The Grey Tower

“Time to get up.”

Flora groaned and shifted beneath her blankets, futilely trying to escape her mother’s persistent shaking hand. Unfortunately, rolling over did not help her cause at all; not only did her mother repeat her insistent request more sharply, but the rock digging into Flora’s ribs agreed whole-heartedly that it was beyond time to drag herself from the relative comfort of her blankets. “Yes. Yes! I’m awake. Give me a moment.”

Yawning, she sat up, doing her best to hold the blanket around herself covered as she was by only her shift. Dressing modestly beneath a wagon though, with a roof only two feet above her head, was nearly impossible; she could not both pull the dress over head, stick her arms through the sleeves and hold a blanket about her to cover her near-nakedness. Her shoulders, cleavage and a leg played peek-a-boo with passers-by, largely vendors arriving early to the carnival and bleary-eyed drunks reeking of vomit who had picked themselves up from wherever they had fallen over the night before. One of the latter let out a wolf-howl and rubbed the back of one hand over his blood-shot eyes while the other held desperately to the water skin he nursed.

“Hey there sister, planning a new performance? Are you planning on moving on to the sa’sara next?” Her brother, Tom, unsteadily and unsuccessfully attempted to mimic the moves of the famous Saldaean dance – this may have been more convincing if he’d ever actually seen someone perform the sa’sara. Instead, he stumbled and nearly ended up toppling over onto their mother.

Their mother responded by rolling her eyes and sighing with exasperation. “Make yourself useful, you lump.” Poor Anna Cecil was no musician herself but was forced to perpetually clean up and ground with the rest of her… more mercurial family.

“Well, who’s the pot calling the kettle black, brother?” Flora snapped back. “By the bruise on your neck, I’m guessing someone last night saw a lot more of your bits than those idiots just did mine, you whore.”

The speed with which their mother spun her head around to castigate Flora, the girl wondered a moment if she’d snapped her neck. “Watch your mouth, girl – or it will be staying here chained to that wheel for the rest of the day.” Turning to Tom, with lips tight and brow furrowed the normally placid woman hissed, “And you, will get us all in a whole host of trouble again if you cannot keep your pants around your waist. If we all get chased from here by another enraged father or husband, I swear your father and I will hold you down, take you to the farrier, and turn you into a gelding. Besides, you’ll have that beautiful voice back that you lost when you lost control of yourself like a rabbit in spring.”

As Anna left their camp in search of breakfast, both children muttered strings of obscenities beneath their breath. However, indulging in their chagrin, both finally applied themselves to tidying the area and preparing for the day. After folding and packing the bedrolls back into their wagon, Flora pulled the lap harp from its protected compartment beneath the cart’s floorboards and began to tune it. When she was finally content with the pitch of all its strings, Flora began to pluck out “Midean’s Ford”, humming softly to herself.

“What’s that you’re playing?” Tom asked curiously, snapping his sister from her reverie – she’d forgotten anyone else was there. “I thought you were singing “Coming Home from Tarwin’s Gap” today.”

She bit her lip, considering telling him what she really planned on singing. He wouldn’t tell their father; despite their constant bickering, the two siblings had a mutual bond. Uncharacteristically though, Flora was nervous about today. Generally when she sang, nerves wouldn’t tighten in her belly until the moment before she stepped before a crowd. Every time she began to play, the first few chords would be iffy as her fingers trembled slightly, her first few notes would be breathy as anxiety seemed to constrict her throat.

Then, she’d breathe. With that breath, her shoulders and arms would release; she would forget all about the mechanics and the crowd. All that mattered was the story – the rest would just melt away. There were times when she sang where Flora would not realize the piece had finished until her fingers plucked out the last chords. Even as the crowd would begin to applaud, that sense of there being nothing else in the world but her voice and harp would not dissipate for several seconds. She would still be trapped in that story, still feeling the last emotions of her character.

When her family had visited Cairhien last year, she had gone off to explore the city alone – much to her mother’s concern. Flora never told Anna that she’d accidentally wandered in to a hell. As she walked through the door, a man had staggered out of the room, stumbling into her on his way. Thrown off balance, he’d grabbed painfully onto her shoulder to support himself. His face was inches from her own; she could smell his foul breath and count his rotten yellow teeth. Despite that repulsive maw though, it was his eyes that riveted her.

