Rhykana moved in a haze through the halls of the Indigo Ajah, exhaustion eating at her awareness. It felt as if the siege had just ended, as if she had spent just yesterday attempting to Heal mangled bodies, trying not to sob as she failed. For Halliene and Lydarian, it was as if the Seanchan attack had never happened- their instruction had continued, at the same relentless pace as before. She did not have a spare moment to think, not when there was an ever-growing list of ter’angreal to make, subjects to study, patients to Heal. Not when the price for failure was an increase in tasks, a slow eating away of time to sleep, to eat, to be alone with her thoughts.
It was as it had been for years. Years of arduous work, an endless array of tasks that put her dedication to the test. It had been simple, then; a price Rhykana was willing to pay to become an Aes Sedai, free of the Oaths, free to wreck her revenge on Derin and his ilk. But now the Oaths were gone, Black Ajah or no. Everything she had done since that day Lydarian had found her in the infirmary, every challenge she had forced herself through since Lydarian had turned her to the Black Ajah, was for nothing.
Rhykana knew what she had become in Lydarian’s crucible. She could not shield her eyes from that truth; she was a child of the Black Ajah. She hungered, even now, to pull power from Lydarian’s grasp, to make the Yellow pay for her casual possession. She had remade herself to fit Lydarian’s mold, just as she had done so for Derin, decades ago. It would be only fitting for the woman to suffer at the weapons of her own making.
She halted, graceful and unhurried, in front of Illyria’s door, and knocked without hesitation. It was time to take action, to give herself the space to think that Lydarian and Halliene would not allow. She had thought that she had the strength and perseverance to wait until she was Aes Sedai, to wait until she was a fully-fledged member of the Black Ajah. But Rhykana could not stomach another day scraping and curtsying to the women that she despised.
None of the confusion and wrath trickled past her mask of Aes Sedai calm as Illyria’s door swung open. Rhykana dipped into a curtsy, giving the Indigo sister every bit of the respect that she has resented as a novice. “Illyria Sedai,” Rhykana spoke, quiet, demure, and apologetic. “Do you have a spare moment?” She straightened, turning her face up for Illyria’s inspection. The woman had once been Mistress of Novices. She would see the exhaustion and pain lining Rhykana’s face; she would see the hazy nature of Rhykana’s gaze. There would be no need to level accusations, no need to speak Halliene’s name. She would see.
It was as it had been for years. Years of arduous work, an endless array of tasks that put her dedication to the test. It had been simple, then; a price Rhykana was willing to pay to become an Aes Sedai, free of the Oaths, free to wreck her revenge on Derin and his ilk. But now the Oaths were gone, Black Ajah or no. Everything she had done since that day Lydarian had found her in the infirmary, every challenge she had forced herself through since Lydarian had turned her to the Black Ajah, was for nothing.
Rhykana knew what she had become in Lydarian’s crucible. She could not shield her eyes from that truth; she was a child of the Black Ajah. She hungered, even now, to pull power from Lydarian’s grasp, to make the Yellow pay for her casual possession. She had remade herself to fit Lydarian’s mold, just as she had done so for Derin, decades ago. It would be only fitting for the woman to suffer at the weapons of her own making.
She halted, graceful and unhurried, in front of Illyria’s door, and knocked without hesitation. It was time to take action, to give herself the space to think that Lydarian and Halliene would not allow. She had thought that she had the strength and perseverance to wait until she was Aes Sedai, to wait until she was a fully-fledged member of the Black Ajah. But Rhykana could not stomach another day scraping and curtsying to the women that she despised.
None of the confusion and wrath trickled past her mask of Aes Sedai calm as Illyria’s door swung open. Rhykana dipped into a curtsy, giving the Indigo sister every bit of the respect that she has resented as a novice. “Illyria Sedai,” Rhykana spoke, quiet, demure, and apologetic. “Do you have a spare moment?” She straightened, turning her face up for Illyria’s inspection. The woman had once been Mistress of Novices. She would see the exhaustion and pain lining Rhykana’s face; she would see the hazy nature of Rhykana’s gaze. There would be no need to level accusations, no need to speak Halliene’s name. She would see.


