The Grey Tower

Caedal had expected the classes coming into the Grey Tower, what he hadn't expected were the chores. While he, like most of his cousins, had been expected to assist in the maintenance of the ancestral Tarondred estate there had still been a significant staff of servants and various attendants assigned to the more rigorous tasks. And he certainly had never before been made to scrub pots until they were raw and nearly bleeding. Caedal held his hands out before an open windows, sighing as the cool air provided a modicum of relief. One more chore period left, he thought to himself, thinking back to the daily schedule that he had still not quite memorized.

One more channeling class though, he added, with a visible grimace. The classes on history, languages, and other subjects were challenging, but no more challenging than his tutors had been back in Cairhien. The classes that focused on the One Power, however, presented challenges that sent Caedal reeling time and time again. In the days he had been at the Grey Tower he had only successfully seized a handful of times, and only for a a few moments each time. Caedal had not spoken with any of his Asha'man teachers about it but each time he tried it felt as though saidin itself were trying to choke the life from him in rebellion. The other soldiers often mentioned their particular difficulties amongst themselves between classes, but none so far had revealed difficulties that matched his experiences. Perhaps it was a sign that the life of an Asha'man wasn't for him, that he wasn't meant to be in the Grey Tower at all?

Lost in thought, Caedal almost missed the sound of approaching footfalls. He cocked his head toward the sound and barely caught the sight of an approaching figure in a dress before dropping himself into a well-practiced bow, disregarding the hands that still pained him. "My apologies, Aes Sedai, I was just on my way to my next class," he said in the polite tone that he had cultivated among the Cairhienin nobility.

The stack of books in Velvaen’s arms felt like a granite slab. Her mutinous limbs had begun protesting the heavy load on the fifth floor, and they were none too pleased she’d made it to twelve with no sign of relief. But, if Sarla Sedai wanted fifteen books from the Sharom, who was she to question it? Still, though, a satchel would’ve been nice. Or another novice, she thought wistfully as her arms wobbled.

As Velvaen trudged toward yet another set of stairs–craning her neck as she tried to peer around her mountain of tomes–she heard a voice from up ahead.

“My apologies, Aes Sedai, I was just on my way to my next class.” The voice was low–a soldier?–and had a clipped accent. And, saying just the words Velvaen didn’t want to hear. She gave up on looking at the sister almost immediately–really, fifteen was too many–and grumbled inwardly as she dipped into the best curtsy she could manage under the circumstances.

“Aes Se–gah!” she yelped, as her burden tottered, then tipped from her arms. Books spilled across the hallway, thumping to the ground and splaying their pages. Velvaen was left in a half-curtsy, arms outstretched in a catching motion, dismay and embarrassment fighting for precedence on her face. She raised her eyes to view the sister, who was surely fuming by now. Except, she saw none. The hallway was empty. Except for that soldier…

Velvaen turned her head and regarded him with an icy stare.

Back in Cairhien everyone had been above Caedal in rank, save for the servants, so bowing to everyone he encountered had become a simple reflex. The nuances of rank in the Grey Tower had been drilled into him during his initial days as a soldier, but recognizing said ranks still provided challenges for Caedal. Thus, while the loud yelp tore his eyes from the floor to focus in on the figure, his body refused to budge from its current bow.

A novice, he thought to himself as he observed the short woman in white performed an array of acrobatics on her way down, books toppling from her arms all the way. Caedal's eyes widened when the woman was somehow able to remain standing, her arms outstretched, face tinged with the red of exertion-or possibly embarrassment. The novice looked almost as surprised as Caedal to have caught herself before falling but within moments that gave way when her eyes found Caedal's.

The cool air still lazily blowing through the open window paled in comparison to the positively frigid glare from the novice. Several excruciating seconds passed before Caedal was able to tear his eyes away and straighten his posture. While he was no longer looking at her directly he could still feel the novice's disapproval. He wanted nothing more than to beat a hasty retreat but he was still not clear on how the different branches of the Grey Tower were intended to associate. For all he knew novices were ranked above soldiers in some capacity or another.

"Can I help you with these," he mumbled as politely as he, motioning towards the many volumes scattered on the floor and carefully avoiding the novice's intense gaze.

'Could he help'... Velvaen thought, sniffing. He’d helped quite enough already. What kind of a wool-headed stunt was that? She eyed the soldier.

He was of average height, with a darker skin tone that reminded her somewhat nostalgically of the Atha’an Miere. He had brown eyes and close-cropped hair. And, she realized with a bit of a shock, that his left hand was contorted and missing a couple of digits.

