.
They’d called it a polearm, and she’d sworn the Armory Keeper’s eyes had bulged out of his skull when she asked for him to cut it in half. She’d had to bully him into it, but he had done it, muttering something about how Mistress Bryne would have his hide. But she was pleased, nonetheless, and she’d even found a decent buckler.
“Decent enough,” she muttered. It was not of the quality she expected, but she could not particularly blame them for their ignorance. There were plenty of weapons she’d never seen before. At any rate, she was told that only a few people worked with polearms – and the best would likely be the Captain-General, as anyone else was too busy to spar short-notice. She’d only stared blankly when they recited his name to her – and then had been kind enough to contact him in her stead.
She assumed that he would arrive in the Yards whenever he had the time. For now, she was satisfied with her own company; she had already stretched every muscle until it burned comfortably and run herself ragged around the courtyard. Rhiale now was working through stances and strikes with a straw dummy. She felt foolish, striking an unanimated opponent; it was very outmatched, even by someone that was in as poor practice as she, but everyone else was doing it... Things were done very strangely here. Wouldn’t they learn their stances better if practiced on each other? And surely, the bonus of agility and fear-factor of getting nicked by a blade would have done them good, too. She shook her head. Rhiale had no interest in reforming Wetlanders. She merely wanted to pay her dues and leave.
Her shortspear smacked the dummy with a dull thud. She frowned. Her wrist was very out of practice; the spear had wavered, and though struck true, it was without strength. It had been a very long time since she had done this. He’ll tear me to shreds, she thought flatly. Perhaps that will do something for my poor skill.
The Mistress of Novices had burned her cadin’sor upon her arrival. Technically, she shouldn’t have even been wearing that; Wise Ones did not wear working clothes. But Wise Ones did not usually leave the Three-Fold Land, either. But, when she made it clear that it was a matter of toh, she had been able to leave without feeling too much guilt. She owed Lorraine first. She wished she had been able to bring back her body to her beloved Grey Tower, but the journey was too long. Perhaps if it had been Tar Valon, it would have worked. But Hama Valon? So far west that it was practically a foreign planet.
But she did what she was told, dutifully, and lived as a novice. She did her chores, took her lessons – that was something that she had placed special emphasis upon. Lorriane had once mentioned something about being brown, and that browns collected knowledge – Rhiale had little choice but to honor that. Truly, some it was fascinating. She had a particular fondness for history and culture. But… It was nothing like home, and she could feel herself becoming soft. She cleaned, and she cleaned a lot, but that did nothing to maintain the sharpness of her mind.
It hadn’t taken any convincing once it had been relayed to her that she would be permitted to change out of novice whites if she wanted to work in the Warder Yards in her “free” time. She’d put on the soft grey clothing, laced up her boots with practiced hands, and devoted the day to cleansing her mind. She would not worry about chores, or Aes Sedai, or books, or written work – all that mattered was the gravel that crunched beneath her boots and the spear in her grasp.
They’d called it a polearm, and she’d sworn the Armory Keeper’s eyes had bulged out of his skull when she asked for him to cut it in half. She’d had to bully him into it, but he had done it, muttering something about how Mistress Bryne would have his hide. But she was pleased, nonetheless, and she’d even found a decent buckler.
“Decent enough,” she muttered. It was not of the quality she expected, but she could not particularly blame them for their ignorance. There were plenty of weapons she’d never seen before. At any rate, she was told that only a few people worked with polearms – and the best would likely be the Captain-General, as anyone else was too busy to spar short-notice. She’d only stared blankly when they recited his name to her – and then had been kind enough to contact him in her stead.
She assumed that he would arrive in the Yards whenever he had the time. For now, she was satisfied with her own company; she had already stretched every muscle until it burned comfortably and run herself ragged around the courtyard. Rhiale now was working through stances and strikes with a straw dummy. She felt foolish, striking an unanimated opponent; it was very outmatched, even by someone that was in as poor practice as she, but everyone else was doing it... Things were done very strangely here. Wouldn’t they learn their stances better if practiced on each other? And surely, the bonus of agility and fear-factor of getting nicked by a blade would have done them good, too. She shook her head. Rhiale had no interest in reforming Wetlanders. She merely wanted to pay her dues and leave.
Her shortspear smacked the dummy with a dull thud. She frowned. Her wrist was very out of practice; the spear had wavered, and though struck true, it was without strength. It had been a very long time since she had done this. He’ll tear me to shreds, she thought flatly. Perhaps that will do something for my poor skill.
