The Grey Tower

“Why are you here, Zarius Iiro?” Although their voices could not be more different, Ninya put the same inflections on words as Kaia had, Arad Doman heavy on her tongue. Jaryd stared at his hands and refused to pursue that thought.

“I was summoned by the Hall of the Tower.”

“What do you seek, Zarius Iiro?”

Jaryd wondered whether the sick feeling in his stomach came from him or Zeen, but did not stir. “To serve the Grey Tower, nothing more and nothing less.”

“How would you serve, Zarius Iiro?” He had been on the receiving end of that question too many times. What he would give to never set foot in the Hall again!

“With my heart and my soul and my life, in the Light. Without fear or favor, in the Light.”

“Where would you serve, Zarius Iiro?” Jaryd glanced up. Zeen’s eyes were glittering silver, his face stern, his mouth a flat line. To those he faced, he was the perfect image of an Asha’man.

He hid his panic well.

When the coatless Asha’man spoke, his words could have cut stone. “As the M’Hael, if it pleases the Hall of the Tower.” Nothing would please the Green more than to be a thousand leagues away, Jaryd was certain of it, and he shared that desire wholeheartedly. It had taken a direct order from the Amyrlin for Jaryd to retrieve the man from the Citadel and even then Jaryd had nearly refused. His bond required him to protect Zeen; how could using it to fetch him to the Hall be anything but the opposite? Unfortunately for them both, Tower Law had prevailed.

Sitters stood, slowly or quickly as suited their temperaments. Red realized he was holding his breath as he watched, only releasing it when a White Sitter rose and brought the number to ten. Fewer than ten would have meant outright rejection, the ultimate insult to anyone, but especially to Zeen. There were twenty seven representatives in the Hall; in that first round, twenty-two rose. That was good- very good.

Jaryd remained seated, fingers laced together palm-up in his lap. He could feel startled eyes on him, and ignored them all.

Suddenly Zeen was crouched in front of him, gray eyes flat. He was supposed to kneel; Jaryd’s lips twitched up in distant amusement at the Amadician’s refusal to abase himself even for the sake of ceremony. “Please allow me to serve.” The words were calm...and anything save humble. In sharp contrast, frustrated confusion and hurt battered over the bond. Jaryd closed his eyes as Zeen washed his feet, uncertain how to respond, yet unwilling to reject the emotions the Green had chosen to share. I do what I must, the same as you.

Zeen soon moved on to Astoria, leaving the Altaran with his thoughts. What did he hope to prove? The relentless misery that ate him alive had also corrupted their friendship, and the bond forced upon him had done its fair share of damage as well, no matter the reasons for its existence. What purpose did it truly serve to antagonize his friend in this manner?

The call to stand came again.

Red remained sitting after the rest had risen, staring across the great chamber with emotionless black eyes. He knew it shocked the Hall that he had refused to pledge his heart for Zeen, and could only imagine what they thought now he refused to stand for him at all. They had surely assumed, in their scheming minds, that he was a guaranteed yes. It wasn’t Zeen he was objecting to, however. It never had been. Zeen could lead, after all, and more importantly he would lead. That was not the point.

Something akin to fear swelled over their bond; if Jaryd did not stand, the would-be M’Hael faced exile. Red waited one more breath then pushed himself off his chair and rose, hands clasped at his waist. Confused relief and renewed frustration slammed into him and Red closed his eyes, teeth gnawing on the inside of his lip.

I look out for my own, Zeen.

Piercing grey eyes regarded the five that had not stood for him. Red... Zeen struggled with the aching onslaught of wounded frustration. It did not make sense. The wiry man did not feel angry or vindictive; the dread and concern from earlier were still present. It burned as it flowed between them, sharp and acidic. Why had his bondmate remain seated?

The sound of his teeth grinding together momentarily overrode the deafening thunder of his racing heart. He would not kneel. He would not beg. The Void danced just out of reach, mocking him, as the tall man forced himself to crouch down in front of the Altaran. The water was warm as it trickled through fingers that wet and wrung out the lavish cloth. The faint thread of amusement that passed through the bond cut him to his very core and it was all he could do to speak the required words without bringing the Hall down around all their ears.

A second pair of feet. A third. The fourth and fifth, he did not remember washing, and as he stood, the call to stand came again. Jaryd still did not. Apprehension prickled along his spine and Zeen began to feel true fear.

