The Grey Tower

Jerid Walker Asha'man Jerid Walker was enjoying a rare vice this night. He was smoking a pipe of Two River tabac, perhaps for the first time in more than a decade.

He was far away from anyone else, deep in the Gardens. And all around him danced motes of soft silver-blue light. The area was suffused with the light, and the motes danced like stars would in the night sky.

It was one of the few weaves Jerid knew and designed that came close to Illusion. Most times it was taxing to weave, given the amount of the One Power it took to create. But he had refined since its creation more than a century ago.

Rare were the times when the Indigo Asha’man wove it, for it was needed only in times of deep contemplation or solace. The last time he wove it was on the eve before the Seanchan siege of Walker Manor, when he contemplated his next actions.

That had been a different life, he a different man.

Now, on the night before what he considered an important decision, difficult thoughts weighed heavy on his mind.

This was his last night as the First Seeker of the Indigo Ajah. Come tomorrow, he would summon Illyria to his offices and she would assume his place.

For more than a century he’d given his life to this Tower, to its safety. He’d fought in three wars, one against Tar Valon itself after it took his people, and lost many friends. Many more he had to kill.

Another war was averted, one he would have started, mostly because his wife and Warder asked how many more people needed to die for something that had so simple a solution. On that front, his estranged son and a grandson he never knew were hostages of an Andoran House aligned with Whitecloaks. Jerid would have marched with 1,400 men against a house much smaller than his own if not for Lysira’s wisdom.

Instead, he had opened a gateway to that flaming House’s manor, rescued his son and grandson and paid a visit to Lord Tyeon himself as he slept alone. In very simple terms, the Asha’man had provided a personal warning that should such a stunt ever be pulled against an ally of House Walker, its blood or any other House of Andor again, its existence would be forfeit.

[i}”Five thousand soldiers will come, and if need be, the Queen’s Guard behind it, and tear your house down,” Jerid had whispered to cowering lord in his bed. “I won’t witness the potential disruption of a nation so vital to the fight against the Shadow, even if I must die.”[/i]

Those words haunted him now. And they led to his most recent decision, which Lysira seemed to agree with. As he puffed on his pipe, his mind was on the possible gains and consequences. For most of his life, he had called this place home. For as long as he had been an Asha’man, many Dreadlords and Black Ajah members had died in a span unforeseen in Tower’s history.

He walked a fine line between the Shadow and the Light in order to accomplish that, but Jerid was the latter’s soldier in all things.

And he was growing tired of waiting for the next war, the next excursion, especially where it concerned his own family.

The motes of light flashed, as if in warning, as someone stepped inside the glade. His gold-green eyes looked up briefly, hand on the hilt of the long knife he wore. Then he realized the person was no threat.

He removed the pipe from his mouth and set it aside as he nodded his head toward a seat beside him. When the person approached closer.

“We lost too many Soldiers and Dedicated, nearly as many Novices and Dedicated in the Seanchan attack,” Jerid murmured. “Twelve Soldiers I knew personally, ones I was hoping to see go through the arches soon. Another was my aide. We nearly lost a M’Hael to it as well.”

It was no secret among the Tower’s administration that a group of lower ranks sneaked out of the Tower in hopes of rescuing a captured Dedicated and Accepted. In the end, Soldier Morgan Cade was subdued and sacrificed his life to ensure the escape of his comrades.

It was also no secret that Jerid was vocal in his disapproval of Jaryd Asha’man for taking matters into his own hands to rescue the two learning ranks, among them the Amyrlin Seat’s great-great granddaughter. The logical thing would have also been the simplest: send an Asha’man and his Warder to infiltrate the enemy camp, get their people back and if necessary sow chaos in the process.

“Do you ever remember the dead, the number of lives lost, because I do,” Jerid murmured. “I helped bury 97 Soldiers, 12 Dedicated and a score of Asha’man during the so-called Battle of Lights and its aftermath. I buried four Soldiers, a Dedicated and an Asha’man in the rescue of an en’Damier from her Black Ajah aunt more than twenty years ago.”

If there was one gift Jerid could sacrifice, it would be that of a powerful memory. He remembered every face, every name ... every action that resulted in him killing. And it haunted him. The man he used to be, the man who he became after the Portal Stone affected him and merged another world’s Jerid with his own consciousness, and the man he was now.

“I buried a son, two daughters and many family members because of this place,” he murmured. He had buried Catieri al’Cardyn, and his last Warder, Siena Calin. “At what point do you stop and think why we go on, and why we wait for the next war?”

