His first impression of Andor — and what would be his most vivid memory of the country for years to come — was the rain. The incessant, cold drizzle that didn’t quite turn to sleet but blurred the landscape until everything was grey and lifeless. In Kandor, there had already been a foot of snow on the ground and more fell by the day.
When the gateway rotated shut behind him, Mael slumped forward in the saddle. Seeing the window to Kandor vanish, turn into yet more of the rainy grey nothingness that was Andor, felt like some essential part of him had been cut off, possibly for good.
He’d barely been given time to pen a letter for Ariane. He had no way of knowing if Asha’man Zarac would actually see it delivered. He had no way of knowing if the man could be trusted, yet he had no choice but to do exactly that. Trust… and hope that his wife would get the letter explaining why he’d never returned.
Hope. What a joke.
“Look alive, Akashi,” the Saldaean said cheerfully as they rode towards what seemed not so much a tower but a walled compound made of dark stone. Sure, there were tall buildings inside, but nothing that stood out as towering over the others. Yet it had to be this Black Tower he’d been told about. Zarac’s next words confirmed that readily enough. “Welcome to the Black Tower.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. More men in black uniforms came to take their horses, though these ones had neither the Sword nor the Dragon pin that Zarac sported on his collar; Soldiers, then. That much Zarac had explained already. Mael would be joining their ranks himself soon enough.
He was led to one of the several massive, blocky buildings that Zarac explained were the Soldiers’ barracks. Soldiers were housed in rooms of four, though currently Mael would be sharing his with only two others. He would be issued a uniform and then, seeing as he had started channelling already, his skills would be assessed so that he could be placed into a group corresponding with his skill level to continue learning.
* * * “Name?”
“Mael Akashi, sir.” Mael watched the man sitting on the other side of the desk warily. Had Asha’man Zarac told the man nothing about him, or was this a test of some sort?
Without as much as looking up at Mael, the man scribbled something down on the heavy book before him. “Age? Nationality?”
“Twenty-six, sir. Kandor, sir.”
The man snorted softly. “Bloody Borderlanders.” Now he did look up at Mael. “I bet you think you know how to use that sword of yours, too, eh?”
Mael blinked, startled. He was a Borderlander, a lord whose lands skirted the Blightborder; of-bloody-course he knew how to use the sword. His hand went instinctively to the hilt though he had no intention of drawing the weapon, not here, not in an Asha’man’s office. “As a matter of fact, I—”
“I’m not actually interested, son,” the Asha’man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just know that whatever you think you know, it’s not gonna be enough, and it’s not gonna set you apart from the other Soldiers in any way.” He waited for Mael to nod before continuing. “Now, you’re the one as fancies himself a Dreamer, unless Zarac’s talking out of his ass again. Hmm?”
“I don’t know about any… Dreaming,” Mael replied quietly. “Everybody has nightmares. But if you mean the sort that leave scars…” He rolled up his sleeves to reveal the scars that ran along his arms; the mending process had been far enough along by the time he’d got to Chachin that even Zarac’s Healing hadn’t made the scars fade completely. He lifted his chin and stared back at the Asha’man across the desk. “…Then, yes, I suppose I am one.”
The Asha’man smiled thinly. “So you do have some spirit,” he said, sounding almost bored though the words were approving, on the surface level. “Just be sure you don’t talk back to the wrong people… and anyone with more pins on their collar than you is ‘wrong people’. My name is Artan Sandhill; that’s Asha’man Sandhill to you. I’m in charge of the Soldiers, and that means I’m the one you need to impress before you’re getting your grubby little Borderlander paws on the Sword pin. I can tell you right now your scars aren’t doing it.”
Face flushing with humiliation, Mael opened his mouth to argue, then clamped it shut again without saying anything. The amused glint in the Asha’man’s eyes made Mael hate the man even more.
“Now, you’ll be expected in the channelling grounds, so run along. Ask for Asha’man Trenvael, he’ll be doing your evaluation.” When Mael stood to leave, the Asha’man spoke once more. “Oh, and tell me… What were your parents thinking of when they named you? ‘Hope’? Honestly?”
Mael simply gave him another withering look and saluted the way he’d seen other Soldiers do, before turning on his heels and stalking out of the room.