He would be exiled, if Red did not stand. His heart lurched painfully, the line of his shoulders taut. He wanted to close his eyes, the tightness like a razor that coiled around his heart. He did not, eyes fixed ahead instead. An agonizing heartbeat, two, three... Light! The bond did not shift a whit as the Altaran finally pushed himself to his feet. All the breath left Zeen’s body in an aubile rush. Why? His head felt strange, his stomach queasy, the slight tremour that came to his fingers one of the first telltale signs his anger would soon morph into uncontrollable rage. Why, Red?

The Amadician very nearly seized saidin in the desperate attempt to bring the Void to him. The knot in the back of his mind that was the salty broad swelled with concern and he could not bear it. He felt another rush of confusion, but perhaps the Creator heard him. He did not question it as the palpable sensation of something snapping into place rocked through his mind, the merciful numbness surrounding him.

His emotions cut off. His mind stilled. The Asha’man took a breath, feeling it fill his lungs. He would not be exiled. Instead, he would become the next M’Hael of the Grey Tower. Zeen lifted his head and stared hard into Ninya’s eyes, his head shifting accordingly to meet every gaze in the room. If they thought him easily malleable, susceptible to political influence, or if they sought to use his bonds against him, the tall man was eager to disabuse the Hall of any and all of those ridiculous notions.

Jaryd had not been to a celebration of the M’Hael’s ascension that was not his own since Riven’s, decades before. That festival had been interrupted by Bubbles of Evil that had destroyed the festival field. He and Carra had had to work together to care for frightened children; the then-Accepted’s disdain had been a palpable presence between them, but they had gotten the work done. Nothing so dramatic marred this celebration. Jaryd sat to the side throughout the evening, a silent shadow as he observed men and women dancing and eating, talking and moving about with nary a care.

Zeen interacted with them as expected, that infamous grin flashing in response to a quip here, a comment there, but their bond remained heavy and flat. Callie sat in alert silence nearby; Jaryd avoided looking at her, and stayed well out of earshot. It wasn’t that he disliked the woman; he barely knew her, after all. They were bonded to the same man and yet the nature of their bonds couldn’t possibly be different. What could he say in that circumstance? Greetings. I am the man your Ward bonded to keep alive. Instead of protecting him, I drive him into the Blight to get away from me. I promise at one point we liked each other. Friends? Absurd.

As the evening progressed, Jaryd began to feel light-headed, sight and vision distorted, and the ground heaved beneath his feet like a ship deck, making walking difficult. It occurred to him that he should be concerned, but couldn’t work out why. Eventually dark eyes thought to look to the head table, his gaze focusing with strange clarity on Zeen’s fingers clenched tightly around a pewter mug. The Red could almost feel the cold metal against his own skin. Not me. Not mine. The thought didn’t make any sense; he pushed it away.

Instead, his muddled mind turned back to a similar night some years before. Not the night he and Carra and helped the novices -why had he been thinking about that, anyway?- but rather to the night after he had been raised M’Hael for the second time. He had sat just so as the night wore on, desperate to escape by any means.

He’s drunk! For some reason, the thought felt like a revelation of great magnitude. Small chance Red could carry Zeen to his room the way the Amadician had carried him, but there were other ways to help him. Ways that involved doing things he had been avoiding. Swallowing his discomfort and wishing distractedly that the field would stop moving, the wiry man stood and worked his way toward Zeen’s Warder. She stood now, eyes intent on the M’Hael’s back. “He needs to go to bed,” Jaryd commented as he approached. His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

“Tell me something I don’t know, Asha’man.”

Jaryd’s jaw clenched, the world tipping and churning from side to side. He could not get his thoughts to order; he shook his head, and that just made it worse. “Fine. Forget I said anything,” he snapped. He tried to turn, but the world spun faster than he did. The next thing he knew he was on his back staring up at- “What do you want?” he demanded of the annoyed looking woman above him.

Water upended over his head was all the answer he got. Sputtering and swearing he pushed himself upright, but before he could get any further a hand wrapped into his vest and hauled him to his feet. “Pull yourself together,” the Arafellin snapped as she released him. “How much did you drink?”

Jaryd bit back the angry retort that lept to his lips. The water had helped a little; at least the world had stopped swinging from side to side. “I didn’t,” he said grumpily, rubbing at his forehead with his fingers. “Not a bloody drop.” The events of the last few minutes replayed behind his eyelids, and he stiffened. “Oh bloody Creator,” he groaned. The bond; it had to be. “He needs to go to bed,” he repeated wearily.

“Already on it, Hand Twirler.” She strode away without another word.

The festivities were dying down. Zeen drank when toasted to, ate when prompted, conversed civilly when required, and none save his two bondmates ever noticed that the smile he wore never once touched the depths of his eyes. It had not been all that long ago that he had been on the other side of the table the last time the city celebrated an occasion such as this. He had been a Soldier then, and had ended the night carrying a very unconscious Jaryd back to the top of the Tower.

