We Don't Need No Education [ATTN: Rhyka]

[Estel]

Six months.

Six months and she did not have a Light-blasted thing to show for it. Her ability to touch saidar was sporadic at best. Her lessons were disastrous. She could practically feel the instructors’ disappointment with her abysmal progress grow each passing day. Still, their frustration could not match hers by half. Flora was ruled by self-loathing; it ebbed and flowed as the tide, higher and lower, shifting with whatever she could find to distract herself from the claustrophobic confines of her own mind. Any time the singer could, for a moment, forget just how miserable a failure she had become, that masochistic whisper in her mind would reappear and hiss reminders of the sheer magnitude of her shortcomings.

The single bright light in her current existence: Maria, her closest friend and roommate. She could not understand how the woman put up with her. Flora lived in a perpetual state of sullen despair, splitting her time between brooding silence, waspish derision, and embarrassing bouts of tears. All this the Altaran took in stride, calmly riding out her friend’s moods before characteristically snarking about this or that to drag a retaliatory jab from the sulking singer; their irreverent banter her singular source of amusement since arriving. Honestly, if not for the swarthy woman, Flora would have scrambled over the Tower walls and fled Hama Valon a week after arriving.

Maria was not here to save her now, though. With heavy feet, the Andoran reluctantly trudged through marble hallways, head hung low. She had been sent for remedial tutoring after failing in spectacular fashion to complete any of the tasks, save the initial essay, for her lessons on Warding. By the end of the lesson, Flora had been so fed up with her inability to even sense saidar that she had slammed a furious fist against her desk after a snide comment from one of the other Novices and the tantrum had earned her an extra hour in the dining area scrubbing floors.

No matter how she dragged her feet though, there was no putting off her imminent unpleasant experience any longer. Flora glanced down at the note she had received from the Mistress of Novices detailing her supplementary class, praying that she was standing before the wrong door. Her hope was in vain. Behind this door, Rhykana Meran was likely already waiting – the great bell had run out an hour past Low several minutes earlier: the time at which Flora should have already been past this last obstacle. From what little she had gleaned of the Accepted Rhykana, the woman could be mean as a snake when trifled with and the Andoran had already kept her waiting. Dread weighed on her arm like lead as she reached up for the handle and pulled open the door.

Light, let this be over quickly.

[Bridget]

Rhykana spun globes of Fire and Spirit about her outstretched hands, letting her irritation play out in the complex, spinning patterns. Seven years with a banded hemline, seven years as an Accepted, and the ridiculous, pointless obligations had not ended. She was only a few candlemarks away from finishing a new ter’angreal, and yet she was here. So close to finishing one of Halliene's pointless assignments, so close to having a candlemark of time for herself. But this light-forsaken novice was enough to pull her away from that. Rhykana had come to expect such nuisances from the Tower.

She slouched in her chair, one foot propped on the end table before her. The dimwit was already late, and Rhykana had no desire to stand on ceremony for a girl like her. For all that this was unwanted and a painful waste of her time, Rhykana had done her due diligence. What she had discovered was enough to make her lip curl. The girl was powerful; notably so, and it was certainly a colossal waste. Flora Cecil was already distinguishing herself as a failure; half a year into her time as a novice, and her ability to touch the source was sporadic at best. Half a year into her time as a novice, and she was more likely to go crying to her pillowfriend than put in an ounce of effort.

When the door finally opened and the girl stepped inside, Rhykana did not bother to sit up. She tilted her chin and regarded the girl with hooded eyes, assessing. She was average, other than her red hair. Average, and stupid. She leaned forward in the chair only after the child curtsied, and split her weaves to close the door with a smack of Air, all the while spinning her colored globes of Fire. “You are late, child,” Rhykana told her, voice icy, irritation building as the source of her anger fidgeted before her.

“I am to teach you to ward,” she said finally, and split her weaves once more. A ward sprung up around them, a net of Air and Spirit plastered to the walls, ceiling, and floor. She tied off the ward, which would prevent any sound from escaping the little classroom, with a flick of her fingers even as she began her next weave, a dome of Spirit and Earth. The weave formed around her globes of Fire with little effort, for all that it was a complicated tangle of knots and curlicues. She drew her hands back and triggered the globes with a thin strand of Fire, setting them to brilliant, ear-piercing explosions, trails of fire and sparks colliding against the little ward.

