The Grey Tower

Kaira couldn't help it. When Nasrin pulled out the locket, Kaira gasped. And when Nasrin turned right to her and grinned eerily, she screamed out loud and nearly fell over against Johan's shoulder. She straightened with a blush and reached for her bottle of wine. Her heart pounded furiously. Light! How was she to sleep in the same room as Nasrin now? As if their midnight ticklefights weren't already enough to keep her up at night. She lifted her bottle to her lips and took a deep draught. Pah, it was nearly empty. She shook the bottle for the last few drops, then set it down and clapped her hands together loudly.

"Bravo! Bravo!" she called. She returned Nasrin's wink as if she just been pretending to be afraid.

Then out of the gardens came another novice, who sauntered up and tossed some small object on the ground. Kaira narrowed her eyes and stood up. Woah! The world tilted and spun dizzyingly. She giggled at the feeling and stumbled towards the thing. She attempted several times to pick it up, until a Drin - Paks, she thought her name was - finally took it from the ground and handed it to her.

"What's this?" Kaira asked. Her words slurred together. She turned the object in her hands. "What's this? A.... potato! Po-ta-to!"

She threw her head back and laughed as if she had just been told the funniest joke in the world. She raised it high into the air.

"You brought a po-ta-to! Let's roast it in the fire. Oh, I know you! You're the new novice, yes, Eveayla! I am Kaira Darrow, and this is my best friend Nasrin. Here, help yourself to some wine. And oooh the oosquai that Lisari brought is really excellent stuff. Please pass it over."

Gentle hands pried the potato out of her hands and guided her back to her seat. "I think you've had quite enough," someone said. Kaira pouted and then laughed indulgently. Yes, they were probably right. She smirked and then looked around the circle. They couldn't be expecting her to stand up, could they? She was really in no shape to be telling stories. She settled back on her elbows with a wide, silly grin.

"So! Who's next?"

Johan jumped, more from the fact of having a Novice fall into him than anything else. It didn’t help that she’d screamed. His ears were ringing. He straightened up, forcing himself to keep his face carefully blank, acting for all the world like the last five minutes had not just happened. He wanted to make a good impression, after all. Novices could scream all they liked, but it wasn’t exactly in keeping with being a Drin to let your fears show, was it?

He hadn’t touched the wine or the food, but just watched, doing his best to give the impression that he was calm and completely relaxed and not the self-conscious mess that he actually was. The real reason he didn’t touch the wine, though, was because he was all too aware of the fact that he’d have to be at the Practice Yards early the next morning, and, whilst all the alcohol would probably numb him more against the pain of any inevitable blows, it would actually probably mean him getting hit far more. If he wanted to be a fighter, he had to be in control, no matter the sacrifices.

He leaned back on his hands, his legs stretched out, and then took a breath. There were no dramatic flourishes or gestures. He just stared into the fire, his voice quiet.

“Have you ever heard the tale of Black Scucca?” He paused for a moment before he continued on. “There once was a man, a nobleman, named Henree d’Angely. He was cruel and heartless. He stole from his tenants, forced them to work long and hard. He planned to raise an army and loot Ebou Dar of all its wealth. He wanted to be king. He wanted to rule. He didn’t care how he did it, or what he had to do.

“The people despised him, but there was nothing they could do. The moment they rebelled, he pushed them down. He hung innocent men, destroyed families… Wherever he went, he left destruction in his wake.

“The people prayed to the Creator to rid them of him.” Once again, Johan paused, his eyes flicking up. “But sometimes, though, you have to be careful what you wish for.

“After that, each night a terrible hunt rode, full of creatures that could have been from the Dark One himself. Anyone who ventured out from their home disappeared. Anyone who he even glanced them through the window died before morning rose. They had no true form. They couldn’t be hunted or killed like Shadowspawn, like Trollocs or Myrddraal. Swords passed through them. Brave warriors fell to them. Aes Sedai, Warders. The creatures were black as night, had eyes that blazed red and wept fire. One look was a death sentence.

“The people locked themselves up and hid, but they could not block out the sounds. Every night the hounds would howl throughout the woods and fields, joined by the hunters’ horns, calling for the people to come out and deliver the man they had promised.. The creatures had no footsteps. But every night doors would bang against the bolts, strain against the hinges, as if something was trying to get in, and then silence. Each morning, the people would wake to find scratch marks that smoked and scarred the wood. Just three. Some say the marks bled.”