* * * Alastair Trenvael was nothing like Artan Sandhill, or even Sayid Zarac. Trenvael had a commanding presence, yet he didn’t speak condescendingly to those of lower rank, and it took Mael a while to realise that Trenvael was not in fact taller than him, such was the aura of utter confidence and competence he projected. Over the next hours he talked Mael through the process of accessing the True Source, which he’d never done consciously before, and they were well into the different elements by the time the bell rang, announcing it was time for dinner.
* * * Over the following days and weeks, Mael got better acquainted with life in the Black Tower. It was a harsh life, even for a Borderlander, and within the first week, Mael witnessed another Soldier burn out after losing control of saidin in the training grounds. The unfortunate soul was sent out of the Tower and only his friends seemed sorry to see him go, or indeed feel anything for him at all though he probably didn’t have long to live. To the Black Tower he was nothing but a ruined tool, now.
“It seems heartless, I know,” Asha’man Trenvael replied when Mael commented on the matter at the end of a lesson one day. “But life without saidin, after you’ve tasted it, is no life worth living. I’m sure you can see that. Trying to keep the poor kid alive would be more cruel than letting him go and do what he will.”
Mael reluctantly agreed, and the matter was settled, no more was said of it and the conversation was forgotten.
His training continued. The Black Tower pushed its students hard, but Mael learnt quickly and was able to keep up with the ever heightening demands of his teachers. Asha’man Trenvael was the only one of those teachers he actually grew to like; Trenvael was as demanding as any of them, but unlike the others, he was never unnecessarily cruel. He had a way with the students, the ability to motivate and bring out the best in people, at least in terms of talent.
Mael discovered that he had an affinity for Fire and Spirit, fair skill with Air and Earth, and some trouble with Water. He was taught to use the Power as a weapon; that was the main purpose of the Asha’man of the Black Tower, as Trenvael explained it, to fight in the Last Battle once it came. Being a Borderlander, Mael could understand and accept it readily enough. He’d been fighting the Shadow all his life; now he would just learn to do it more efficiently.
Some of the things taught, however, seemed to have little to do with fighting the Shadow. Weaves of Spirit and Fire could be used to inflict pain without causing physical damage, and though Mael never displayed any particular talent for such thing, he was taught the basics, like every man in the Black Tower. He didn’t enjoy inflicting pain, and he struggled to see the necessity of it until Asha’man Trenvael made him observe the interrogation of a Darkfriend; the experience made Mael grudgingly accept that there was a time and a place for less savoury methods.
* * * As for the thing that had brought Mael to the Black Tower in the first place — Dreaming — most of his teachers didn’t seem to put too much stock in such things, if they believed him at all. Dreaming was considered largely useless, something Aes Sedai might wax poetic about but which wouldn’t be of any use to an Asha’man. Weapons didn’t dream… or Dream.
Alastair Trenvael was the only one to take him seriously at all, and even he couldn’t help much because he was no Dreamer himself and didn’t understand the matter too well. Mael was left to his own devices with his Talent.
Sharing a room with other Soldiers, he had to learn to wake up quickly and without making a scene; his fellow students understood Dreaming even less than his teachers, and waking up screaming from a perceived nightmare was considered a sign of weakness to be exploited.
The first time he Dreamt since coming to the Black Tower was a couple of months after his arrival. He saw Ariane standing on a barren field, holding their infant son, Eleas. Behind her, a great roaring fire was coming, her form silhouetted against the flames. Mael tried to tell her to run, but he wasn’t truly there, his screams echoing into nothingness while she stood still as though unaware of the danger… Yet when the fire reached her, it parted on either side of her, passing by without harming either her or the child.
Mael woke up with a start, breathing hard, heart pounding in his chest. It took him a while to get his bearings, remember where he was… And when he did, he found that he’d woken up his roommates. Mael stifled a groan and rubbed his face, trying to shake the last shreds of the Dream and hoping the two younger men might just go back to sleep.
Alas, no such luck.
“So what was that about?” the younger of them, a Saldaean called Ezran, asked. He didn’t sound like he actually cared, but then he never did.
“Whatever it was, can you not make a habit of it,” the other one, a Cairhienin lordling judging by his accent, said in a bored voice. “Some of us would like to sleep.” Ezra voiced his agreement emphatically.