Rhykana stood then, letting the ward that had prevented what could have been a deadly explosion dissipate as she did so. She stepped around the girl, twitching her own banded skirts away from the silly chit’s. “You will learn to do that and more.” Rhykana told her, voice serious and stripped of the contempt and anger that she could feel churning in her stomach. “I will not tolerate laziness or lack of effort.” She smiled grimly, her thoughts already touching on the ter’angreal waiting for her at her workstation in the Indigo Ajah. “We will complete this in as little time as possible, or you will find your spare time filled with horse manure and dirty pots.” And you will find that you have far less time for your pillowfriend, you goose-brained sow. Rhykana had no patience for girls who wasted their time with immature romance, instead of applying themselves as they should.

“Sit.” Rhykana jerked her chin at the second chair, before sitting herself. “Tell me, what is your difficulty with wards?”

Tell me, why did you fail?

[Estel]

Flora dared her first dragging steps into the room, green eyes locking on blue barely distinguishable beneath heavy lids. Idly rolling fiery spheres with delicate fingers, the Accepted hardly acknowledged her pupil’s arrival as she lounged frostily behind one of the tables – save to raise a sharp chin, subtly conveying the disappointment that compounded both the Andoran’s dread and self-loathing. Chagrin dropped Flora’s gaze as she curtseyed, excuses bubbling to unrepentant lips. However, these apologies went unvoiced, silenced by the blunt statement of fact that served as Rhykana’s greeting. Clearly they would do her no good. Anger directed as much inwards as toward the other woman left fingers balled in white skirts long after she had risen from the insincere gesture of submission.

Hurled back against its frame by the One Power, the door slammed loudly behind the singer, eliciting an obvious wince. Resentful of the guilt that warred with immediate hatred for her tutor, beryl eyes darted back to Rhykana’s glacial visage. In spite of overwhelming disquietude, the Novice found herself momentarily mesmerized as balls of saidar continued to dance, throwing flickering light across the brunette woman’s sharp features. Loath as she was to admit it even subconsciously, Flora felt envy creep over her dislike of the Accepted who sat effortlessly complecting weave after weave, each more complicated than the next.

The Novice watched fervidly as whirling threads of Fire and Spirit crashed against a barricade of delicately netted Earth and Fire. Again she flinched as the explosions reverberated in the tiny room with such force the noise was near tangible and it shoved her back several stumbling steps. Wonder raised the flesh of trembling arms as every fibre of her being tingled. Had she been in any stable state, the awestruck Andoran might have noticed how short and heavy her breaths now came. There was little space in her mind though for coherent thought, swept up as she was in the power that still seemed to crackle through the stark classroom.

However, quickly as the feeling came, it began to ebb as the final echoes of noise faded to silence. With one last sigh she exhaled the euphoria that had effervescently chased away months of depression and anxiety. Crashing down from the height she’d so briefly enjoyed brought her all the lower. When was the last time she had felt so… exhilarated – so… redintigrated? That fleeting glorious feeling… It was the thrill of standing in front of a cheering crowd in full knowledge her performance had been near divinely perfect. Breathing raggedly as her lungs released that last note, limbs quaking as they threatened to topple her to the stage, eyes misty with the sheer joy washing over her in waves; her face was split cheek to cheek with the inexplicable elation of having so disappeared into the music so everything else just faded away.

Her current reality though was all too present in the form of Rhykana’s authoritative voice. Flora at last tore her eyes away from the memory of exploding light and collapsed dispiritedly into the chair opposite her austere tutor. The woman’s question provoked ausgespielt bitterness: how many times had she been asked this same question? Creator blind her, how many times had she asked herself why in Light’s name she was now entirely incapable of accessing the power she had unconsciously wielded with apparent force before arriving at an institution dedicated to its use? Half a year had passed and she was less able to channel than before being aware of her supposed “gift”.

Several seconds had passed in silence and the Accepted awaited her response. Flora shrugged and shifted in the chair sullenly yet this elicited no response from the dark-haired woman: a verbal explanation was required. Internalizing a string of curses, the white-clad Novice dropped her vitriolic gaze to the table that provided feeble buffer between tutor and idiot pupil. After a few additional taciturn moments, the oppressive blue stare finally forced a confession. “It is not warding that I find difficult,” the singer admitted dismally, “it is everything before that point. My mentor says that I am “Blocked” and it is a good day if I can even sense saidar, let alone force it to follow basic instruction. I can hardly light a candle, let alone create a weave to protect the flame from being blown out by an errant breeze.”

