The Grey Tower

The latch clicked into place and for a moment still silence owned the room. When Jaryd moved it wasn’t to go back to his desk, however, nor even to return to the window seat. Instead he simply leaned forward to rest his forehead against the door, hands palms-down to either side of his face.

The Altaran’s heart pounded in his ears, his skin tingled and prickled with shivering heat, his breath escaped him in shallow bursts. The Void had burst when the door closed and no amount of mental castigation would bring it back. Instead his mind returned again and again to the events of the last few days, focusing not (as perhaps he should have) on the tragedy and danger that loomed over the Tower, but rather on the fleeting moments of unexpected bliss that he had enjoyed.

All too soon thoughts of pleasure turned to a kind of mental conversation he had grown accustomed to having with himself over the years. Jaren was half his age, had been his student for years, was in his charge- the list of reasons why what he had felt and what he had done were wrong could have continued for some time, but he couldn’t concentrate on it. Something else rang louder, and far more true: A mistake I will not regret. Abruptly the guilt that had been building washed away, leaving behind only the same giddy excitement he had felt when Jaren pulled him closer.

In truth the only regret the Asha’man felt was that it would be years -Tower willing, not many- before he would know how much of what had happened was lust and how much...something more. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he considered that possibility. I am an Asha’man, not a boy at his first Bel Tine, he eventually reminded himself scornfully. The caustic tone dissolved as he realized how applicable that analogy actually was under the circumstances. Dusky cheeks flushed and he pushed himself away from the door, scrubbing his hands through his curls as if to scare the thought away. Jaren did not...would not...must not ever know-!

Face still burning, Jaryd turned himself away from the door, his weight carrying him down until his bottom hit the marble floor with a jarring thud. If the Tower needed him it would bloody have to wait a while.

Jaryd lacked any Talent for Earthsinging, a fact that galled him considerably. He could accomplish certain things with brute force, but such activity possessed none of the complexity found in his other work and exhausted him to an improbable degree. What he lacked in the One Power he made up for in physical strength, dexterity, and stamina, however, and it was with those attributes that he presented himself to the man directing the repairs to the Mar a’Mael one day.

“But...you’re an Asha’man.” Braden was Amadician; Jaryd could see it in the set of his jaw and the shape of his eyes, even if nothing else about the heavyset man resembled Zeen in the slightest. The Red pushed thoughts of his friend out of his mind, focusing instead on the task he had set himself.

“I am,” he said calmly. “I have two arms, two legs, and heights hold no terror for me. You need someone to run things along that beam, up there?” he pointed to the roof. “I can do that.”

“My men will fear you,” the foreman said carefully, not quite meeting Jaryd’s eyes. “It’s one thing to have an Asha’man hoisting things about for them, quite another to be sitting together around the lunch pail like old friends.”

“So don’t tell them what I am,” Jaryd replied amicably, folding his arms. “If you can tell I am anything other than a hungry street walker when I arrive tomorrow morning I will concede defeat. Fair?” Braden nodded, looking much relieved. The Asha’man took his leave shortly thereafter, hiding his chuckle until he was out of sight.

-

Having passed the appearance test Jaryd joined Braden’s gang for half of every other day. He put his chin down, closed his mouth, and worked harder than he ever had in his life while he was there. The little knowledge of carpentry he had retained from watching his father work served him well in those first few days; beyond that he simply watched and absorbed knowledge, taking the knocks he got for ignorance without complaint. All in all he found himself taking a great deal more pride in his work than he had expected and spent hours contemplating why that might be.

Not all was perfect, of course. The Asha’man’s youthful face, diminutive height, and wealth of curls made him the target of a great deal of ‘friendly’ ribbing from that odd collection of rough men, and the Altaran found his temper and patience sorely tested repeatedly. Try as he might he could not frame the teasing as part of the self-assigned penance that had brought him to the Mar a’Mael in the first place...and yet he could not carry out that task without enduring their abuse. More than once he contemplated simply cutting his hair, but such musings did not carry much weight.

Somehow the days kept passing, then the weeks. They finished the Mar a’Mael and moved on to other projects about Hama Valon. If Braden objected to Jaryd’s continued presence he said nothing. It turned out to be the hottest summer in ten years and the rest of the team complained bitterly as they worked. Jaryd simply stripped to the waist and kept going in silence, glorying in the sun and heat like a contented cat.