Mael didn’t reply; he didn’t feel like explaining anything right now, and certainly not to these two. He turned to face the wall and pulled the thin blanket up over his head, but it didn’t block the sound of his roommates’ snickering amongst themselves. After that, he did his best to keep his Dreams to himself and gradually learnt to sleep very still, and to wake himself up at will from ordinary dreams or nightmares.
He was left to learn navigating Tel’aran’rhiod on his own as well; the only help he received on that front was finding out the name in a book Asha’man Trenvael gave him. This resulted in several narrow brushes with death over the following years, and several more scars, but he survived, sometimes through sheer dumb luck, and kept surviving for long enough to learn from his mistakes and experiences.
Over time, Tel’aran’rhiod became something of a refuge to him, a place he could escape the harsh reality of the Black Tower. It was the one place where he felt in control; he could go anywhere, do anything… be anything. Learning to use Tel’aran’rhiod for anything useful happened quite by accident. He was exploring the areas of the Black Tower where Soldiers weren’t allowed when he discovered that he could sometimes read pieces of correspondence, documents, letters and orders from the M’Hael’s desk. He tried the method elsewhere and found that it worked just as well, though the text only remained fixed for small amounts of time before changing into something else entirely. Though there was nothing in particular he was looking to find out at present, he kept practising in case it became useful at some point.
* * * If there was something the Black Tower taught its students, it was to not question one’s superiors… And that was perhaps the thing Mael struggled with the most. Asha’man Sandhill never said it outright, but Mael wasn’t stupid; he could figure out that his unwillingness to blindly conform was why he was kept from advancing to Dedicated for twice as long as other Soldiers at his skill level. Eventually, it was Alastair Trenvael who intervened on his behalf, threatening to kick up a fuss if Mael wasn’t treated according to his abilities.
“Tell me,” Artan Sandhill said, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he eyed Mael from behind his desk, “is he bedding you? Or what does he get out of fighting your battles? Does he simply wish to sow discord, to show the world that he can override my authority?”
Mael glanced down at the silver Sword pin glimmering on the desk between them before meeting the Asha’man’s eyes again. “Asha’man Trenvael does not explain everything he does. Certainly not to me.” He kept his voice even; not outright challenging if not exactly deferential, either. Much as he wanted to punch the condescending smirk off the Asha’man’s face, he knew he couldn’t afford to antagonise the man any more than he had to. At best he’d get himself into more trouble, and at worst he’d drag Alastair down with him.
Sandhill smiled thinly. “But of course,” he said. “You are, after all, just a Soldier.” He waited for a moment longer before pushing the Sword pin towards Mael, but even then he didn’t let the Soldier pick it up just yet. “Have a care with Trenvael. Whether he’s screwing you in bed or not, associating with him may yet screw you over in other ways.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Mael replied blandly. “If there was nothing else..?”
Sandhill gave a nonchalant shrug. “Suit yourself.” He gestured for Mael to finally take the pin. “Good luck, Dedicated.” There was an audible sneer in his voice at the last word. “You’re going to need it.”
Mael sought Alastair out after the meeting and asked the Asha’man about the things Asha’man Sandhill had said. Well, the thing about getting in trouble for associating with Alastair, not the other thing. That wasn’t something Mael wanted Alastair to ever hear implied; Mael had a wife, though he was forbidden from keeping in touch with her until he gained the Dragon pin, and from the way things looked in the Black Tower, he suspected Ariane and their son were safer if he appeared to have forgotten everything about them.
Alastair gave him a long, contemplative look before speaking. “There are people in the Black Tower,” he began, “who believe I’m conspiring against the M’Hael. Some even go as far as to say I’m plotting a coup.”
“And are you?” Mael asked.
Ginger eyebrows shot up and Alastair barked an incredulous laugh. “If I were, do you expect me to talk about it?”
Mael shrugged, unfazed. “You can’t stage a coup alone,” he said, a detached part of his mind marvelling at how calm he sounded, as though the subject matter wasn’t something that could get both their heads hung in the Traitor’s Tree if anyone happened to overhear. They were in Alastair’s quarters, behind layers of Wards, but nowhere on the continent was safe enough to talk about this. Hells, if he’d miscalculated and Alastair was loyal to the M’Hael, he might send Mael there anyway. But… he didn’t think he was wrong about Alastair Trenvael. “You’d need followers.”