He was also avoiding her gaze. Well, he should be embarrassed! Tricking her into thinking there was a sister nearby... But, if she didn’t deliver the volumes to Sarla Sedai, Velvaen knew she’d have worse to worry about than a soldier’s silly prank.

So she settled on saying “Please…” as she knelt down and began gathering her discarded parcels. And if her voice sounded a little flat, well, he was the reason they were doing this in the first place.

As Velvaen took the remaining books from the dark-haired soldier, she glanced at him irritatedly.
“If you’ve got a moment, I’d like a word. But in a minute–Sarla Sedai’s quarters are just up the stairs.” Taking each step as fast as she dared, Velvaen worked to smooth her face. It wouldn’t do to go around glaring at Aes Sedai. Wily soldiers, however–that was another matter entirely.

Caedal ascended the stairs slowly, in stark contrast to the near-breakneck pace of the novice. He hadn't explicitly been told to follow, but Caedal wasn't going to stand around waiting for a likely dressing-down from someone who may or may not outrank him. It certainly can't make her hate me more, he thought to himself as he followed, absently flexing his left hand.

The novice paused at the next landing and threw a quick glance backward, meeting Caedal's gaze for a bare moment before continuing on with an aura of resignation. She didn't comment on Caedal's presence, however, so he felt he was safe in continuing after her. Perhaps, he wondered wryly, she is also wondering if she outranks me?

Caedal shook the notion from his mind. There was no way that this assured young woman—no matter the awkwardness of their initial encounter—could be anywhere near as clueless about the Grey Tower as he was. Caedal ascended the final step and began approaching the novice, who was now standing before a large wooden door inlaid with something he couldn't quite make out from this angle. Though the young woman was concentrating entirely on maneuvering her knuckle to knock on the door without dropping her load once again she shot Caedal another of her withering gazes, stopping him in his tracks several feet short of the door.

I guess I'll stand here, he thought, as the novice was finally able to successfully knock on the door belonging to this Sarla Sedai.

Velvaen glanced back at the soldier suspiciously as she waited for the door to open. Why had he followed her? She hadn’t even been sure he’d wait for her to come back at all–not many would, no matter how firmly she asked them to.
Maybe he wanted to tell Sarla about the tumble! Velvaen thumbed the bottom-most book–was that a twist in the spine? She consciously shot another look at the man. Maybe she should forget about his talking-to. It had been mostly harmless, after all. She should just turn around, apologize, and–

“Velvaen, child! I was beginning to think you had lost your way,” Sarla Sedai said warmly, pulling open the door to her chambers. She was a small, dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes. A kind demeanor radiated from her most days–when she was present, at least. Sometimes the woman got that distant look in her eyes that Velvaen was beginning to associate with Browns. Frankly, it was rather ominous. But for now, the Aes Sedai was all smiles as she led Velvaen further into her under-lit rooms. They were almost a library in and of themselves–with stacks of tomes occupying nearly every available space, aside from a cramped writing desk that sported a half-melted candle. After depositing the books–and receiving a lengthy, uninteresting lecture about their contents–Sarla dismissed her, and Velvaen found herself back in the hall, facing the soldier.

She blinked at him, stuck. Very often, she felt like there was something great and obvious that everyone in the Westlands knew, but had never bothered explaining. She felt that now, and after a moment of awkward silence, Velvaen sighed, saying “Look, thank you for the help downstairs.” She stuck out her hand and felt her face color a little. “Can we start over? It’s Velvaen.”

Several anxiety-ridden minutes passed as Caedal stood alone in the handsomely decorated hallway. Whether the wait was a good sign or not he did not know. Caedal placed the flat of his left hand on the wall behind him and stretched his fingers out against the grain of the cool stone. The span of several heartbeats passed as he went through this small exercise before the door to Sarla Sedai's chambers once again swung open.

The novice made a quiet bow to the Aes Sedai within before carefully closing the door, cutting a far different figure than she had earlier. Was this reserved and yielding novice truly the one who had cowed him so easily just minutes earlier? Caedal began wondering if perhaps this had all been some sort of prank, one that was lost on him.

"Look, thank you for the help downstairs," said the novice, breaking Caedal from his reverie. The novice stuck her hand out to Caedal, "Can we start over? It's Velvaen," she added awkwardly, face slightly red.

"Velvaen..." Caedal murmured as he took the novice's proffered hand in his hand—his undamaged right hand. "I am Soldier Caedal, formerly of House Tarondred," he added—perhaps that was a touch too formal?, he thought even as the words were coming out of his mouth. "The assistance was freely offered and requires no thanks, Novice Velvaen" he said, bowing ever so slightly while still holding the novice's hand. "And as for starting over," he continued, almost as an afterthought, "I would welcome that graciously."