He was a hideous, wasted man with sunken cheeks and waxy skin. Emaciated as if he had not eaten in days yet his clothing was silk and expensive – some sort of nobility. He trembled like a sick man, barely able to support himself on his spindly legs. Yet his eyes… they stared at her but at the same time were unfocused. Despite everything, they seemed at peace, happy. He raised a frail hand and stroked her cheek. Flora knew she should have been horrified and revolted, she certainly was uncomfortable, but there was a certain amount a familiarity there. Nothing existed to this man right now except her. The shouting of tough moving towards them, did not affect him.

All of this lasted mere moments before the tough roughly shoved both of them out the door. The man landed in a heap on the ground. Flora considered helping him to his feet but people in the street had begun to stare and she was beginning to feel self-conscious. It was then that she realized what felt so familiar about his demeanour: that glazed, dissociative state, it was what she felt when she sang. The epiphany filled her with a sense of guilt and shame; that she might at all be similar with this wastrel was terrifying. With a last, weak smile, the girl had turned on her heel and walked swiftly back to the inn in which she was staying. Of this, she had not breathed a word even to Tom.

So, it was the same now. Not that she felt guilty or ashamed of her repertoire choice, but the sense of anxiety she felt about this risk kept her from telling Tom the truth. “It’s just something to get my fingers moving.” she lied.

“Oh, it sounds good.”

Half-heartedly, Flora laughed. “Careful, brother, keep complimenting me like that and I’ll get a big head.”

Her brother snorted. “Well then, you have a face like a mule and hair to match. Feel better?”

She rolled her eyes and began playing “Coming Home from Tarwin’s Gap.” “Idiot.”

“Fool.”

“Bonehead.”

“Goose-brain.”

“Cretin.”

“Crackbrain.”

“Bastard.”

“Wench.”

“Enough, you two.” Anna Cecil’s irritated return turned their insults to smirks. “Your father is already performing near the center of the field. Flora, he wants you to join him around high-sun – so soon. Eat and get moving.”

The girl nodded and took a bun from her mother. Chewing, she agonized whether to sing “Midean’s Ford” or “Tarwin’s Gap” while Tom sat down to tune the lute and play a few short melodies. It wasn’t long before he’d attracted an admirer who smiled coyly as Tom serenaded her with “A Dancing Lass” and his customary roguish grin. Flora snorted as she left, carrying the harp with her – Tom had already managed to get the girl on his knee and had moved on to “What He Said to Me”.

Flora wove through the crowd carefully, protecting the harp from being buffeted by hundreds of passers-by. She passed vendor after vendor, selling everything from jewellery to saddles, roasted turkey legs to fine wine. It felt as if every Andoran from White Bridge to Four Kings had made their way to Caemlyn for the event. Farmers bustled around tanners, bartering for harnesses and farm implements, their wives standing nearby in small groups or clinging tightly to children staring wide-eyed at the spectacle. A group of nobles sat on a group of stools set up around one of the wine sellers, laughing and arguing loudly as their retainers stood by bored, occasionally heckling the women who passed by.

As she made her way toward the center of the field, she caught snippets of her father’s flute floating above the din. Flora followed the sound, grinning at the sound of applause when he finished “Pretty Maids Dancing”. Jon Cecil must have been up on a crate or some sort of platform because as the ovation died down, she heard him call her name despite the fact that she could see nothing through the thick crowd. He called out for people to let her through and Flora began to move steadily toward her father.

“Let her though. Let her through please! I have a treat for you today.” As Flora finally broke into a small clearing around the makeshift stage her father had piled together, he grabbed her hand and pulled her up onto it. “Everyone,” he shouted in a large voice, “this is my daughter Flora Cecil.” There was scattered applause. “I promise you, she is the best singer from Tear to Fal Dara, from Cairhien to Falme. In Lugard they called her the Red Nightingale.” Flora continued to smile as she stood before the crowd but very badly wanted to ask her father where he had come up with the nickname – she had never heard it before in her life.

“The Daughter-Heir herself has already asked for a performance at the palace!” Flora tried very hard not to snort. Light, he was laying it on thick today. “We plan to travel next to the Palace of the Rising Sun to perform for the king!” Blood and ashes, he was whipping them up into a frenzy. With this introduction, how did he expect her to play so simple a song as “Coming Home from Tarwin’s Gap”? She knew he was proud and wanted to keep the crowd for her recital, but did he not realize he was setting her up for disappointment? How could she possibly stand on this pedestal he thrust her up onto?