Again, Johan paused, more to catch his thoughts than anything else. This was the most he had spoken since arriving at the Tower. The tale had always been one he used to keep his brothers and sisters in bed.

“Eventually the people grew tired, couldn’t stand it any longer, and they killed Henree d’Angely. The hunt stopped.

“One creature, though, stayed behind, Black Scucca, as a warning never to let an evil man rule again. They say he’s huge, black and hairy, with red eyes that weep fire like the other beasts. He’s said to be the harbinger of death. He roams about, through the fields, along the roads, through the villages and graveyards. If you see him, you won’t live to see the sun rise.

“But you won’t hear him approach. You won’t know he’s coming until it’s too late. You can’t hear his footsteps or his breath. You hear a howl,” a howl sounded in the background, seemingly right on cue. He thanked whoever’s dog it was, and continued on quickly, trying not to let his grin show. “The hair on the back of your neck pricks up, and you feel as if someone is behind you, and then you turn, and,” Johan clapped his hands together suddenly, loudly. “Black Scucca. You’ll never see a sunrise again.”

Jaren watched and listened to the stories with fascination; he wasn't frightened by the stories, but it was interesting to hear legends and folk tales like that. And when it began to seem like everyone would be telling one in turn, he knew exactly the story he was going to tell. Assuming that nobody else was thinking of the same story and got there before him...

He glanced at the curly-haired Novice -- Eveayla, Kaira had called her -- with the bottle of oosquai and held out his hand to take the bottle once she was done with it. "Thank you," he said, smiling brightly. The drink didn't taste remarkable in any way, but it was strong, and Jaren supposed that was its point. He wondered if it was truly imported from the Aiel Waste, or if it was made somewhere in the Westlands. Ultimately, though, he preferred wines.

Then the Drin Johan was finishing up with his performance, all nice and dramatic with a well-timed howl in the distance, and people exchanged slightly spooked glances, or maybe they were just trying to decide who would continue. Jaren shrugged; he might as well. "That was downright chilling, my good man," he said. "But at least it sounds like that thing'll leave ordinary folks alone, just going after the wicked and corrupt. That's some comfort."

He sat up a little straighter and leaned forward, sitting cross-legged and leaning his elbows on his knees. "There's a story that every wine merchant south of Tar Valon knows, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was told all the way in the Borderlands. It was some two or three centuries ago, there was a Tairen wine merchant, called Monterean or something along those lines, and he was, at the time, the single most influential man in the trade. He lived in his mansion, out of the way, and from there he dominated the market across the continent." He accompanied the story with an expansive gesture, nearly hitting the Novice next to him. "Oh, sorry about that."

"Anyway, Monterean. His wine empire grows, decades pass, and the guy just shows no signs of retiring and leaving the business to his heirs." Jaren took another sip of the oosquai before passing the bottle on again. The stuff really was quite horrible. "The contrary, even; he just keeps acquiring smaller businesses off businessmen who are half his age, like, he invites them for negotiations and these younger merchants each and all walk away from the meeting and decide to give up on the trade.

"So folks naturally begin to wonder what's going on. A bunch of small-time merchants band together, to try to figure out what to do, and eventually they agree to send one of their number to meet with Monterean. And this young guy goes, full of determination..." Jaren paused for a second, looking around. He was fairly sure several of the others already knew what was going to happen next. "And yes, when he returns, he tells his buddies that he's tired of the trade and going to sell his business to Monterean. The others are outraged, but ultimately the man's free to do what he wants so they have to let it go.

"But the others can't give up that easily. They send another one, and the same thing happens. At this point they're getting really paranoid, and running out of friends, there's only three of them left, and so they decide that one more of them will meet with Monterean... But the others will follow in secret, pretending to be the man's retainers. So they gain access to Monterean's Manor. And what happens is this:

"Monterean receives the guest like a normal person, but after a while the two others posing as servants notice that there's no sound of conversation coming from the sitting room anymore. All of Monterean's servants seem to have vanished, too, and so they decide they should go and see what's going on. They find a secret passage behind one of the book shelves, because it was left open, and there's this narrow staircase leading down, underground. With their swords out, the brave merchants follow the stairs..."

