“Andarin?”
He rubbed his cheek with the side of his hand as he looked up, vaguely aware he had probably left a streak of soot across his face, but more interested in getting his hair out of the way so he could see the speaker. “What is it?” he asked in a distracted tone.
“Soldiers generally have classes at this time of day, I believe.” It was both statement and inquiry.
Owen blinked, head tilting to the side as he squinted up at the figure in black who stood over him. “Generally, yes,” he responded in a lazy tone. “What of it?” The Shienaran had settled against the wall below a south-facing window in what he had thought was a fairly disused corridor in the Yellow Ajah quarters. The lighting had been perfect before his new companion’s appearance; now the sun caught in pale hair, glowing madly against the much dimmer backdrop of the long corridor beyond. Which paints could I use to capture that?
The prolonged silence warned him to look further. It was only then that he realized the other man bore a dragon pin on his collar. “Shit, shit, shit,” Owen muttered frantically, tugging his sketchbook against his chest and pushing himself to his feet in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs and hair. A lifetime of court training finally kicked in once he stood, numbing his mortification behind a wall of glassy smiles and perfectly enacted bows. “My apologies sir, I did not see you.” Not true, obviously, but the other seemed to understand what he meant. At least no reprimand appeared to be forthcoming.
A horrible thought occurred to him. “Am I supposed to be in your class right now?”
The Asha’man’s face twitched into a smile. “No, not mine.” He actually sounded kind. Going by the yellow knot at his shoulder, perhaps he was. “Jaryd mentioned he’d assigned you to a class on our history today.” As the other man continued, describing probable location of the course and how to get there, Owen forced his body to relax limb by limb...only to stiffen again when he realized that somehow this stranger knew about him specifically. He, a soldier who had arrived only three days prior. Why? I am no one special.
“Thank you sir,” he said finally. That was the safest response.
“My name is Jaren. Welcome to the Grey Tower.” He hesitated a moment, then met Owen’s eyes and gestured at his own face with one extended finger. “You might want to- yes.” The youth scrubbed at his stained cheek with his cuff, red-faced with embarrassment, as the Asha’man strolled away.
~~~
‘Late’ did not begin to describe Owen’s arrival time in the specified classroom. He stared at the door in front of him for a moment, then shrugged and pushed it open, strolling in with a confidence he did not truly feel. The people within turned out to be a mix of men and women dressed in variations of black, white, and gray. They were taught by a slender woman in brown who scrawled hasty notes on a big board as she spoke. The students seemed intent on their work, the Aes Sedai focused on her lecture.
He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or abashed that no one so much as glanced at him. He hesitated, uncertain, then finally ambled about the room to an empty desk and slid into the seat. The movement was graceful, but the result was a sprawl of lanky legs and arms that could not (or would not) be contained by the confines of his assigned furniture. He gave up trying after only one attempt and flipped his sketchbook to a fresh page. After that he spent his time scrawling notes in charcoal, lacking any other writing implement.
When the Aes Sedai called a short break, he glanced around thoughtfully, then flipped his fingers in amiable greeting to the only person who met his eyes. “Name’s Owen,” he said. “Would you happen to have notes from the beginning of class?”