[Bridget]

Rhykana Meran

She sat, straight-backed and unmoving in her chair as the girl shifted in her own seat, petulant and churlish. The girl at least had the presence of mind to direct her stare to the table, not to Rhykana’s face. With each passing moment, Rhykana considered sending the girl to the Mistress of Novices more and more seriously. But she had no love for Mirin, and she doubted the woman would think well of her for doing such a thing. Rhykana narrowed her eyes at the girl, about to speak, when the fool novice finally began her explanation.

Flora’s grudging and discouraged tone did not speak well of her, and neither did her words. “Of course I know you have a block, child.” Rhykana told her, unimpressed and chiding. The girl clearly did not understand the Tower, even after half a year in the white. The Tower knew everything of its initiates, and Accepted were certainly expected to prepare for their lessons. “It is a lucky thing that I was not assigned to break your block.” Lucky because Rhykana had not the patience for such a thing, and certainly did not have the time. But her cold tone and the icy Aes Sedai serenity of her face spoke a different truth; that Flora would not enjoy such instruction. It was an Aes Sedai lie if Rhykana had ever told one.

It took some effort not to twitch her skirts in irritation, to flick her hair and glare. But Rhykana held on to serenity by her fingernails, unwilling to give up the hard won composure to the silly chit. “Novices and Accepted have learned to channel even with a block.” She told the girl, as doubtlessly many sisters and Accepted already had. “You are expected to do the same. You can hum, can you not?”

She did not wait for a response, and hoped the girl was smart enough not to speak. Rhykana embraced saidar, and the One Power was a balm. For a moment, Rhykana let herself revel in that sweetness. But only for a moment. There were, after all, things to be done, no matter how much she wished they were not her duty. “We will begin with the simplest of wards.” She told the silly chit, voice even and instructional. “I already demonstrated it when you arrived, although at a much larger scale. This ward is used to block sound, and requires Air and Spirit.”

Rhykana paused for a moment, to gather herself. It had been some time since she had been asked to teach these particular weaves. “We will begin on a small scale, warding ourselves. First create two flows, one of Air and one of Spirit.” Rhykana formed those flows, holding them so that Flora might observe. “This sort of ward requires a more delicate touch, and as such your flows should be fairly thin.” She began the weave, laying the flow of Air over the flow of Spirit. “Now, two more flows.” Rhykana’s voice lost its sharpness as she spoke, relaxed from her concentration. Slowly, carefully, she showed the girl how to create the net the ward required, how to add more and more flows, so that the ward might expand.

When she was done, Rhykana held the ward about herself. “And now you cannot hear me.” She told the chit, smoothing the urge to scream instead of speak in her demonstration. Rhykana let the weave dissipate, and regarded the novice expectantly. “Now you.” She told her, laying her palms flat on her knees. “I will instruct you throughout the weave, and I will shield you if necessary.” Rhykana did not speak on Flora’s block; the girl needed only to sing to channel. Mirin had not asked her to teach the girl to embrace the source, after all. But it would not surprise her if the girl was surly enough to pretend that she could not.

[Estel]

Dread returned, sinking as a weight in her stomach; despite the Accepted’s flat tone, thinly veiled derision seeped into Flora’s bones. The fleeting wonderment of moments before had long evaporated, replaced by unwelcome certainty that the One Power would elude her entirely today. When Rhykana embraced saidar, the faint ethereal glow of channelling surrounded her as forlorn envy flickered faintly amidst Flora’s gloom. Green eyes tracked evanescent threads of colour, twisted and woven together in intricate, gorgeous pattern. Again longing fluttered feebly against her breast as she desperately sought saidar, fumbling vainly for the nebulous numen that would not obey her summons.

Flora’s features twisted in frustration as she strained for the Power. Aware that forcing saidar to her grasp was an exercise in futility, the Andoran breathed heavily, frantically attempting to release bridled emotion; a task made only more difficult beneath the heavy gaze of icy blue eyes. Shutting out the Accepted’s presence, Flora fumbled through her repertoire in search of a song – any song – she could sing. Thus far, the Novice had only occasionally been able to open herself to saidar in the same way she opened herself to music: by releasing her soul and its burdens in song. Unfortunately, even singing required a serenity swirling far beyond the Andoran’s grasp.

Her mind sifted feverishly through errant, tangled thought that buried her repertoire of a thousand songs beneath shifting sand. Yet each time she settled on a piece of music and reached out, it was like taking hold of the wind; the idea slipped through her fingers and was lost again to the sandstorm that rendered intelligible thought impossible. Buried beneath the chaos in her mind, she was incapable of censoring speech better left unsaid. Thus, Flora would have given anything to retract the next question to escape her lips. Vacantly, she asked, “But what should I sing?”