The Grey Tower

One.

Hips shifted, torso rotating, shoulders following, his body no longer protesting at the weight and pull of the weapon he wielded. The long, lean muscles of his arms flexed as he brought the hammer around, the block of metal... singing as it parted the air before it. Zeen was strangely aware of the uneven edges of the wrapped leather grip biting into his palms. Pain stung through his hands. Blisters. They were bursting. Later, they would heal. After several repeats of that, calluses would form.

Two.

The Void kept the distraction at bay. He could acknowledge what he felt without giving in to it. The M’Hael pivoted on his back foot, front leg turning then planting as he spun. He ducked down and sideways as he dodged an imaginary foe, the warhammer arcing up in a blur of silvery metal. Trollocs, Callie had told him to envision, and so he did. He twisted the hammer at the last moment, the wicked spike colliding with what would have been a hooked beaked mouth or a furrowed snout nose.

Three.

Zeen lifted himself to his full height, arms raising high above his head. His back was arched and completely taut, the lines and planes of muscle moving as if sculpted. His silhouette stood out against the early morning sun for a brief moment before the Amadician fell forward with perfect control, the hammer smashing down on the ground in front of him. The loud crack echoed the length and breadth of the Yard, the jolt of impact reverberating through his very bones straight up into his skull. The silence and stillness that followed seemed almost unnatural. One day, he would get past the count of three.

“Bring it here.” It was not a request.

He took in a deep breath, shaking himself as if coming awake. The Void fell away, and his palms immediately felt as if they were on fire. He grimaced faintly, the dull throbbing pain gnawing away at his thoughts. Silver-grey eyes glanced over at Callie as he slowly picked himself up. For a wonder, she was not scowling. He did as she said, handing the crusty woman the warhammer that had once belonged to her. His posture was indolent as he leaned back against the fence that she was perched on.

“Drink,” she told him absently, propping the hammer up with the arm that ended in a stump just beneath her elbow, hard hazel eyes narrowing as she studied the spike and the head with meticulous care. Once again, he did as she said without protest, gingerly taking a hold of the nearby jug of water and downing several gulps.

“Not too fast, Nugget, or you’ll get sick,” she admonished him in the same distracted tone.

Zeen could not help himself. “Yes, mother.” His lips twitched as annoyance and exasperation coiled through the bond.

“It’s not my fault that you’re an idiot that needs looked after.” That was shot back without any real heat. “The Hand Twirler is just as bad.” Callie tapped at the block of metal almost fondly before she thrust the warhammer back at him. “See? I told you you wouldn’t be able to break it. You barely even scratched it.”

“Indeed,” he answered easily, “how could I have ever doubted you, my lady?”

Her face was carved from stone, but the thread of amusement came through before she was able to fully suppress it. Zeen gave her his most disarming smile and was rewarded for his efforts with a slap to his chest with the back of her fist.

“Put on your bloody shirt Nugget. Bathe too. Busy day for you, overseeing all the other finger wigglers.” She hopped down from the fence, her shoulders very easily almost as wide as his. “On second thought, don’t bathe. I’d pay to see someone tell you that you stink like old sweat.”

The Amadician shook his head. He plucked up his shirt from nearby but slung it over his shoulder instead, swinging the warhammer up to rest on that little patch of padded fabric. “I am certain that you could get Red to tell me that with very little payment or prodding,” he retorted dryly.

The noise she made was noncommittal, but she purposefully ignored his questioning look. Zeen shrugged inwardly and they made their way back into the Tower and up to his rooms in companionable silence. Despite her earlier statement, she ordered around several of the servants and directed him to his bath as if he was a child of three and not a full grown man. Fussy salty broad, he thought, amused, as he did his best to submerge himself in the copper tub that was not made for someone of his height or size.

Propriety demanded that he don on a fresh shirt, his pins hanging from the leather cord around his neck. No amount of formality could convince him to wear one of those dratted coats, however, and he left that on the the end table behind him. At least it would be in sight for whatever people these meetings conjured up. With stern orders not to touch anything, Callie slathered on some kind of salve onto his palms. The smell of goosemint was overwhelming, but he eased back into his chair as the tingling sensation cooled and soothed the burst blisters.

The salve dried far too soon. He sighed audibly, before sending the summons out for the first of his appointments. Trade agreements. Financial updates. If anyone thought being the M’Hael was a constant glamorous source of excitement, they were sorely mistaken... Time slowed to a crawl, and before the sun had even reached its zenith, Zeen was about ready to scream in sheer frustration and utter boredom. He had a sneaking suspicion that Murdock lined up all of the dreary, spoiled nobles up together, one after the other, each more vapid and self-centered than the last.

He brightened visibly as finally, something interesting caught his eye. A fellow Green... newly returned to the Tower, it seemed. Saowynn Ardashir. And... curious, with her... this Jahn... He scanned the report, two words jumping out at him that set his entire world on its ear. Former Whitecloak. Zeen’s jaw clicked shut. The silver of his eyes leached out, leaving behind flinty hard granite in its wake. The name... was not immediately familiar, but that meant little. Did they know one another? Had they served together? Why was this man here?

“Send for Saowynn and Jahn. Cancel the rest of my meetings,” he told the room, expecting someone to hear him and carrying out his orders. “And leave me.”

Callie did not budge, but that last command had not been meant for her regardless. When the last of his attendants had left, he tossed her the folder. He watched as her eyes flicked over the report, scarred lips pursing thoughtfully before she threw the folder back at him. He caught it and slammed it back onto the desk. The wait was nearly unbearable, his thoughts spinning while his mind chased itself around in circles. When the knock finally came, the tension snapped with a palpable sensation.

“Enter,” he said, pushing his chair back a ways from his desk. He leaned back into it, lounging indolently. Long legs stretched out in front of him, crossing at the ankles. Hands folded over his stomach, grey eyes glittering as they fixed on the doorframe. Callie was a knot of tension and anticipation that radiated out from one corner of his mind. He heard the latch unclick, and as the door swung open, Zeen kept his expression blank as the scar between his brows twinged. His chin lifted, the only indication that he wished for them to sit down across from him. Domani. He could smell her. He ignored everything about her, her exquisite beauty, the way her figure moved beneath the sheer silk and lace; he could not afford that distraction until he ascertained whether or not other man in front of him posed a threat.

The M’Hael did not move a whit, his face still carefully composed and neutral. His level look was hammer-like and intense as he took in both the Aes Sedai and... whatever the other man was to her. He did not care. “So tell me,” he began conversationally, his voice pleasant. “What brings you both back to my city and my Tower?”