Weland, loyal servant of the Tower and part-time gardener Emmond stood his rake up in the soil and leaned his weight against the butt of the handle. There was someone weaving saidin deep within the gardens. That amount of saidin might have casted a gentle glow into the night sky. But as Emmond couldn’t see, all he sensed was a vague feeling of power and menace, along with the various sensations of the different flows.

Once, he could have held that amount of power. Not anymore.

His head tilted curiously as he attempted to identify the weave by merely feeling the sensation and shape of the flows. Some sort of ward-like Illusion, he thought. Impossible to tell with any accuracy without sight. He shrugged his shoulders and picked up his rake to move carefully toward the source, carrying the rake in his hands.

The grey uniform of his Tower servant livery blended well into the shadows. Though he was reasonably tall, he walked with a slightly hunched posture and kept his head down to avoid attention. No one would guess that he had been a former Asha’man. With the release of the oaths from his gentling, his appearance had changed drastically. Elia had told him that he had a new face.

“I like this one better,” she had said, her fingers running across the stubble on his cheek. “You look younger. Softer. Less dangerous. More handsome.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?” he asked. If so, he thought that it was a rather back-handed one.

“It is simply the truth,” she replied, in typical Aes Sedai fashion.

As he approached the center of the gardens, he noticed the unmistakable scent of tabac smoke. Emmond relaxed. His head lifted and his shoulders straightened. This man seemed to be simply out for a smoke. Why the need for all this saidin? He felt a faint yielding ripple as he stepped through the weave and looked around blindly. There was a bench around here, he recalled. Indeed, as the man began speaking, Emmond could tell that the man was seated on that bench.

Emmond drew closer, but chose to stand. Again, he leaned against his rake. Though he didn’t immediately recognize the voice, the man’s words soon made his identity clear.

Only one man at the Grey Tower had participated in the Battle of Lights, rescued Saphire en’Damier, and buried so many of his children. A very accomplished man, this one - Jerid Walker, First Seeker of the Indigo Ajah - a man who had been around for decades before Emmond had come to the Tower, and who would probably still be hanging around for decades more. The blasted man was bloody difficult to kill. Even Emmond had lost count of how many times the Black Ajah had tried.

And now, apparently the Indigo Asha'man was feeling philosophical. What a funny twist of chance. Emmond smiled. He kept his voice warm, friendly, and respectful, as was appropriate for a servant speaking to a full-ranked channeler.

“Stop and think as much and as often as you like, Master Asha'man. I’ve certainly thought about it many times myself. But my conclusion is always the same. Let the dead bury the dead. Life is for the living! No disrespect meant, sir, but we don’t simply wait around twiddling our thumbs until the next disaster hits. There’s beer to drink and festivals to celebrate and women to kiss. Anyways -"

He held out a hand. “- the name is Weland, sir. Mmhm, I smell some good tabac. Care to share?"

In his very long life, Jerid knew when to suspect and when to trust. It meant the difference between survival and the alternative. Long after his enemies had returned to dust, he sauntered away, alive.

With this one, however, he could not be sure. This young man, completely unknown, refused to give the First Seeker a hint on his final eve in his position.

Some things must end, a thought said. If his last night as the Head of his Ajah was to be spent with what obviously looked like a gardener, then so be it.

Light alone knew Jerid Walker had spent time in the company of worse people.

He shook the gardener’s hand and murmured, “Jerid.” Few in the Tower didn’t know the name these days. The demon of Ebou Dar was a legend, perhaps more to his liking than he would like. The second Seanchan Siege was evidence of that: the Walker in the Tower was a dangerous thing, and he wrought so much damage in the final hours.

Worse, against orders, he had hunted down any remaining encampment and inflicted such chaos that any mercenaries associated with them were long gone.

For one night, he would like to forget that he was the man who grew from simple origins. For one night, he wanted to forget that he was a thief turned soldier. That he was the soldier of the Tower.

Some dreams died hard. He placed the pipe in Weland’s hand, along with the small pouch of tabac. “Smoke as freely as you wish, my friend,” he murmured. “My vice has been satisfied for the evening.”

He observed this gardner. “There are some who would disagree with you, Weland. In more than 150 years I’ve never twiddled my thumbs when it came to a threat of my Tower.” There was truth to that statement, with some exceptions. He was absent in the first Seanchan Siege, and his son had died in his place. A few others along the way paid the price because he failed to act.

Dozens of others. He was tired of waiting for the next conflict. With the Oaths gone, and he free of hiding that he had never been bound to them for decades, he could do things so differently now.