Her stomach began to writhe uncomfortably. If Flora did not slow her breathing, she would not be able to sing through the first phrase of the song without breathing partway through, disrupting the cadence. Keeping a smile plastered to her face and hoping the crowd did not notice the anxiety in which she was currently drowning, Flora took a deep breath through clenched teeth and let it out slowly – again, in and out. Jon prattled on through dozens of false accomplishments while the subject of his adulation did her best to deafen her ears. In and out, in and out – slowly the vice grip she had on the harp began to ease. She rolled her shoulders back subtly, releasing their tension.

Finally, Jon clapped his hand on her shoulder, beaming, and stepped off the stage. Flora did not dare look at the crowd as she sat down on a crate and arranged her skirts. Then, taking the harp and positioning it between her knees, she closed her eyes for a fraction of a second and painted the story on the backs of her eyelids. There was the river, broad with cattails and weeds growing through the shallows. She looked across and saw thousands of men in glittering armour standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Banners flapped in the wind above them: the red hand and the red eagle. Every man stared across the river and knew what awaited him.

Then, Flora opened her eyes and plucked out the first chord of “Midean’s Ford”.

“Soft, the winds, like springtime’s fingers.
Soft, the rains, like heaven’s tears.”

Her fingers felt clumsy and unpractised; it wasn’t flowing together properly. The word “tears” ended abruptly as she ran out of breath. Frustration and self-consciousness threatened to tighten her throat. Flora rolled the next chord and let it ring out a moment longer than necessary as she breathed deep, feeling her back expand against the tightness of her dress and her chest push the harp away from her shoulder.

Soft, the years roll by in gladness,
never hinting storms to come,

With enough breath support to spare, her mezzo took on a darker overtone. Some in the crowd continued to talk, listening to her with disinterest; this threatened to anger her but Flora breathed deep and let it slip away. She began to arpeggiate her chords cords and dropped her left hand down an octave. The tempo sped up.

never hinting whirlwinds’ ravage,
rain of steel and battle thunder,
war to tear the heart asunder.

Flora no longer saw the crowd as they grey silent and stared, riveted. The singer saw nothing but the faces of the men standing on the river, waiting for their deaths. Everything else… just slipped away.

Keiran Taravin Events take place before Keiran reaches the Tower Keiran was exhausted. Kaci had kept him up all night long attempting to make plans for her mission in Hama Valon. Amazingly, she was bright eyed and wide awake this early in the morning. Keiran reined his mare, Quinn, in close beside Kaci. He looped his right arm under her left and rested his head on her shoulder, letting the well trained horse guide herself. “Can you believe that this is really happening, Kaci?”

“It’s exciting, isn’t it? The more I think about it Keiran, the more I realize this is the real beginning for us.” Keiran sighed. She didn’t have to learn to channel. The mere thought of him using the One Power, it was frightening. Kaci couldn’t help him with that.

“Promise me you won’t let this channeling thing come between us.” He gazed up at her. She had that stupid grin on her face, the one she used any time she was planning on making fun of him.

“Look little brother, don’t let the whole Asha’man thing go to your head. You and I both know it would take more than the One Power to pull us apart. People don’t call us ‘the twins’ because it sounds good.” Her laughter suppressed his fear and doubt, like it always did. Keiran smiled and sat back upright in his saddle.

It was a good day to travel. The sky was clear and the sun shone brightly, glinting of the armor of the dozens of men Kaci brought along from the Taravin Freedom Guard. Keiran was glad she had the plan to continue their work with the orphans in Hama Valon. She would need something to occupy her time while Keiran trained. The small party of Aes Sedai, Asha’man, and their Warders kept themselves at the front of the column, leading the way to the Grey Tower.

They hadn’t made it far outside the Whitebridge Gate before Keiran saw the field filled with throngs of people. In the flurry of yesterday’s events, he had completely forgotten about the festival. “Asha’man! May we hold a minute, please? Just an hour and we can be on our way again?” Keiran didn’t expect the nod he was given, instead expecting an exchange of harsh words. He was thankful though, and heeled his mare towards the excitement. Kaci never left his side and Captain Mikael rode quickly up beside them.