The silence that followed stretched on for long enough to make Mael nearly doubt his judgement… But finally Alastair spoke. “And you’re signing up?”
“If you’d have me.” There was no hesitation in Mael’s voice, or his heart. Alastair was the only one in the Black Tower who had shown him a semblance of kindness; Mael would follow him all the way to Shayol Ghul itself if need be. When the silence dragged on again, when Alastair gave no sign of what he might be thinking, Mael went on, “I know I’m not influential or someone people look up to, but I’m strong and a skilled channeller and you’re going to need numbers…”
He cut off when Alastair raised a hand in a warning gesture. The Asha’man channelled to bring a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the liquor cabinet. He poured the drinks and floated one of the glasses to Mael. “Have a drink, boy, and listen.” He waited for Mael to nod before continuing. “I’m not planning a coup. Simply because right now it would be suicide, and I’m not tired of my life just yet.” He flashed a crooked smile. “It’s no secret that I don’t like the M’Hael and he doesn’t like me, but as long as I keep my head down and don’t openly oppose him in anything important, he can’t get rid of me, I’m too powerful and a lot of the men respect me. If he got rid of me, it might cause him more problems than it would solve. And he knows he’s safe from any direct action from my part; he’s the M’Hael, he’s in control.”
Mael nodded slowly. “A delicate balance,” he murmured and brought the glass to his lips. The potent drink burned its way down his throat and he grimaced faintly — he’d never been much of a drinker, and Soldiers weren’t allowed alcohol — but it did help calm his nerves a little.
“A delicate balance indeed,” Alastair agreed. He gave a wry half-chuckle. “Light, I could wish you weren’t so perceptive. It would be a good sight easier to just tell you you’re imagining things and that Sandhill is full of shit. Which, of course he is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a point.” He fixed the younger man with a level look. “I’ll do my best but I can’t guarantee that I can protect you.”
Mael wanted to assure him that he didn’t need protection, but fact was that he had no other friends in the Black Tower, and he was likely making powerful enemies… And he was still only a Dedicated. Without Alastair, nobody would question it if an accident was to happen to him. So he held his peace and merely nodded, and that was the end of the subject… for now.
When the gateway rotated shut behind him, Mael slumped forward in the saddle. Seeing the window to Kandor vanish, turn into yet more of the rainy grey nothingness that was Andor, felt like some essential part of him had been cut off, possibly for good.
He’d barely been given time to pen a letter for Ariane. He had no way of knowing if Asha’man Zarac would actually see it delivered. He had no way of knowing if the man could be trusted, yet he had no choice but to do exactly that. Trust… and hope that his wife would get the letter explaining why he’d never returned.
Hope. What a joke.
“Look alive, Akashi,” the Saldaean said cheerfully as they rode towards what seemed not so much a tower but a walled compound made of dark stone. Sure, there were tall buildings inside, but nothing that stood out as towering over the others. Yet it had to be this Black Tower he’d been told about. Zarac’s next words confirmed that readily enough. “Welcome to the Black Tower.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. More men in black uniforms came to take their horses, though these ones had neither the Sword nor the Dragon pin that Zarac sported on his collar; Soldiers, then. That much Zarac had explained already. Mael would be joining their ranks himself soon enough.
He was led to one of the several massive, blocky buildings that Zarac explained were the Soldiers’ barracks. Soldiers were housed in rooms of four, though currently Mael would be sharing his with only two others. He would be issued a uniform and then, seeing as he had started channelling already, his skills would be assessed so that he could be placed into a group corresponding with his skill level to continue learning.
* * * “Name?”
“Mael Akashi, sir.” Mael watched the man sitting on the other side of the desk warily. Had Asha’man Zarac told the man nothing about him, or was this a test of some sort?
Without as much as looking up at Mael, the man scribbled something down on the heavy book before him. “Age? Nationality?”
“Twenty-six, sir. Kandor, sir.”
The man snorted softly. “Bloody Borderlanders.” Now he did look up at Mael. “I bet you think you know how to use that sword of yours, too, eh?”