But he wouldn’t. His plans were simple, at least on paper.

“Life is for the living, so let it be,” he murmured. “In a day, I intend to retire to Camden Corelle. The Tower has no need of soldiers like me anymore, and the Indigo Ajah does not need one, except on the front lines.”

It was truth. With him would go his Warder and wife, and their son. “There will be no living Walker in this Tower,” he mused, mostly to himself. His oldest living son Sojin was a Majere, and so was Jerid’s granddaughter. Even in times of exile there was always a Walker in the Tower, and when there wasn’t some danger infested or erupted.

Jerid did not plan to return except on visits or to report to the new First Seeker he had in mind. His intent was to return to Camden Corelle and rule. For five hundred years, the small mining community had been nothing but an arm of House Walker. That changed with the discovery of rich veins of alum and his decision to send 5,000 people from the Caralain and five hundred armsmen. But that had been nearly 15 years ago.

And now he was lord of that hall, at behest of his grandson, the current Walker in the Caralain. If there was to be one blessing of the life of a channeler, it was long life and Jerid would see the growth of his new home from what it was now into a beacon in the Mountains and the first gateway from the west to the Grey Tower.

Jerid smiled ruefully. “Live for the living, bury the dead and move on,” he murmured. The starry motes danced and spun, and for one brief second flashed. “But what happens when all you’ve known for the last 150 years was war? And suddenly to give it up to attempt a life of peace?”

Emmond grinned in appreciation.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. He took a deep lungful of smoke as Jerid spoke.

“In a day, I intend to retire to Camden Corelle."

Emmond nearly choked. He coughed and beat at his chest. Retire? He hardly believed it. Men like Jerid did not simply retire.

“Retire?” he echoed. “Light! Asha’man Jerid, sir! This is… this is a… a huge shock, sir.”

He steadied himself against his rake. This news would set the Tower servants aflutter for weeks! While most Asha’man and Aes Sedai came and went without remark (his former self included) some prominent and beloved figures of the community were watched closely. And Jerid Walker Asha’man was certainly among these. His feats in battle had been witnessed by too many. To the servants, the Indigo was a living, breathing legend.

But still a man. And apparently, a man tired of war.

“I… hardly know what to say. Light knows you’ve given enough for the Tower. You are well-known among the servants, sir. We will miss you.”

The lie rolled with absolute sincerity off his tongue. He hoped with all his heart that the Asha’man would stay away and out of Grey Tower - and Black Ajah - business. His hopes were not high. And soon they sunk even lower when Jerid spoke again.

“But what happens when all you’ve known for the last hundred fifty years was war? And suddenly to give it up to attempt a life of peace?” asked the Indigo.

Hahaha! Sounds like this “retirement” won’t last long, thought Emmond. He had little doubt that if the Tower was threatened - and with it, members of Jerid’s family - that the Asha’man would come running again like a child called by his mother’s dinnerbell. A fish could not help but to swim; a bird could not help but to fly. And Jerid could not help the kind of man he was, a man who cared about his family, a man who would sacrifice himself to defend those he loved, a man who would hunt down every one of his enemies even if it cost him his life.

The Asha’man had fought too long to give it all up now. If war came again, Jerid would fight until he died.

Emmond understood. He, too, had fought his entire life. Not on the battlefield; he was no warrior. He faced a different sort of struggle. The struggle that filled the dark basement recesses of the Tower, the struggle that took place in narrow alleyways and dim, smoke-filled rooms, the struggle that dragged young men and women before the Great Lord in Shayol Ghul to swear their souls to the Shadow. And there had been times, too, when he wished for peace. Sometimes, when he sat in the kitchens peeling potatoes or plucking chickens, he listened to the idle gossip of other servants and longed for the simplicity of their lives.

But it was only an idle fantasy. He could not help but to fight, because he was who he was: a liar, a thief, a criminal, a murderer. This was his life. He knew no other. He had been tangled in dark webs from the earliest years of his life. And once he realized that he could not escape from the webs that ensnared his soul, he embraced it and never looked back.

Emmond shook his head.

“I’m sorry. I have no answer to that, Master Asha'man. I can’t say that I’ve ever known peace, myself. There’s always something lurking around the corner.” He smiled wryly. “Even as a simple servant, there is the Mistress of Kitchens to face. Ah, I tell you, that woman can make even the most battle-hardened soldier quake in his boots. Life is a constant struggle, sir. That’s the way it has always been, and that’s the way it will be as long as the Dark One touches the world.”