It was his turn now, and it did not feel real. What a bloody jollybag, Zeen thought with bitter amusement. The irony of it all did not escape him; he was the most powerful man in the Westlands, reaching a height far beyond the small dreams of his late father. And yet, there was no satisfaction in it.

Another round of toasting. Another slew of drinks. He was game to see if he could drink his weight in... whatever it was that was in those wretched cups. He had downed five... or was it six? Seven?... when he felt a hand clamp down around his elbow. The world lurched oddly as he looked up into hard hazel eyes.

“Let’s go, Nugget.” Callie’s voice was quiet, too quiet, and she did not wait for him to answer, yanking him to his feet.

Zeen protested, his mind reeling but he lacked the ability to do more than blare loudly at her. The ground became tiled floor that turned into stairs. Stair after stair after stair... he stumbled but she was there to steady him with a sharp hand and even sharper words. His attention drifted and wandered and he stifled a laugh at how strange this all was. He heard familiar voices... arguing. Red. The Amadician lifted his head blearily. A glimpse of black curls and black eyes before the world started to spin and he stumbled again. Callie’s fingers bit into his bicep.

An unfamiliar room greeted him and it took several moments for him to register where he was. No... no! This was where... just outside... the imprint of feet in stone... The shadows, they cut as they moved... The Asha’man reared back in blind panic, but before he could stagger out, he felt his clothing being tugged off roughly. Startled, he cocked his head to the side. He was shoved at the bed and fell onto it face down. Boots and breeches were removed next.

“If you wanted me all to yourself you had but to ask -”

The fist against his jaw stopped the rest of the words from coming out and his head snapped sickeningly to the side. Callie did not answer, her lips pressed so tightly together that they formed a white line. “Stop talking and sleep, you giant bloody idiot. You’re drunk.”

The Asha’man glowered. “I am not!” he countered, swaying where he lay.

She shook her head at him, visible tension radiating off from her. She snatched something up from the table behind her and pushed it into his hand. “Drink.”

It was a cup. The tea.

Zeen looked back up, brows drawing down dangerously. Dull grey eyes swung to the wiry Altaran, but to no avail.

“Drink,” the wretched woman repeated. “Or so help me, I will make you.”

Curse after curse left his lips as he stared up at her in defeated defiance before lifting the cup to his lips and draining the bitter liquid in one go. He made a harsh noise, flinging the delicate porcelain across the room. It shattered against the door. That was not enough. Somehow, he managed to roll across the bed, standing on unsteady legs. His hands gripped and twisted as they took hold of the wash basin. Fueled by sudden brutal rage, he snapped it loose and heaved it. The ceramic broke in half as it collided against the nearest wall, cracking the decorative wooden paneling for good measure. Wild grey eyes shot to Callie and Jaryd.

“GET OUT!!”

Zeen collapsed back onto the bed. The tea made short work of his drink-addled brain, his fury chasing him into his sleep.

Jaryd’s honor demanded he stay as Zeen had stayed for him so long ago, but his mind would not allow him to remain in the room where Kaia had died. It had required more effort than he cared to admit to enter the room at all. Is this the real reason I would not stand for him? The thought skittered across his brain and disappeared.

Callie manhandled Zeen in a way Jaryd never could have. She undressed him, ignoring his protestations, and force-fed him the tea that would make him sleep. For a moment, gray eyes and black caught across the width of the room, and Red felt his stomach flip. A moment later the cup shattered against the wall and Jaryd clapped his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block out the sound of falling porcelain.

Gone forever.

No. No. No!

The Altaran did not remember leaving. He was barely aware of the long journey back to the ground, the chill night air on his face as he emerged from the Tower, or the startled exclamations from the Guard as he strode past them at the south gate. Lights and revelry passed in a blur. The warmth of a common room consumed him. Somehow he settled, somehow he convinced them to bring him a drink. The bitter liquor did nothing to ease the sharp jagged loss that he had so briefly managed to set aside.

Smoky shadows shrouded him the next time the Asha’man opened his eyes. Warm curves pressed against his body, soft lips brushed his cheek. She didn’t smell right, she didn’t taste right, she didn’t sound right. His fingers did not know her body, and she didn’t know his.

He didn’t care.

--

Contrary to the night before, the Altaran was vividly aware of every detail of his trip back to the Tower the next morning. How had he gotten to the dock district? He barely remembered leaving the Tower at all. Zeen was awake and furious. That did not help the walk pass any more quickly. What was the Green -no, the M’Hael, Jaryd reminded himself tiredly- angry about now?