The crowds parted before them, most of the crowd recognized Kaci and Keiran on sight. The pair of them frequently explored the city. The twins were well loved in and around the city, partially for the works of good they did and partially for their name they bore. Everyone knew House Taravin were the most loyal supporters of House Trakand and the Crown. Her Majesty the Queen was adored by every Andoran, her reign bringing prosperity and security in dark times. They also often took part in these events, singing together as Keiran played his Lute, or Kaci reading one of her stories while Keiran showed off his charcoal drawings. He’d had a few that he intended to auction off this year to benefit one of the shelters for widowed women. It had completely slipped his mind, the Grey Tower consuming his thoughts.

Keiran heard a voice over the din of the crowd, it was a sweet voice singing a song with words he couldn’t quite make out. He nudged his mare a little faster and stood up in his stirrups. He could see a small stage with a girl, sitting down while playing the harp and singing to the rapidly expanding crowd. As they got closer, Keiran exchanged an annoyed glance with Kaci. The crowd was trying to talk over her singing. The girl ran out of breath at the end of a stanza. Her voice was pleasant, but Keiran could tell she was a bundle of nerves. She paused, breathed deeply, and then continued. Keiran barely noticed that the rest of the crowd grew hush. Her voice took on the mood of the song, ominous and foreboding. It was pleasant, yet sent a chill down Keiran’s spine. She began to sing faster and faster. Despite the warmth of the sun and the crowd, Keiran felt goosebumps on his skin.

Though the singer stared out at the crowd, she did not see them. Instead, she saw King Aemon al Caar al Thorin lead a charge through the ranks of Trollocs, cleaving a path towards the Myrdraal driving them forward. His sword flashed bright against the black of the Fade’s Thakan’dar-forged blade. Midean’s Ford ran red with the blood of Trollocs whose stinking bodies lay in the river – three for every Manetheren who lay beside them. Yet despite their courage, despite their tenacity, the Shadowspan pushed ever further. They were abandoned, forsaken by the White Tower, Aelgar, Safer, and the others.

The sun must have been high in the sky, but it was impossible to tell through the ravens that flew overhead and flapped down to feed on the fallen. For every fist of Trollocs that fell as their Myrdraal writhed, dying on the ground, another would come crashing over their corpses. More of the Manetheren died, the dignity of their deaths spat upon by the Shadow as these bestial abominations trampled over bodies to strike down their brethren. Even the Band of the Red Hand ceded ground to the inexorable juggernaut.

Step by step, they were forced back. The Shadow paid dearly for every Manetheren life lost but their numbers were infinite and the Red Eagle began to flag. They were pushed back to an open field and their number was a mere fraction of those who had stood on the banks of the Tarendrelle days before. Exhaustion deadened their limbs; swords that were once held proudly high slumped to the ground. Every blow struck became weaker and weaker, batted easily aside by the inhuman monsters that surrounded the last stand of King Aemon.

Knowing his end, and the nation’s, Aemon let out a hoarse cry and spurred the last soldiers of Manetheren forward to their fate. Men shouted out their raspy death rattles with pride, crying “Carai an Ellisande! Al Ellisande! Mordero daghain pas duente cuebiyar! Al Ellisande!” With the last of their strength they beat swords on shields and forced worn out legs to propel them to blissful rest. The wearied remainder of the unbroken sword gained a scant few paces and shattered against the greedy black spears.

The moment her Bond to Aemon broke, so too did Queen Eldrene ay Ellan ay Carlan. It was her name on their lips until the Shadow had silenced them; it was her rivalry with Tetsuan that held back the White Tower’s aid. How long before this merciless horde sacked her city and swept past, hunting down her fleeing population? Her husband gone, the Band broken, Manetheren overrun, and its people fled; here she stood in the Mountain Home, the city to be sacked, and an Aes Sedai deserted by the Tower.

Desperate, alone, and crushed, Eldrene climbed the keep with an iron grip around the only piece of her former home she had left: the sa’angreal. From her vantage atop the city, she watched the endless black sea advance. Only one action now might turn them back. Surrendering herself completely to the Power, Eldrene pulled in more than she ever had before – more than any since Lews Therin Telamon broke the world.

The ground convulsed and erupted in dirt and rocks. Storm clouds blackened the sky, raining down lightening on the shrieking Shadowspawn – even the Myrdraal could no longer control them. The Tarendrelle and Manetherendrelle escaped their banks with wild roars, tearing away thousands. Ice like rocks rained from the sky, striking beasts down to be crushed beneath the feet of entire fists of Trollocs gone berserk as the earth itself began to swallow them whole. The maelstrom of rock, water, and ice stretched out over eternity, doling out inescapable death. Lightening tore apart the world apart and thunder…

Boom!