He hesitated, then spoke quietly. “I have a question. I hope you don’t mind my impertinence, sir. Why now? You’ve fought for a hundred fifty years. Has something… changed? Is something else drawing you to Camden Corelle?”

“I lost a daughter,” Jerid murmured at the gardener’s question.

If there was ever a face he wished to forget, it was that of Bryn Walker. In her final moments, she had been braver than anyone else. She had screamed, she had fought and she had died according to one Ji who was present.

He’d made promises to himself, to Lysira and to their son Cade. He was to meet with Bryn and on that day renounce his role as First Seeker so he could be father to his two youngest children.

That dream died that day when the Black Ajah killed her and he in turned killed those responsible.
And all present knew that the First Seeker wept over his daughter’s body ... and that his Warder ultimately killed the ringleader of said plan.

The last war, the one against the Seanchan, was the breaking point. He’d buried too many people and he’d killed many more.

“And the Tower will not miss me,” he murmured. It was the truth. When the Tower was under attack, they looked to him. When the M’Hael was captured during the last war, he was forced to take on a role he wasn’t ready for. But in times of peace, those were the times the Hall might see less of him.

And should the day ever come when the current M’Hael stepped down and the impossible chance Jerid was summoned by the Hall, he would flee. He would vanish into the night that not even the best trackers could hunt him or his Warder down.

“Camden Corelle is to be my home, good Weland,” the Indigo said. “I intend to rule and ensure that it becomes a gateway to the Tower from the west, and that the wealth of its mines benefit both the Tower and the Caralain. And if necessary, become the shield and the sword that is free of Hama Valon’s restraints.”

And there were more hidden motivations. With him gone, the Hall of Sitters would find it more difficult to keep tabs on him. Twice before as Asha’man he had slipped beneath their radar, vanishing for years at a time and most believing him to be dead. Once had destroyed a nest of Black Ajah, one of them a Grey he had trusted for many years before he betrayed himself. Selan Asha’man died, along with a circle of twelve others and the Fades that came with them, all to chain him to the Shadow.

With the pair of them away, he and Lysira could finally take the fight to the Shadow, on their terms.

He was tired of battle, and tired of waiting for the war to come to them. If the Shadow was to wage war on his home and his family, they would do so on the defensive.

“As you said, Master Weland, we must live for the living, and I am so very tired of burying the dead, especially those I helped train,” Jerid murmured. “Who knows, perhaps it will become a place for Asha’man and Aes Sedai to retire to once they are tired of this life.”

OOC: Apologies for the belated response. Work is hectic and it's pick and choose for threads at times, when there is time to respond to them.

“Perhaps it will become a place for Asha’man and Aes Sedai to retire…"

Emmond remained silent, disguising his hesitance with a long draw from Jerid's pipe. To ‘retire’. That had been the word Elia used when she and Murdock had gentled him and led him away from the burnt hut on Caralain Grass.

”You can retire,” she had said.

A raw jealousy rose up inside him. Almost, he wanted to tell the Indigo of his regret and how he wished that he still wore the Cord of an Asha’man! Yet that was impossible. His ability had been stripped down to nearly nothing. The weaves he could perform now were mere parlor tricks - a small flash of fire, a gentle whispering of wind.

Why did he feel such regret? Emmond did not miss the luxuries afforded to a full rank channeler. He had grown up poor; and when he had first arrived at the Tower, even the bare rooms of the soldiers had seemed like a haven. Nor did he miss the respect paid to Asha'man. He never cared for adoration - he much preferred to earn his way for genuine trust. And the power of a channeler had always just been another tool. A useful tool, but often unnecessary for his work. Even now, he managed very well without it.

No, what he missed was the work. It had been hard but rewarding. Despite the intrigues that Elia wrapped herself in, Emmond was bored. He missed the lively debates of the Grey Ajah. He missed the ability to travel and see new lands. He missed the layers of political intrigue, the sleepless nights poring over agreement and contracts, the long days researching in the lawbooks of the Tower. There was a certain odd pleasure to performing the simple, monotonous tasks of a Tower servant. But it was simply not the same.

He squashed down these feelings and blew out a ring of smoke. No, he would speak no further. He had already said quite enough. He turned and bowed, and then offered the pipe back to the Asha’man.

“Thank you for the smoke, Jerid Asha’man. I should leave you now,” he said, politely. “The hour is late and I must tend to my duties. I wish you the very best when you return to Camden Corelle."

OOC: No worries! As you can tell, I am fairly busy too. Thank you for your patience. <3