Mael blinked, startled. He was a Borderlander, a lord whose lands skirted the Blightborder; of-bloody-course he knew how to use the sword. His hand went instinctively to the hilt though he had no intention of drawing the weapon, not here, not in an Asha’man’s office. “As a matter of fact, I—”
“I’m not actually interested, son,” the Asha’man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just know that whatever you think you know, it’s not gonna be enough, and it’s not gonna set you apart from the other Soldiers in any way.” He waited for Mael to nod before continuing. “Now, you’re the one as fancies himself a Dreamer, unless Zarac’s talking out of his ass again. Hmm?”
“I don’t know about any… Dreaming,” Mael replied quietly. “Everybody has nightmares. But if you mean the sort that leave scars…” He rolled up his sleeves to reveal the scars that ran along his arms; the mending process had been far enough along by the time he’d got to Chachin that even Zarac’s Healing hadn’t made the scars fade completely. He lifted his chin and stared back at the Asha’man across the desk. “…Then, yes, I suppose I am one.”
The Asha’man smiled thinly. “So you do have some spirit,” he said, sounding almost bored though the words were approving, on the surface level. “Just be sure you don’t talk back to the wrong people… and anyone with more pins on their collar than you is ‘wrong people’. My name is Artan Sandhill; that’s Asha’man Sandhill to you. I’m in charge of the Soldiers, and that means I’m the one you need to impress before you’re getting your grubby little Borderlander paws on the Sword pin. I can tell you right now your scars aren’t doing it.”
Face flushing with humiliation, Mael opened his mouth to argue, then clamped it shut again without saying anything. The amused glint in the Asha’man’s eyes made Mael hate the man even more.
“Now, you’ll be expected in the channelling grounds, so run along. Ask for Asha’man Trenvael, he’ll be doing your evaluation.” When Mael stood to leave, the Asha’man spoke once more. “Oh, and tell me… What were your parents thinking of when they named you? ‘Hope’? Honestly?”
Mael simply gave him another withering look and saluted the way he’d seen other Soldiers do, before turning on his heels and stalking out of the room.
* * * Alastair Trenvael was nothing like Artan Sandhill, or even Sayid Zarac. Trenvael had a commanding presence, yet he didn’t speak condescendingly to those of lower rank, and it took Mael a while to realise that Trenvael was not in fact taller than him, such was the aura of utter confidence and competence he projected. Over the next hours he talked Mael through the process of accessing the True Source, which he’d never done consciously before, and they were well into the different elements by the time the bell rang, announcing it was time for dinner.
* * * Over the following days and weeks, Mael got better acquainted with life in the Black Tower. It was a harsh life, even for a Borderlander, and within the first week, Mael witnessed another Soldier burn out after losing control of saidin in the training grounds. The unfortunate soul was sent out of the Tower and only his friends seemed sorry to see him go, or indeed feel anything for him at all though he probably didn’t have long to live. To the Black Tower he was nothing but a ruined tool, now.
“It seems heartless, I know,” Asha’man Trenvael replied when Mael commented on the matter at the end of a lesson one day. “But life without saidin, after you’ve tasted it, is no life worth living. I’m sure you can see that. Trying to keep the poor kid alive would be more cruel than letting him go and do what he will.”
Mael reluctantly agreed, and the matter was settled, no more was said of it and the conversation was forgotten.
His training continued. The Black Tower pushed its students hard, but Mael learnt quickly and was able to keep up with the ever heightening demands of his teachers. Asha’man Trenvael was the only one of those teachers he actually grew to like; Trenvael was as demanding as any of them, but unlike the others, he was never unnecessarily cruel. He had a way with the students, the ability to motivate and bring out the best in people, at least in terms of talent.
Mael discovered that he had an affinity for Fire and Spirit, fair skill with Air and Earth, and some trouble with Water. He was taught to use the Power as a weapon; that was the main purpose of the Asha’man of the Black Tower, as Trenvael explained it, to fight in the Last Battle once it came. Being a Borderlander, Mael could understand and accept it readily enough. He’d been fighting the Shadow all his life; now he would just learn to do it more efficiently.
Some of the things taught, however, seemed to have little to do with fighting the Shadow. Weaves of Spirit and Fire could be used to inflict pain without causing physical damage, and though Mael never displayed any particular talent for such thing, he was taught the basics, like every man in the Black Tower. He didn’t enjoy inflicting pain, and he struggled to see the necessity of it until Asha’man Trenvael made him observe the interrogation of a Darkfriend; the experience made Mael grudgingly accept that there was a time and a place for less savoury methods.