Flora felt sharp pain in her back and head; the ringing of her ears overwhelmed all other senses. Ripped from the trance, it was some time before conscious thought returned to her mind and even then it fumbled through a thick haze of confusion. Groaning, the singer rolled onto her side painfully and gathered her bearings. She had somehow been thrown backwards from her seat onto the makeshift stage. Gingerly touching a hand to the back of her skull proved excruciating and her fingers came away bloody. Slowly pushing herself into a seated position, Flora stared about in bewilderment.

All around, the crowd was carefully picking themselves up of the ground. Everyone seemed as confused as she as they stared about trying to put together what had happened. Slowly, eyes found Flora at the epicentre, seated feet away from her harp – the only object in sight still standing and undamaged. Whispers hissed through the throng, quickly becoming a murmur and rising to an ominous rumble. Foreboding drew over Flora as she caught snippets of rattled conversation.

“Dark clouds… ground shook… lightening struck… the singer… the Shadow…”

Frightened eyes stared at the redheaded girl who, for quite possibly the first time in her life, had absolutely no desire to keep the crowd’s attention. Panicking, she searched desperately for the one man who would protect her. When Flora finally found her father’s face amidst the mob, he simply stared at her in shock, unmoving. Had she really done this? Whatever this was? What was wrong with her?

Terror stole her breath. Gasping and ignoring the painful pulse in her temples, Flora stumbled to her feet and blundered off the stage. She crashed back to the ground, arms breaking her fall. The stab of pain she felt was nothing compared to the fear currently ruling her mind. Frantically, the singer pushed her way into the audience, dreading whatever might happen next.

Jordanna Sedai White Ajah Delegate to Caemlyn Jordanna was irritated with the Taravin twins. The family as a whole was rather pleasant, her several month long stay in their Estate not at all unpleasant. The Justine woman was formidable for one not wearing the Great Serpent Ring, but that was no surprise. The Taravins have been one of the most powerful Great Houses for centuries, and staunch supporters of House Trakand's hold on the Lion Throne. There was always a matriarch at the head of the family and she was always formidable. These twins though, they were spoiled to the core, allowed to do whatever the please without a single shred of responsibility. If she hadn't had so much respect for Justine, Jordanna would have had them publicly flogged for their insolence.

Despite her dislike, Jordanna had to admit the boy was smart. He would make a fine addition to the White some day, once the Tower makes him into a dutiful man instead of an petulant boy. Likely though, his sister, the fiery one, would fill his head with enough drivel about justice and drive him to the Blue. No matter, the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. You didn't have to have the fortelling to known these two would end up bonded, idealistic and headstrong. In these times, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

The fool Asha'man, a grey, who thought himself in charge broke her thoughts. "Jordanna, would you find them? Make sure they aren't concocting one of their fool plans." She reined her gelding towards the crowd, but rolled her eyes when her back was to the Asha'man. Imbecile.

The way before her parted like weeds underfoot in grass. They gave her a wide berth. Jordanna had been an Aes Sedai long enough that a glimpse of her was all that was needed to know what she was. She never understood those Greens letting their Warders clear a path for them. All it took was a stiff back, a stern face, and a piercing glare. She heard music, and knew right away where Keiran would be. Jordanna dismounted. The ride to Hama Valon would be long enough, any excuse to stretch the legs was welcome. She embraced Saidar and bound the gelding's legs in flows of Air and tied them off. She laid another more complex weave of Spirit over him, to warn of any tampering with her things, a bit of Air and Fire woven in just the right way would scare the piss out of any goat-kisser fool enough to try.

Jordanna wasn't tall. Yet, the crowd parted just as easily for a short Aes Sedai, no extra effort required. The Taravin twins were still mounted, Keiran standing in his stirrups with a hand on Kaci's shoulder for balance. Jordanna stopped. In her sight was good enough, she didn't need for them to see her and start flapping their annoying tongues.

Someone nearby opened themselves up to Saidar. This time Jordanna didn't wait for the crowd to part on their own. With flows of Air she shoved the listeners aside. She reached the stage and saw the glow surrounding the pipe of a girl playing the harp. Jordanna grumbled some foul things to herself. She quickly sent a sharp blade of spirit towards the flows the girl was weaving, but it was too late. The fool Wilder called a bolt of lightning right on top of her head. She had only time to form a shield of Air and Fire around herself, and another wall of Air, angled up and away from the stage to deflect any debris from impaling someone in the crowd. Fool Asha'man, she thought, should have been him.