Eventually he made it all the way back, up the stairs and into the Keepers’ antechamber. Murdock gave him a dispassionate look and Jaryd returned his attention with a gaze just as flat. Then he walked to the M’Hael’s door without invitation. It wasn’t as if he and Zeen’s bond was a secret and as a Warder he had rights.

Slender fingers pulled the latch and pushed the door open….but Jaryd froze then, eyes wide as he stared at the chamber within. Kaia had died in that room. He had died in that room...and now his friend and bondmate would live there for the Light only knew how long. If this is your idea of humor, the Dark One’s ministries are starting to look terribly appealing, he thought bitterly, his thoughts directed at the Creator. Then he braced himself and took a step forward.

Zeen came awake with a startled yell, jolting upright in a bed he did not know, greeted by a ceiling he did not know, surrounded by furniture he did not know. Strange, unfamiliar scents assailed him while uninterrupted silence, broken only by the sounds of his harsh breathing, pummeled him from all sides. The grip of the nightmare lessened, cowering and fading as it slipped away against the backdrop of day.

He looked around wildly, his panic rising higher and higher until he abruptly remembered... Oh bloody flaming Light. The previous nights came tumbling back in disjointed, fragmented memories, the broad Amadician instinctively reaching for Red. Asleep. Then Callie. She was awake and it was a wonder he did not bleed from the jagged spikes that filled her half of their bond. His head dropped into his hands. For long moments, the Asha’man did not move, bowed forward in abject misery.

The arrival of the salty broad had Zeen grumpily preparing for the day. He bathed, he groomed, and when she threatened to spoon feed him, he had thrown a chair at her and chased her out. Then he had hauled the shirt back up over his head and tossed it across the room in silent defiance. The shattered cup and cracked basin were nowhere to be seen. He felt a momentary pang of shame; the servants had cleaned it up without him even noticing. He shook his head at himself, righting the chair before leaving his private chambers.

His steps faltered as he emerged into the... the place where the Lady had died. A giant potted tree of some kind stood in the corner where the imprint of feet should have been, sprawling leaves and branches failing to block out the memory of Watari’s gouges along the wall. A rich fancy rug of some make or other covered the place where Kaia’s body had lain. Zeen turned from both things and instead fixated on the desk and the chair behind it. Neither had seemed threatening to him before; he sighed and made himself sit. There were already reports to read, papers to sign, and... curiously enough, a nondescript folder that bore the symbol of the Fang, arranged precisely in the very middle of the carefully organized clutter.

Frowning, he took the folder and opened it. His brows lifted. Logs from the previous M’Hael’s. He recognized Jaryd’s writing. Lips pressed together as the tall man eased himself back in the chair, long legs stretched out in front of him. Zeen began to read.

--

He felt the exact moment his bondmate woke, his stomach lurching sickeningly, his head suddenly pounding. The sunlight streaming in from the window was unbearable and Zeen spent several minutes wrestling down nausea that was not his. Bloody ashes. He did not move from the desk he loomed over, his rage unable to be contained by simply sitting and fuming. Hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists, grey eyes staring at the single page of paper that had sent him spiraling.

The Amadician felt the Altaran approach, could follow each step inside his mind as the Red made his way through the Tower. Zeen heard the latch pull, heard the door open, knew by the way the bond surged that Jaryd remembered what had happened within. The new M’Hael felt his nostrils flare, felt his jaw clench, his gaze swinging over to where it collided against black with hammer-like intensity.

You knew.

The words would not come, but they did not have to. Jaryd had known. He had known. So had Miahala and Riahana. The three of them had known that the Seanchan had been spotted in Andor. And they had said nothing. He had been collared. They had known! The two men stared at one another, Zeen’s eyes traveling over the entirety of the smaller man’s face and body. There was no surprise, the resentment less sharp than usual, tired resignation, grief, loss, remorse... all emotions that were not his. The silence that stretched out between the Red and the former Green grew heavier by the second, the bond shivering and sparking as their shared awareness began to twist, magnifying every single breath and sensation until he could not tell where he ended and where Red began.

Some part of him knew that it had not been solely Jaryd’s call. The information had been sealed to the Flame, the Fang, and the Blade. Some small part of him knew that sharing the information with the rest of the Tower and with Hama Valon might have resulted in mass panic and civil strife. Some part of him knew all this, but it did nothing to dampen the fury and hurt that seethed beneath the surface of his skin.

I was collared!