* * * As for the thing that had brought Mael to the Black Tower in the first place — Dreaming — most of his teachers didn’t seem to put too much stock in such things, if they believed him at all. Dreaming was considered largely useless, something Aes Sedai might wax poetic about but which wouldn’t be of any use to an Asha’man. Weapons didn’t dream… or Dream.
Alastair Trenvael was the only one to take him seriously at all, and even he couldn’t help much because he was no Dreamer himself and didn’t understand the matter too well. Mael was left to his own devices with his Talent.
Sharing a room with other Soldiers, he had to learn to wake up quickly and without making a scene; his fellow students understood Dreaming even less than his teachers, and waking up screaming from a perceived nightmare was considered a sign of weakness to be exploited.
The first time he Dreamt since coming to the Black Tower was a couple of months after his arrival. He saw Ariane standing on a barren field, holding their infant son, Eleas. Behind her, a great roaring fire was coming, her form silhouetted against the flames. Mael tried to tell her to run, but he wasn’t truly there, his screams echoing into nothingness while she stood still as though unaware of the danger… Yet when the fire reached her, it parted on either side of her, passing by without harming either her or the child.
Mael woke up with a start, breathing hard, heart pounding in his chest. It took him a while to get his bearings, remember where he was… And when he did, he found that he’d woken up his roommates. Mael stifled a groan and rubbed his face, trying to shake the last shreds of the Dream and hoping the two younger men might just go back to sleep.
Alas, no such luck.
“So what was that about?” the younger of them, a Saldaean called Ezran, asked. He didn’t sound like he actually cared, but then he never did.
“Whatever it was, can you not make a habit of it,” the other one, a Cairhienin lordling judging by his accent, said in a bored voice. “Some of us would like to sleep.” Ezra voiced his agreement emphatically.
Mael didn’t reply; he didn’t feel like explaining anything right now, and certainly not to these two. He turned to face the wall and pulled the thin blanket up over his head, but it didn’t block the sound of his roommates’ snickering amongst themselves. After that, he did his best to keep his Dreams to himself and gradually learnt to sleep very still, and to wake himself up at will from ordinary dreams or nightmares.
He was left to learn navigating Tel’aran’rhiod on his own as well; the only help he received on that front was finding out the name in a book Asha’man Trenvael gave him. This resulted in several narrow brushes with death over the following years, and several more scars, but he survived, sometimes through sheer dumb luck, and kept surviving for long enough to learn from his mistakes and experiences.
Over time, Tel’aran’rhiod became something of a refuge to him, a place he could escape the harsh reality of the Black Tower. It was the one place where he felt in control; he could go anywhere, do anything… be anything. Learning to use Tel’aran’rhiod for anything useful happened quite by accident. He was exploring the areas of the Black Tower where Soldiers weren’t allowed when he discovered that he could sometimes read pieces of correspondence, documents, letters and orders from the M’Hael’s desk. He tried the method elsewhere and found that it worked just as well, though the text only remained fixed for small amounts of time before changing into something else entirely. Though there was nothing in particular he was looking to find out at present, he kept practising in case it became useful at some point.
* * * If there was something the Black Tower taught its students, it was to not question one’s superiors… And that was perhaps the thing Mael struggled with the most. Asha’man Sandhill never said it outright, but Mael wasn’t stupid; he could figure out that his unwillingness to blindly conform was why he was kept from advancing to Dedicated for twice as long as other Soldiers at his skill level. Eventually, it was Alastair Trenvael who intervened on his behalf, threatening to kick up a fuss if Mael wasn’t treated according to his abilities.
“Tell me,” Artan Sandhill said, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he eyed Mael from behind his desk, “is he bedding you? Or what does he get out of fighting your battles? Does he simply wish to sow discord, to show the world that he can override my authority?”
Mael glanced down at the silver Sword pin glimmering on the desk between them before meeting the Asha’man’s eyes again. “Asha’man Trenvael does not explain everything he does. Certainly not to me.” He kept his voice even; not outright challenging if not exactly deferential, either. Much as he wanted to punch the condescending smirk off the Asha’man’s face, he knew he couldn’t afford to antagonise the man any more than he had to. At best he’d get himself into more trouble, and at worst he’d drag Alastair down with him.