In an instant, a thick, erratic bolt of lightning flashed down on the stage, blasting bits of wood all around. Jordanna wove a third time, a barrier of Air between the girl and the explosion. It wasn't fast enough to stop the force of the blast from sending her across the stage, but it should be enough to keep her from being impaled by her own wooden spike. By now, Jordanna's irritation with the day had turned to full blown anger. It didn't help that her pillow-friend in her Novice days was a Wilder. The Wilder out-paced her in raising to Accepted by two years, and another three to the Shawl. Then she went off and got her fool self killed without Jordanna there to help. It was Darkfriends that killed her, almost enough to make Jordanna join the Green, but it was still not the logical choice.

Surveying the scene, Jordanna felt an overwhelming desire to switch the girl right then and there. The whole crowd had been laid flat. Surprisingly, the Taravin twins managed to stay their mounts. Spent too much time on them no doubt, and not enough learning how to do much of anything. She glided over to the girl, who was foolishly attempting to run by falling off the stage. Anger flaring, Jordanna wrapped her in flows of air and lifted her upright. Placing a hand to either side of the girls head, she wove a simple bit of Air, Water, and Spirit, searching the girl for injury. Finding nothing but a few scrapes and bruises, the girl is lucky, she didn't continue with the Healing weave she had prepared.

"Well girl. You are a Wilder. You just channeled the One Power. Lucky you didn't kill anyone. Especially yourself, though it would have been better if you had. I've no choice but to take you to the Grey Tower with me now, and I will tolerate no more delays." Another petulant child to coddle on the way back to the Tower, phaw!

Hands grasped her roughly. Flora swatted at them frantically and continued to try and throw herself forward. At this point there was no conscious, rational thought running through her mind. She was under full compulsion from her flight response and the singer had but one purpose: to put as much distance between herself and whatever horrible incident she had apparently caused. Yet however much she struggled, lashing out at the entrapping limbs, Flora could not break free. Desperation fuelled her frenzy as the singer thrashed against her restraints, ignorant of tears streaming from terrified green eyes.

Suddenly, she felt her feet lift from the ground. Shock stole the breath from her lungs as eyes bulged from her skull. Flora realized now that she was not flailing against an anxious mob – no, her binds were some unseen force against which her resistance was useless. In spite of the futility of her efforts, Flora continued to kick and writhe in her captivity, crying out from the exertion. She was entirely irrational, shaking away the hands gripping her head. The uncomfortable sensation they caused to run through her body only perpetuated her state.

When the hands released her, a woman’s voice filtered in through the adrenaline forcing cogent thought from Flora’s skull. The red-haired girl hung, suspended in the air by intangible bonds. Her chest heaved as sobs wracked her shoulders and she still could not draw enough air into burning lungs. As yet, she continued to twist against her shackles but now out of discomfort more than blind panic. Her breathing slowed as terror leached away and cohesion returned. Flora blinked tears from her eyes, clearing her vision enough to study the woman who spoke.

She was short and severe, wearing a white wool dress of good cut, divided for riding. Obviously, the woman had some money and the way she held herself, despite her stature, bespoke authority – perhaps a noble of some importance or else a very successful merchant. There was considerable grey at her temples that suggested age yet her face was incongruously smooth. Something about her appearance triggered Flora’s memory but she could not yet name it. The girl scanned the crowd, searching for some clue as to this woman’s identity. People stood back from her, uneasy; not one brave soul dared speak one way or another against the woman as to Flora’s fate.

The singer replayed the woman’s words in her head, finally finding her answer. Flora’s eyes flicked down to the Great Serpent ring on one hand: Aes Sedai and of the Grey Tower. This was not the first Sister she had ever seen, they had run across another once in Whitebridge, but this was certainly the first to speak with her. Flora had wanted to be a gleeman like her father as far back as she could remember, idolizing him. She and her brother had of course played at being Aes Sedai and Warder in the silly games children play but the thought had not crossed her mind since.

After discovery her ability to sing, and to sing well, there had never been any question that Flora Cecil would follow in the family’s footsteps. This new trajectory left her flabbergasted and reeling. All she could manage in response to events of the last few minutes was a single word.

“What?”

