The Grey Tower

Val tolerated the minor tirade in cool silence. It was after all likely the first time that the Soldier’s life had been remotely in peril whilst under the roof of the Grey Tower. Inwardly he decided Elonid’s assessment of the Grey Tower’s crippling asthenia towards training channelers held merit.

“Soldier Lomore,” Valadin said once Kiellan’s temper had cooled, “Yer gonna learn that the Tower ent the place fer back-talk. Next time you lose hold o’ yer tongue, ya’ll spend the better part of the evenin’ an’ most o’ the morrow knee deep in horse droppings with Master Ranen makin’ bloody certain ya savor e’er drop o’ it. That understood?”

Kiellan glowered, but was wise enough to hold his tongue. Good. Seems he’s got more sense’n I had in his shoes. The first lesson any Soldier learned upon admittance into the Tower ranks was one of absolute obedience. Many earned much harder instruction than the one the young man was receiving—punishments were doled out daily to Soldiers and Dedicated alike; even Sisters and Asha’man were on occasion handed to the Master of Soldiers or Mistress of Novices for punishment. Skirting the law was one thing…outright insubordination was not tolerated.

Much time had passed. Now the moon hung high in the evening sky, a great silver mark in the starlit blanket of rich darkness. With each breath a cloud of cooled air wreathed both men momentarily in white. Keeping the grimace from his face as he thought of the pardon he’d need to spend much of the night writing on Kiellan’s behalf, Val began the day’s final lesson.

Working his shoulders to ease the stiffness from the Saidin stirred his senses to life once more, the cold and discomfort giving way to the exultant empowerment of the One Power. “We spoke o’ this earlier…more’n likely ya’ll face Sheildin’ in battle. Specially if yer enemy thinks he’s got ya cornered.”

This time Val Wove a thread of pure Spirit. Unlike the Shield, this Weave was more compact in its design. Any man who could perceive it would liken it to a battering ram as opposed to the wall that Shields were often comprehended as. “There’ll be tiems when ain’t enough chance to Cut a Shield down ‘fore it slides into place. In any fight ya must never get Shielded,” Val warned. “Once yer Shielded things get…desperate.”

Val had experienced numerous duels with other Dedicated and Asha’man. Most were instructional in nature, much like Kiellan’s training. In these there was a distinct lack of any formidable danger, but one such practice stood out in his mind. That duel had shown him more about true battle with the One Power than all other lessons put together. Mastering himself through the Void, Val continued, pointedly ignoring the warm sweat on his upper lip.

“Such times mean ya’ll use the Weave I jus’ showed ya to push the Shield back. Take heed…this’ll be a pure contest o’ strength. Best to avoid it altogether, but knowin’ this little trick might save yer life—or mine—one day.”

Silence hung between them as the song of crickets reached them from some far corner of the Tower grounds. Nothing sung in the Channeling Yards. The One Power’s destruction was complete, leaving no sign of life among the ruined rows of earth. Not for the first time, Valadin wondered if the Creator had truly blessed mankind with such potent power. “Now then try to Shield me like I showed ya earlier. Once ya see how to push a Shield back, we’ll give ya a go at it an’ I can have food brought to our quarters by the time we’ve both had a warm bath.”

Channeling Saidin was ever a struggle. Within the eternal seconds that ticked away, Val sensed the intrepid Soldier’s Shield settling over him like a chill in the winter. Only the Void kept the wailing terror at bay making a pellucid assessment of the situation possible.

Poised as nascent strands of the Power answered his calling, he quickly Wove Spirit into bludgeon. It seemed a crude way to use such a refined element of nature, but as the world sharpened with Saidin-induced detail crudeness seemed to suit the mood in the air just fine. Like a caged beast coming from Val snarled, shoving the Shield that dared to threaten his connection to the One Power. Kiellan was strong.

Val was stronger.

What began as an even-footed match quickly went the Dedicated’s way, his intimate connection with the Source and comfort in the Void gave him leave to wield the hammering Spirit until nothing remained of the Soldier’s Shield. A trembling moment hung between them where Saidin sought vengeance, the torrents of fire and ice sluicing through his veins, making him shiver in a cold, detached fury. The menace of Saidin still emanated from the young man, his features contorted in a mixture of excitement and savagery. Puffy clouds of white enshrined their heads as the night’s coldness set in, but Saidin and adrenaline held off nature’s hold on them; they were beyond the natural.

A chance at a true duel called to the warrior spirits…then Val let go of Saidin. After the deluge of life flooding his every pore, the Power’s absence left him disorientated in the less colorful banality of the world. “As I said…” he began striding towards Kiellan, “…takin’ on another channeler like that is a last resort. Fool’s errand if he’s stronger than ya or more experienced. Better off tryin’ to beat ‘im bloody with yer fists if ya can get close ‘nough.”

No one remained in the Channeling yard nor any part of the Tower grounds. Surely Gaidin roamed about, tending to this affair or the next and the Mountain Guard would begin their patrol, but the causeway leading to the main gate remained devoid of travels. Grunting at the hour as cold set in without Saidin in his blood, Val signaled Kiellan to follow.

The walk back was mostly in silence. Whether because the vestiges of battle fire still lingered in their bones or the freezing in mountain headwinds simply didn’t foster camaraderie it wasn’t until they’d made the kitchen that they shared their first words. Of course of the Mistress was working the scullery maids hard even in these late hours of the day. Little time was spent before she spotted them lounging nearby, but for a time they were ignored while other tasks were attended to.