Sandhill smiled thinly. “But of course,” he said. “You are, after all, just a Soldier.” He waited for a moment longer before pushing the Sword pin towards Mael, but even then he didn’t let the Soldier pick it up just yet. “Have a care with Trenvael. Whether he’s screwing you in bed or not, associating with him may yet screw you over in other ways.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Mael replied blandly. “If there was nothing else..?”
Sandhill gave a nonchalant shrug. “Suit yourself.” He gestured for Mael to finally take the pin. “Good luck, Dedicated.” There was an audible sneer in his voice at the last word. “You’re going to need it.”
Mael sought Alastair out after the meeting and asked the Asha’man about the things Asha’man Sandhill had said. Well, the thing about getting in trouble for associating with Alastair, not the other thing. That wasn’t something Mael wanted Alastair to ever hear implied; Mael had a wife, though he was forbidden from keeping in touch with her until he gained the Dragon pin, and from the way things looked in the Black Tower, he suspected Ariane and their son were safer if he appeared to have forgotten everything about them.
Alastair gave him a long, contemplative look before speaking. “There are people in the Black Tower,” he began, “who believe I’m conspiring against the M’Hael. Some even go as far as to say I’m plotting a coup.”
“And are you?” Mael asked.
Ginger eyebrows shot up and Alastair barked an incredulous laugh. “If I were, do you expect me to talk about it?”
Mael shrugged, unfazed. “You can’t stage a coup alone,” he said, a detached part of his mind marvelling at how calm he sounded, as though the subject matter wasn’t something that could get both their heads hung in the Traitor’s Tree if anyone happened to overhear. They were in Alastair’s quarters, behind layers of Wards, but nowhere on the continent was safe enough to talk about this. Hells, if he’d miscalculated and Alastair was loyal to the M’Hael, he might send Mael there anyway. But… he didn’t think he was wrong about Alastair Trenvael. “You’d need followers.”
The silence that followed stretched on for long enough to make Mael nearly doubt his judgement… But finally Alastair spoke. “And you’re signing up?”
“If you’d have me.” There was no hesitation in Mael’s voice, or his heart. Alastair was the only one in the Black Tower who had shown him a semblance of kindness; Mael would follow him all the way to Shayol Ghul itself if need be. When the silence dragged on again, when Alastair gave no sign of what he might be thinking, Mael went on, “I know I’m not influential or someone people look up to, but I’m strong and a skilled channeller and you’re going to need numbers…”
He cut off when Alastair raised a hand in a warning gesture. The Asha’man channelled to bring a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the liquor cabinet. He poured the drinks and floated one of the glasses to Mael. “Have a drink, boy, and listen.” He waited for Mael to nod before continuing. “I’m not planning a coup. Simply because right now it would be suicide, and I’m not tired of my life just yet.” He flashed a crooked smile. “It’s no secret that I don’t like the M’Hael and he doesn’t like me, but as long as I keep my head down and don’t openly oppose him in anything important, he can’t get rid of me, I’m too powerful and a lot of the men respect me. If he got rid of me, it might cause him more problems than it would solve. And he knows he’s safe from any direct action from my part; he’s the M’Hael, he’s in control.”
Mael nodded slowly. “A delicate balance,” he murmured and brought the glass to his lips. The potent drink burned its way down his throat and he grimaced faintly — he’d never been much of a drinker, and Soldiers weren’t allowed alcohol — but it did help calm his nerves a little.
“A delicate balance indeed,” Alastair agreed. He gave a wry half-chuckle. “Light, I could wish you weren’t so perceptive. It would be a good sight easier to just tell you you’re imagining things and that Sandhill is full of shit. Which, of course he is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a point.” He fixed the younger man with a level look. “I’ll do my best but I can’t guarantee that I can protect you.”
Mael wanted to assure him that he didn’t need protection, but fact was that he had no other friends in the Black Tower, and he was likely making powerful enemies… And he was still only a Dedicated. Without Alastair, nobody would question it if an accident was to happen to him. So he held his peace and merely nodded, and that was the end of the subject… for now.