Jordanna Sedai (NPC) White Ajah Delegate to Caemlyn Jordanna snorted, "Are you a fool, girl? Or just deaf? You are going go the Grey Tower to write your name in the Novice book. Someone needs to teach you to control yourself before you kill someone." Jordanna glanced out at the crowd of frightened people staring at her. She shouted, "Aes Sedai business, not your business. MOVE ALONG!" She was going to need some tea. Her temper was flaring.

The Taravin twins approached, dismounted, reins in hand. Jordanna grumbled, too quiet for them to hear, "Too bad the fool girl didn't kill these two..." She glowered. "You, twins. Watch this girl. See that she packs any of the junk she thinks she needs and bring her with you. No delays," she emphasized, "or I'll have your hide." She pointed a finger at Keiran. Without another word she stormed off, releasing Saidar, pleased with her skills of delegation.

Keiran Taravin Keiran did not like Jordanna...Sedai. Not one bit. He handed his reins to Kaci and approached the girl. She looked to be in shock, and rightly so. Keiran blacked out when he learned he could channel, and he didn't even call lightning or anything. "Hi. I'm Keiran. I'm going to the Grey Tower to become Asha'man. I can channel too, but I don't know how yet."

Keiran peered around at the crowd as it dispersed. "That was pretty cool though. The lightning that is, not you getting hurt." He flashed her his classic boyish grin. "Do you have any family here?"

Flora was still breathing fast but her senses were slowly returning. She rubbed tears from her eyes with hands that still quivered in an outward attempt to compose herself while inward everything reeled. Lacking a handkerchief to stem the unsightly flow of her nose, she sniffled awkwardly. Unfortunately, by the time she had calmed herself sufficiently to ask a cohesive question of the Aes Sedai, Jordanna had turned her back shouting at the crowd. Just then, the force holding Flora released without warning and though her toes were mere inches from the ground, it caught her by surprise. The girl stumbled forward with an undignified cry, catching herself on the stranger into whose care she had apparently been entrusted.

The boy, not much older than she, introduced himself as Keiran and smiled. Flora smiled back timidly, flushing as she hastily removed her hand from his arm. Despite her ease in front of an audience, she was always behind an instrument or buried in a song so that they provided an invisible wall between herself and them. She was not her brother, Tom, who could so easily smile and in no time at all, coax a girl onto his knee – and into his bed, often as not. No, the red-haired girl’s pride and confidence came from her music and was utterly lacking around members of the opposite sex.

“I am Flora,” she said, between embarrassed sniffs, “and thank you… I think.” The singer smiled, trying very hard not to notice his brilliant blue eyes or tousled blond hair. “And, yes,” she added in response to his question, trying to turn to look for her father but pain shot through the back of her head. Flora staggered, dizzy, and grabbed hold of Keiran again to catch her balance, touching a hand to the back of her bloody scalp.

Keiran reached out and steadied Flora as she staggered into him, an iron grip on his arm. He wasn't quite sure if she took a blow to the head, or was swooning. Either way Keiran doubted he could tell the difference. All the girls were usually too scared of Kaci to approach him. Flora's blush was flattering though, giving Keiran a momentary boost of confidence.

Flora grabbed the back of her head, her hand coming away bloody. "Captain Mikael! Can you help her?" Mikael produced a cotton bandage from his saddle bag and inspected the gash.

"A scratch mostly, but bloody." He pressed the bandage to her head, "Hold this?"

"I'm sorry you are hurt, Flora. You said you have family here, can I help you find them? We really don't want to keep the Aes Sedai waiting. Trust me."

[OOC]: Somehow this got posted twice, and I can't delete it! Edited out. ^.^

Holding the bandage to her head, Flora let out a weak laugh at the face he pulled. He was charming, this Keiran. “Yes,” she replied, taking care to turn slowly, “my father…”

As if summoned, Jon Cecil finally arrived. “Flora!” His voice was tense with concern; noticing the bloody bandage held to her head, he added, “Are you alright?”

Flora searched her father’s face. His distress was evident and after having determined she was fine, he wrapped her in an embrace; however, the girl could not help but wonder what had delayed him. Minutes had passed since seeing the look on his face when her world turned sideways. The crowd had been thick but he could have pushed through… should have pushed through when she had thrown herself off the stage – or at least after she’d been lifted from the ground by Jordanna Sedai. Blood and ashes, where had he been all this time she had spent speaking to Keiran?