“Better ya never see a duel, Soldier. Gettin’ caught with fury in ya like that…” Val shook his head. “Ent a way a man who wants to live long should be.”

A warm mug of some bitter tea was pressed into the hands of both he and Kiellan by a lithe, young man wearing Grey Tower colors over a worn muslin tunic. The servant’s features were smooth as he made his delivery and bowed respectfully. Before he was upright once more the Mistress of the Kitchen’s voice cracked like a whip and the fellow was gone. “Most duels with channelers are gonna be fought with Spirit an’ Fire if ya can manage. Killin’ can be done with any Weave if ya’ve a mind fer it. Cuttin’ Weaves an’ Shieldin’ folks be the way an experienced channeler dispenses with dreadlords an’ the like.”

By the time he’d gotten to the bottom of the mug, the taste of the tea had sweetened a bit—or his palette was simply numb from some unknown herb. Licking his lips he reached for Kiellan’s finished mug as well.

“Said it ‘fore. Yer strong…too strong fer yer own good to be truthful. Anythin’ ya wanna ask ‘bout? I’m thinkin’ a patrol of the mountains might make good practice fer ya pretty soon.”

The draught’s warmness had already spread to the soles of Valadin’s feet when plates of food were put into the hands of each man. By that time Kiellan’s questions hung in the air, echoing against the stone walls with guilty curiosity throughout the vacant hallways.

“Ah, Soldier…let’s…” Valadin grunted as he turned from the scene of bustling Novices and servants, scrubbing the floor vigorously. Appreciation gurgled up from deep within at the memory of the Mistress’ tyranny.

Moving away from the kitchens proved to be wisdom. Corpulent as the Mistress was her gift for striking unsuspecting loungers had its place in Tower legend. Steam rose from the dinner of strips of beef smothered in a pepper sauce that Valadin guessed must have come from the Southlands or somewhere similarly exotic. Andor wasn’t known for its spices—at least from what could be learned from years of observing the Four Kings trading goods. For a time only the sound of two hungry souls attacking their meal with gusto filled the emptiness that haunted the night. Moonlight spilled in through a window adding to the gentle illumination of the torches. Within the Tower walls the penetrating cold from the Yards held no purchase.

Plate cleaned, Valadin waited for Kiellan to do the same before speaking. Despite the gloom of the shadows and the stifling quiet the food had restored Val’s good humor. He found himself grinning without any apparent cause. Perhaps I’ve finally gone mad, eh?

Most days such a thought would send a shiver down his spine, but sharing the evening with Kiellan, his pupil…and in some ways his friend removed the menacing edged that the threat of madness often held. “Best time o’ day this. The clutter o’ e’eryone runnin’ about dies down leavin’ behind the naked night sky an’ the stars above—jus’ the way the Creator intended it I’d reckon.”

Soon they came to the terminus of the long corridors that formed a maze-like network for inhabitants to get to their duties and classes with effortless efficiency. During the day the throngs ploughing through them in a quivering mass made it difficult to see the practical brilliance behind the great building’s design. Had his mind for craftsmanship been honed at an earlier age, he might even have appreciated the subject in general. Alas, time was wasting and reverence would not slake the young Soldier’s thirst for knowledge; there was too much to be learned to dally.

“Flows o’ Earth an’ Fire’re usually the toughest to Cut. Course it ent impossible, but most just step out o’ the way of the Weaves rather than tryin’ anythin’ stupid; in battle there’s no substitute fer good sense, remember that. Dunt be worryin’ ‘bout the backlash either. After a bit ya learn to…become accustom to it. Like pain in a good fight; still there, but ya ent fallin’ over yerself after each nick.”

Valadin’s voice boomed in the stillness. A nearby torch flickered as a gust of wind rushed through the empty halls. The guttering flame hinted at the hour of the night and Valadin decided that keeping Kiellan any longer from his bed would be unwise. Dedicated would be patrolling bedrooms issuing swift sentence for any caught skirting curfew. It had been his experience that excuse or no, Soldiers were likely to get their ears boxed by his betters.

“As fer the rest,” Valadin continued. “It’s fer another time. Off ta bed with ya now. As it were I’ve got a fair bit of explainin’ to do as to why a Soldier’s missin’ so many o’ his classes in his first year. I shan’t be takin’ grief fer ya sleepin’ through class tomorrow as well.”

With a gentle nudge, the young man was sent towards the dimly lit dormitory. Kiellan’s brow seemed to arch sardonically at the dismissal, but the dying torchlight may have been playing tricks on the eye. Not that ya don’t deserve it. If it were you, Garyas wouldn’t ‘ve been able t’move ya with the power o’ the Creator hisself.

Unwashed plate in hand Valadin retired to his quarters. Immediately the cloying aroma of sweat and the brew used to scrub floors greeted him, but it had been home for more than two years now. Little had changed since the graduation from Soldier to Dedicated. From what was understood about the young man, Kiellan would find that the ceremony behind the entire endeavor to be wholly unnecessary and theatrical. The pomp and celebration meant little once duties needed to be taken. The Grey Tower was stalwart in its intent to churn out warriors for the coming fight against the Shadow; luxury was not an indulgence to be found in excess. Though his bed called to him Valadin sat down at the small three-legged writing desk to begin penning down justification for the unplanned absence of a Soldier’s from his duties.

The Final Battle was fought with the pen as much as it was the sword it seemed.