The room disappeared and the scent of char filled his nose, smoke clouding his vision. Zeen shook his head, snapping upright to his full height. His hand flew up involuntarily to touch at his throat. He had not been alone. His brow furrowed and the tense line of his shoulders lowered a fraction of an inch, grey eyes never leaving dark ones. Red had been collared with him. And Jaryd had known. The tension snapping came as a palpable sensation in his chest and Zeen took a slow, deep breath. He was back in those Light-forsaken rooms again. The M’Hael’s rooms. His rooms.

He turned, leaning his weight back onto the desk, arms folding across his chest as he regarded his bondmate as if truly seeing the smaller man for the first time since he had entered into the room. Zeen’s voice was rough with their combined emotion. “You look and smell like shit.”

Grief and horror melted away in the face of the boiling rage that the M’Hael turned on his bondmate. The black folder in his hand told Jaryd all he needed to know about the source of the other man’s anger. For a moment the Altaran could only stare, wetting his lips, feeling as if every fiber of his soul had been laid bare in the face of a storm. I did what I had to. The thought felt weak. The others agreed. Passing blame did nothing to help the man whose life had been ruined by a silver collar. We did not anticipate so many, or so quickly….our scouts found little of note...

Excuses, every one.

Jaryd’s fingers curled into fists and he squared his shoulders, his chin going up ever so slightly as he prepared himself. He had made a colossal mistake; the least he could do for his friend was own up to it and accept what might come. Zeen’s anger had not lessened; the thought that the younger man might sever their bond crossed Red’s mind, and to his surprise he felt a pang of loss completely unrelated to Kaia’s passing. Before he could examine the feeling, however, shared rage cut off as if a door had been closed. What? Startled, Jaryd refocused on his friend’s face, realizing somewhat sluggishly that Zeen had spoken.

“Correction: I look like shit and smell like the docks,” he responded tartly to cover his confusion. “I can see myself to the bath if it offends you; I’m certain I know my way better than you do.” The words were light, but his mind spun. When and where had Zeen learned that particular trick? The storm brewing between them should have taken out half the Tower!

"Yes, if it was not for Callie, I would be sitting beneath my desk, sucking my thumb." Jaryd did not need their bond to hear the black humor in the Amadician’s voice.

“Would you even fit?” For a moment, Jaryd was himself again, humor rolling off his tongue even as he fought for equilibrium inside.

"You would be surprised at what I fit into.” Spoken oh so smoothly, one eyebrow cocked. Jaryd stared at his friend in speechless surprise, then for the first time since his lover’s death, he actually laughed, his own tension shattering like ice dropped from a roof. His body carried him across the intervening space and he sprawled out over one of the chairs facing the Amadician, hands clasped over his waist.

Dark eyes looked the big man up and down, noting the typical absence of shirt or coat with a smile. Spider-like fingers flipped up expressively as he spoke. “Are you planning on showing up to the Hall like that? I wouldn’t complain, mind you, but can I at least take a bet on how many Aes Sedai swallow their tongues whole? You’ll give poor Maever a heart attack at the very least.”

"Three silver pennies that Ninya kicks me out,” was Zeen’s only response, but his eyes had faded from silver to gray, and the hard lines of his face had softened a bit. Red knew he should be concerned by the rapid change from anger to humor. Such things had a tendency to come back to haunt him, after all. He knew he should be upset by the room he occupied. He knew many things that should be, but for a short period of time, Jaryd chose to ignore them all.

Eventually, however, his location and what had happened there crept through his mind and silenced his laughter. His eyes fell from the M’Hael’s face to the floor, and as silence grew he sought out the exact spot where Kaia had died. His gaze traced over it, remembering every flicker of light on red silk, the glow of her skin, horrified terror once more enveloping him. His hand shifted, fingers wrapping around Watari’s gilt haft.

He did not know how long he remained frozen before he felt a hand on his cheek. He tried to jerk away, but it insistently turned his head upward, breaking his gaze and the memory’s grip. “Red.” Jaryd tried to turn again, but Zeen’s hand did not budge.

It was too much. Words poured from his mouth, as if by speaking them he might find respite or salvation. “They were from Seanchan,” he said, his voice as bleak as their bond. He didn’t have to explain which ‘they’ he meant. “Special assassins. Illyria didn’t know very much, only that they existed.” He straightened in the chair, fingers curling around the arm rests. “I swear I will end them, Zeen. I will strike where they least expect it and destroy them. For you. For Kaia. For Tia. For- for me.” Angry tears burned down his cheeks, and he pulled free of his friend's grip to wipe them away.