Several moments of silence followed Caedal's words. Oh no, he thought—frantic— that was definitely too formal. He could only hope that he hadn't somehow managed to make an even greater fool of himself to his fellow student.

Velvaen’s eyebrows rose at the surname. Tarondred? She thought back to her political lectures. Isn’t that a Cairhienin house? Cairhienins were supposed to be a short, pale people. But, she admitted, they are supposed to be exceedingly formal, and he does have that well enough in hand. Truthfully, formality was an uncomfortable blank spot in her education. There wasn’t much need for it the life of a potter, especially on Tremalking. If I’m to be an Aes Sedai, I’ll need to learn it eventually, she thought quizzically. And who better to teach etiquette than a Cairhienin? She didn’t voice her idea, though. It was a bit early for that–she didn’t want to drive him off.

Walking over to one of the open windows, Velvaen leaned against the sill and felt the breeze on her face. It was a welcome change after the stuffiness of Sarla Sedai’s quarters. She shivered a little at the soft, moaning draft as she gazed out at the mountainous landscape beyond Hama Valon.

“So you’re from Cairhien?” she asked interestedly with a glance back at Caedal. “What’s the capital like? I only know it by its–ah, reputation.”

I'm a bloody fool, Caedal thought as he was bombarded with questions from the novice. He had hoped his House was unimportant enough to be unknown outside of Cairhien itself, but he should have known that was foolish. The Grey Tower was was a powerful political entity in its own right so knowing the name of an ancient, if minor, House of Cairhien stood to reason.

Caedal returned Velvaen's gaze—intense but not as it had been earlier, for which Caedal was thankful—and said, "Yes, I am Cairhienin." He paused a moment before adding, "Mostly," as his thoughts flashed to his mother and unanswered questions. He banished those thoughts from his head before continuing, not letting himself linger in the past longer than it was needful. "I have only been to Cairhien twice before, once as a very young child and once as I journeyed here." Caedal's thoughts once again flashed to unpleasant memories best left forgotten as he considered the former visit, his left hand spasming in reflex.

"I found the city to be quite beautiful," Caedal said in a strong, clear voice as he forced himself to focus entirely on the latter visit. "The topless towers dominate the surrounding countryside and I thought that they must touch the sky itself... though they positively pale in comparison to the Grey Tower," he added quickly, careful to avoid seeming even greater a fool than he had already made himself. "The fact that so much of the city is incomplete gives it some character if I am to be honest. Cairhien prides itself so much on perfection that it is nice to see that perfection remains just out of reach at its very heart," Caedal said with a smile that faded almost as fast as it arrived. "What I loved most, however, were the gate towns just outside of the city gates, where the poorest of the poor lived. While the greatest features of the city proper may not change over the course of centuries the landscape of these gate towns are more likely to change over the course of days or even hours. Even the longest-standing buildings in gate towns feel fresh and new, more like flowers than man-made structures," he said, a smile once again softening his face.

Caedal suddenly caught himself, realizing he had been rambling to the poor woman. "As for Cairhien's reputation," he added quickly, "I didn't have much of a chance to experience the true... intricacies of Daes Dae'mar." Caedal's left hand closed into a tight fist at his own words as he once again felt the pull of past traumas before he was successfully able to quash it.

"And how about you, Lady Velvaen," he said suddenly, "where might you be from? I can't quite place you..."

Cairhien sounded grand. Velvaen pictured those gate towns just as vividly as the topless towers, intrigued. “It seems you have the heart of a poet, Caedal Tarondred. An imperfect city for a perfectionist people…” she said with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. “Are you sure you’re a lordling? Not many noblemen would find such beauty in ‘the poorest of the poor.’” That was rather sweet, really. The Amayar didn’t have lords, but Velvaen suspected that the best nobility likely would find the slums valuable–the people, not their labor. It was a bit of a shame he wasn’t immersed in the great Game. She’d wanted to hear about it… then again, with the deftness most sisters and brothers played it, that might’ve been just as well. Contemplating the hilarity a Soldier-on-Sister scheming contest, she came up short when he asked about her homeland, and failed to keep herself from darkening at the thought. She answered anyway–fair was fair.

“I’m from Tremalking. It’s an island in the south of the Aryth Ocean. My people don’t usually leave, but I didn’t have much of a choice. The Seanchan saw to that…” She trailed off, voice flat.