His plan to remain with the group until his penance matched Jaren’s did not come to fruition. As autumn crept through Hama Valon, work dropped drastically. “There is less construction in the winter,” Braden explained one afternoon, his voice pitched low so it would not carry. “I want to give the work to the men who actually need it to get by...and that’s not you, you understand?”

“I do,” Jaryd said with a slight smile as he surveyed the group. Despite his best efforts the Altaran had not managed to befriend a single one of them. They still called him “princess,” teased him about when the ball would begin, and stole his food even after all those months. He would not miss them in the slightest...although he would miss the good work they had done together.

If any of them ever connected the gold they found in their purses the next day with the wiry man they assumed had finally grown weary and bailed on them, the Red heard nothing of it.

The woman across the desk had her hair pulled up in a fanciful pile of dusky curls, and face paints accentuated her dark eyes to perfection. Velanya Aldera knew she was beautiful, and took great pains to ensure that was the first thing anyone noticed about her. Jaryd couldn’t have cared less, and his lack of attention had certainly offended her.

“Tell me again why you want me to care what becomes of this Dedicated?” The Yellow’s voice was bored, her ageless face a mask of perfect serenity.

“I am not asking you to personally preside over his lessons,” Jaryd snapped peevishly, jamming his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from toying with the various items that decorated the Aes Sedai’s side table. It would not do to break her possessions while asking her for a favor. “I’m not asking you to do a bloody thing except be the one to judge his readiness for the Great Stair when the time comes.”

“That does not answer the question of why,” the Mistress of Novices repeated.

The Asha’man performed a full circuit of her office before he finally collapsed in the chair in front of her desk, staring at her with flat black eyes. “I cannot be trusted to make the right choice,” he said.

“There are times you can be trusted to make the right choice?” Jaryd’s brows drew together and he shot upright with an objection on his lips, but Velanya simply waved her fingers to the side dismissively. “I speak in jest, Brother. You should get more sleep; it would help your...excitability.” He bared his teeth at her in something that was not at all a smile before settling back in the chair.

A lengthy silence followed as a battle between pride and necessity took place beneath the Altaran’s cap of curly hair. Evidently growing tired of waiting, the Tuatha’an woman began to jot notes into the novice book. Finally the Red curled his fingers into his breeches and muttered, “If you do not help Jaren I will step down. I will leave the Tower to force the issue if I must.”

The Aes Sedai didn’t look up, but her pen froze, the nib digging into parchment so hard ink spread out in a wide pool. “What?”

Jaryd turned his hands palm upward, studying the scarred flesh with unseeing eyes. “I tailor my approach according to each student’s ability and need. I watch each for signs of weakness and readiness, I ensure he is given the opportunities and challenges he needs to be ready. We have not lost a single Dedicated to the Stair since I took this position and I intend on keeping it that way. That is why I cannot be the one who makes this decision.”

His eyes flashed fiercely as he looked up at her. “The problem is that I want Jaren to be raised for my own selfish reasons and therefore I can’t decipher my own desire from his actual readiness. I am not thinking of my comfort or pride, Vanya, I am thinking of his life. For that I would sacrifice anything.”

The Yellow peered at him as she wiped her pen on a cloth, reminding him of nothing so much as an inquisitive owl. “I believe you mean that,” she said slowly. The Asha’man simply shrugged in response, the Void thankfully saving him from an embarrassing blush. “You have shared more than a kiss,” she added a moment later, her tone both probing and contemplative.

“No.” That word felt miserably heavy. “We have not.” Thanks be to Carra’s memory for allowing him to speak truthfully, no matter how frustrating it had been in the moment. A breath later he added, each word sounding as if it were being dragged from his throat, “nevertheless my heart impacts my judgment.”

The Aes Sedai sighed. “If your judgment were truly impaired the boy would already have failed the Stairs. Instead you had the wits to ask for help...perhaps the only intelligent decision you have made for yourself since Kaia died.” She did not give Jaryd time to object to that insensitive (and factually inaccurate, though she clearly did not believe so) statement before adding, “I will look after the boy as you ask. I don’t suppose you have any records I can review?”

Tense fear released its grip so suddenly that Jaryd nearly toppled from his chair, a flood of relief erasing any objection he might have had to the Yellow's decision to call Jaren a boy. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do. Light, Vanya...thank you.”