Jaren reached for one of the wine bottles and took a sip; all this talking was making him thirsty. Answering the impatient looks with a smirk, he set the bottle back down again and continued, "In the basement, they find Monterean and their missing companion. Monterean's wielding something that looks like a scepter or something, holding it to the poor younger merchant's head, and a greenish light flows through the scepter from the poor kid to Monterean. And as the two remaining merchants watch, they can see the light in their companion's eyes dim, while Monterean seems to grow younger, like, his grey hair turning darker again and his face smoother.

"The heroes charge in with their swords, like good Tairen hotheads, without thinking about consequences." Jaren chuckled wryly, shaking his head. "As soon as Monterean notices them, which is pretty much right away, he shouts for his guards, but because the guards are not in the basement, the heroes have a little time. They can't fight whatever magic it is that Monteren's abusing, but one of them knocks a lantern over. All those fancy Tairen curtains and carpets, yeah? They light up nice and quick, and our hero throws himself at Monterean, to make sure the old bast-- uh, old bugger doesn't make it out. The other one does, though, and he's the only one to emerge alive as the Monterean Manor burns down merry as you please."

Jaren looked up at his companions again, smiling faintly. "He lived to tell the tale, and that's how I'm able to share it with you tonight. Nobody knows what the scepter was, but personally, I suspect it was a ter'angreal. It was never recovered from the ruins, and I hope to Light it was destroyed in the fire..." Another pause, before he shrugged again. "But who knows, with the objects of Power, what they'll survive." Then he reached for a pastry and leaned back, especially satisfied with the last addition. No iteration of the story that he'd ever heard mentioned the possibility of the scepter being a ter'angreal, but he thought it made sense.

Paks looked around the group of Novices, Soldiers and Drin as people started telling scary stories, and it brought back memories of her days with her band of merry bards. Their stories were not often scary, though crowds did like suspense. Most of the stories told amongst the learning ranks had a regional twist to them, and Paks could tell a story from her home, but why go regional when you could use the group’s imagination against it.

Taking a long pull of Mead, but far from intoxicated, Paks stood up, as she found she could not sit still when she began one of her tales. With a flourish as she cleared her throat, the Drin looked around the circle, pausing to meet everyone’s gaze just long enough as she begun to deliver her own story. “The Grey Tower has seen its fair share of tragedies, travesties and mysteries. We’ve heard one such story this night, and I will share with you another. Those faint of heart might not want to listen for fear of nightmares.”

Paks paused, her eyes on Lisari’s as the Drin took another drink of her mead. The smirk didn’t seem to leave her lips as she spun her tale, “Some years ago, but not eons ago, there was a woman. An Aes Sedai of the Tower. They say she had hair dark as midnight and skin as white as porcelain. They say she was a respected member of the Tower with the grace and ambition to become Amyrlin Seat one day.

“They say her ambition was her greatest strength, and her greatest weakness. Someone with perhaps more ambition and drive decided this Aes Sedai with midnight hair and porcelain skin had fulfilled her path in the Pattern. The Aes Sedai was found in the depths of the Tower, marred in the scarlet red of her own blood as someone slit her throat and left her to die alone.

“They say on the darkest of nights, when the new moon hides her face, the Aes Sedai haunts the halls of the Novice quarters, searching for one who might share her drive, and ambition to imbue her with her own ghostly powers so that in this unsuspecting Novice, the woman’s own ambition can rule the day. Those she haunts that she deems unworthy are found in a pool of their own blood, their throats slit as deep as hers” Paks paused again, her eyes on Kaira’s this time, as she took another sip of mead.

She let her smirk grow somewhat as she finished her tale, “So those of you in Novice Whites should take care not to wander the halls alone on the darkest nights. For if the Aes Sedai with midnight hair finds you wandering alone, you may wind up her next victim!”

Kaira listened with bated breath to the stories. The tale of Monterean’s ter’angreal reminded her of the various trinkets that her aunt kept in her quarters. Kaira was forbidden from touching them, of course, but she couldn’t help but to wonder. The story of the dead Accepted struck close to home. She shared an uneasy glance with Nasrin. And she shivered in horrified delight as Eveayla related the tale of the Darkfriend and Forsaken.

Then Paks began her story.

“Some years ago, but not eons ago, there was a woman. An Aes Sedai of the Tower. They say she had hair dark as midnight and skin as white as porcelain…”

Kaira paled. As the story continued, she tapped her fingers nervously against the ground. The story had changed - she never heard the exact same tale twice - and despite herself, she was curious what the ending would be this time. Only a few facts remained the same. Midnight hair. Porcelain skin. And a terrifying story of death and destruction. She twisted a strand of her own mousy brown hair around her finger, glad that was one thing she had not inherited from her mother.