Why had he held back? Flora kept returning to his expression after the… accident. She kept searching to put a name to what she had seen there. He had been shocked, certainly; yet there was something else as well. They had only locked eyes a moment and perhaps her panicked mind had bowed to the worst scenario but she could have sworn he was afraid – not afraid for her but afraid of. He did not seem fearful now but much as she tried, Flora could not shake the idea from her head.

“What happened?” He released Flora, taking a step back to look down at her. “What was that song? I thought you were to sing “Coming Home from Tarwin’s Gap”?” The girl bit her lip and stared again at him. This was the man who had set her up on his knee and sang with her, passing on every song he knew. Her father, who had taught her to play the harp and pushed too hard when she had begun to perform. This was the man who just last night had boasted for nearly an hour that he would see her sing for every monarch West of the Dragonwall before he died. The possibility of his disappointment was a churning knot of anxiety in Flora’s belly that exacerbated her fragile state.

Tears welled in her eyes. “It’s alright,” Jon said, embracing his daughter again, “it doesn’t matter.” Flora clung to him. “What happened? You had begun to sing and all of a sudden there was a crash and lightning struck the centre of the crowd. We were all thrown back and by the time I was back on my feet, you were gone.” Not entirely true – they had stared at one another before she fled, desperate and terrified, but he had made no move toward her.

He was here now, though. Jon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away a tear that had pushed its way past the dam holding back another embarrassing bout of hysterics. It took every ounce of control Flora had not to begin sobbing again. As it was, her mind was still a jumble of emotions and scenarios, each tumbling in front of the other so it was impossible to hold on to one long enough to make sense of anything. She took the scrap of cloth from her father, seizing onto it with a white-knuckled grip as if it were the physical manifestation of her last shred of slipping dignity.

Voice trembling, Flora tried to explain. “I don’t know entirely what happened. I was singing and then I was on the ground.” Her lip trembled. Burn her, no; she needed to calm down. “I had no idea what happened but I was in the middle of the crowd and everyone was staring at me…” Another tear slipped from the corner of her eye as the tenuous grip she maintained on composure slid closer to mania. “I was afraid they would do something because I think it may have been my fault and…”

The dam broke. Flora buried her face in Jon’s chest and sobbed. The only intelligible words she managed between fit of tears were “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” For a moment, she wondered what Keiran thought of the histrionic girl he had met today. Flora assumed she seemed unstable; she was not generally this overly emotional and her horror at this humiliating outburst only fuelled it further. Truth be told, the singer could not recall blubbering like this since she was a child. However, this thought was brief, quickly overtaken by the sudden uncertainty of a new future and the possibility she could be ripped away from her family.

After some minutes, she calmed down enough to continue between sporadic snivelling. “I was afraid and so I ran. I tripped and then someone was holding me back and…” Flora drew a measured breath, forcing back emotion. “Then the Aes Sedai told me I had used the One Power and that I was going to the Grey Tower to be a Novice.”

Having put into words what had happened, the fit seemed to subside; enough, at least, that Flora could begin to process a reaction beyond shock. To become Flora Cecil Sedai seemed… foreign – outrageous, even. However, the possibility now existed that she could be Aes Sedai; a fate that for most would be alluring and out of reach. Still though, Flora held firm to the idea that she was meant to continue the path already set before her. What had began as Jon’s design for his daughter’s life had become their shared desiderata. She felt no desire to leave her family or to turn her back on the dream that now seemed within reach.

Her father’s eyes flicked curiously to Keiran and Flora coloured at his possible insinuation. She realized they had not yet been introduced. “Keiran, this is my father, Jon Cecil. Father, this is Keiran, he is… on his way to the Grey Tower.” This was the only piece of information she had about him. Considering his clothing and the authority with which he had called to the armed man who had provided her bandage, Flora assumed he was well born. More than that, though, the singer could not say except that he seemed far surer of his destination than she.

“Keiran is supposed to help me pack my things for the Tower.” Flora paused and turned the choices over in her head. Despite the allure of the Grey Tower, the idea of actually becoming part of that institution seemed far-fetched and abstruse. Aes Sedai and Asha’man were beautiful, affluent, education children, born to council rulers and lead armies in glorious combat. These pillars of society were people like Keiran, confident in their importance and authority. Plebeian, spotty, red-haired children whose only talent was their music were meant to sing about these people and happily accept their place in the Pattern as bards of little-to-no significance.

Comfortable in her decision, Flora stood her ground staring at her father. “The Aes Sedai wishes to leave as soon as possible but she can do so without me. I’m not going.”