“Those that she deem unworthy are found in a pool of their own blood, their throats slit as deep as hers.”

The storyteller turned her head and looked straight into Kaira’s eyes.

What?!

Kaira gasped and her hand flew to touch her throat. Did this woman, this tall Drin with her strange and twisted story… did she know about her... ? Kaira glared at the Drin, feeling a sense of rising panic and overwhelming emotion.

Then the woman’s lips lifted in a smirk.

That was the last push that tipped Kaira’s fuzzy mind over the edge. She leapt to her feet with a cry and lunged for the Drin. She struck, fast and hard, but Paks had vanished. Kaira whirled around and threw a second punch at the dodging Drin. Another blur of movement, and then suddenly she felt arms restrain her from behind. Kaira clawed at the arms in vain.

“What under the flaming Light are you doing?” Paks hissed in her ear.

Kaira could not think of an answer. She was too embroiled in her rage. How dared she? How dared she?! Voices spoke above her, almost too quickly for Kaira to follow.

“Should I get Vanya Sedai?”

“No! You will get us in trouble.”

“She’s too drunk,” someone said. “Let’s put her in the shed until she calms down.”

Arms dragged her across the clearing. The door opened. Then she was pushed in. The door closed. Darkness. She sat in stunned silence for only a second before throwing herself at the door.

“LET ME OUT!” she screamed.

Outside of the shed, one voice rose above the rest.

“Kaira! Kaira, it’s me, Nasrin. It will be alright, okay? We’ll let you out in a few minutes. Just calm down. Please, Kaira! Are you listening?”

Kaira did not listen. She punched and kicked and yelled herself hoarse.

An indeterminate amount of time passed before she fell quiet. She blinked into the darkness. Had that only been a minute or ten? She could not tell. A thought pierced her drunken haze. Weren’t they telling stories? She wasn’t really quite sure what she had been angry about anymore. It all seemed so silly! She counted on her fingers. Nasrin had gone first, and then Johan, and then… her mind seemed to cloud over. Hm. Well, surely there was still at least one more tale to go. She crawled to the corner of the shed nearest the clearing, pressed her ear against the wall, and listened.

Most of the stories the others told didn't really scare Calira, except for the one a novice she didn't know had told that ended with one of a pair of roommates being killed in their very room in the Tower. That one had startled her enough that she had nearly screamed herself when the girl telling the story grabbed the leg of the novice sitting beside her. Not long after that, one of the other novices who'd been drinking a lot had actually attacked someone who was telling a story. She found that to be more scary than any of the stories, and was rather grateful that some of the others had quickly taken control and shut the novice up in the garden shed. That incident seemed to have brought the storytelling to an abrupt end, so Calira decided to stand and share a story one of her friends had once told her.

"Many years ago in Tarabon," she began, "a beautiful young noblewoman, unhappy in her marriage, was caught sneaking out of her house to spend her nights with another man, one who was far more attractive to her than her elderly husband. Of course, her husband was furious when he found out what she was doing. One night, he followed her when she left, grabbed her just before she reached her destination, and pulled out a knife." Calira paused, pleased to see that everyone appeared to be interested in the story. She lowered her voice to a near whisper before continuing. "He cut her mouth open from side to side with the knife, and asked if her lover would still find her beautiful. When she didn't answer, he stabbed her to death."

Calira raised her voice just slightly before continuing the story. "It's said that her ghost haunts Tanchico, seeking out pretty young men and women to approach. She asks her victim if she is beautiful. If the answer is no, she stabs them to death. If the answer is yes, she removes her veil to reveal her scar and repeats the question. If the victim changes the answer to no, she murders them, and if the answer is yes, she slits their mouth so that it matches her own, though in this case the victim lives." The novice took a breath before ending her story. "If you are ever in Tanchico and are asked this question by a mysterious woman, be careful how you answer her. The only way to escape is to answer that her looks are just average, or in some other similar way that is not a yes or no response. This will confuse her, allowing you time to get away." Calira supposed that her ending, giving a way to defeat the ghost, probably made her story a bit less scary than some of the others had been, but that didn't bother her much. She resumed her seat ,wondering if anyone else had a story to tell or if she had been the last one.