Peculiar Practices

Ryelle Sedai was not a pleasant woman.

She forced all of her students to sit on hard benches, while she spent the majority of her lectures perched on a cushioned chair.  Her classroom was very close to the top of the Tower, and while she claimed that this was because she enjoyed the view of the grounds, he knew of no other class that held session so many stories up.  To his knowledge, the nearest one was eight stories below.

Most of the novices got their blood pumping by the end of the grueling climb, after which they were promptly forced to listen to an old woman drone on in the most monotonous voice imaginable.  All the while, they were expected to sit straight-backed on sore feet, without squirms or complaints, provided with little more than an uncomfortably low-sitting podium upon which to take notes. Record-keeping was not precisely required, but it certainly made the hour-long lectures more tolerable.

It didn’t help that “Northern Law” was largely dry and useless, and Theon was hardly overjoyed about the upcoming lectures on “Southern Law,” “Western Law,” “Eastern Law,” and “Common Law.” In fact, the whole point of all the climbing and standing was supposedly to prevent students from falling asleep.  Theon suspected that its true purpose, however, was to assert the witch-woman’s dominance over the Tower’s children.

In both cases, it was remarkably efficient.

Theon had a keen mind – a golden mind, his father had often called it. He had no need for notes, because his memory was nearly absolute, not that he’d want anyone else to know. His friend Jaryion was not quite so fortunate. The rough-and-tumble Altaran with a nasty scar across his cheek had little choice but to sit still and pay close attention, hanging onto every word the gnarled old woman spoke. Theon wrote with an almost rhythmic grace, fluidly scribbling his letters across the bleached leather journals with an easy, stylish penmanship.

When the lecture was complete, Theon carefully sanded and blotted the last of his notes, blowing on them as gently as he could to quicken the drying of the ink. The witch selected a novice at random – a pale-skinned Cairhienin girl with an almost-legendary contempt for wilders. The moment she turned her back, Theon handed his journal to the scar-faced southern boy. Strangely enough, Jaryion did not pour over the pages. Instead, he dipped his pen in an inkwell and began to carefully work over notes on a new page, slowly and carefully.

Ryelle’s face was a perfect mask of Aes Sedai calm, her eyes a pale shade of winter blue.  Today she wore a virgin white satin gown chased with floral patterns and embroidered in cloth-of cobalt.  Her hair was done up in the Cairhienin fashion; a pale shade of salty gray, twisted into an exotic bun that made her seem taller than she was.  She adorned herself with very little jewelry, but her dress was sinuously slashed with deep shades of cerulean.

Even for an Aes Sedai, she was old.  She did what she could, however, with what she had.  Her sanguine lips and unusually long eyelashes spoke of a peculiar affection for cosmetics that most of her students likely failed to notice. Theon found it off-setting.

Leatherface, as she was often called—quite far from where the nickname could ever be overheard—did not ask questions. She conducted interrogations, and she did so in a manner that was very nerve-wracking and stressful. She never raised her hands against her novices and she rarely raised her voice, but everything she did was carefully calculated, and oftentimes demeaning. If she was in a particularly sour mood, she asked questions that pertained to a lecture conducted last session, or even one before that.

Needless to say, this could make things quite difficult for a novice who was already under pressure, because her lectures were only conducted once a week. The Cairhienin girl was dismissed after recounting a law regarding the permissible length of hedges, wheat-fields and grass within a mile of any given dwelling in Shienar.

“Novice Jaryion!” She called, standing from her cushioned seat.  “To the front.”

The class sat in absolute silence as the coppery skinned novice approached the center of the room, turning to face the students.  Theon caught a bead of sweat trickling down the boy’s brow and smiled at him reassuringly, but the gesture  of solidarity did not appear to help.  Jaryion began dry-washing his hands as he looked to the rest of the class.  Theon didn’t have to hold saidin to know that his friend’s heart was racing, but he did wish he could slow it down.

“Is there any reason why you’re fidgeting, child?” Asked the witch.

“Please forgive me, Aes Sedai.” Said Jaryion, the epitome of polite civility. “I am very nervous.”

“Oftentimes, I find this to be an indication of guilt.” She replied. “Were you paying attention, child?”

“Yes, Aes Sedai.” He said quickly. “Very much so.”

“In the kingdom of Shienar, there stands a city very close to the edge of the Blight.” She intoned. “The city is currently known as Fal Dara. What was the name of its predecessor, built by the Ogier?”

“Fa-Fal Mor-” He stuttered.  “Fal Moran?”

“Is that a question, child?” She asked. “Or were you speaking in High Chant?”

Nobody laughed. After a fashion, Theon wondered if they were supposed to.

“No, Aes Sedai.” He said bashfully. “I stammered.”

“Yes, I think we’re all aware of that.” She said. “Repeat your response.”

Theon carefully reached his hand toward his collar, subtly scratching at his throat, twisting his head almost imperceptibly and flinching.  No, his gesture implied.  That’s the wrong answer.

“I… eh.”

“We haven’t got all day.” She said tersely. “I am not above holding you all here until the tests are done.

“What would  Candance Sedai have to say,” She asked the rest of the class “About your impending tardiness?”

Seeing no other alternative, the Ebou Dari closed his eyes and became perfectly still.  When he opened them, it looked to Theon as if he had assumed the void.  Theon nodded satisfactorily.

”Mafal Dadaranell,” Said Jaryion.  “Aes Sedai.”

Ryelle stood from her chair and began to round on the boy like a wild boneshark. Whatever he’d done to calm himself, she seemed to have caught on and she didn’t appear to like it one bit.

“What remains of Mafal Dadaranell, child?”

As the woman turned toward Jaryion’s flank, Theon canted his head toward her ever so slightly and traced his fingers along the line of his sleeve.  That was where the witch had the most prominent floral embroidery.

“A rose, Aes Sedai.” He replied. “Once, it was an Ogier grove.”

“Better.”  Said Ryelle.  “Since you appear so calm, novice, perhaps you might recount one of the many exotic laws of Mafal Dadaranell and explain the reasoning behind its implementation?”

Theon reached up and pressed the heel of his palm carefully against both of his eyes, as if to rub the sleep out of them.  Ryelle caught the gesture and regarded him coldly.  He responded by lowering his head in submission immediately.

“Something the matter, boy?”  She asked.

“My apologies, Aes Sedai.”  Said Theon, leaning against his cane.  “I was weary from the flight of stairs.”

“Perhaps you would like to lay on the rug?”  She asked.

“No, Aes Sedai.”  Said Theon.  “It will not happen again.”

“Are you certain?”  She asked, almost playfully.  “As I understand, the rug has a very high thread count.”

Some of the students snickered, but they all fell silent as her eyes passed over them. Many girls cupped a hand over their mouth to prevent themselves from laughing. Theon flushed, but took heart. She saw his gesture as an indicator of fatigue – and that would not be tolerated.  Would that she had spotted its true purpose, what would she have done?

“No, Aes Sedai.”  He said coolly.  “I would very much prefer to remain where I am.”

“Very well.”  She replied.  “Novice Jaryion, due to novice Theon’s interruption, I will ask you to make your recantation between twenty-five and fifty words. I will be counting.”

This time, Jaryion didn’t miss a beat.

“In Fal Dara, it is illegal to wear a hood of any kind.”  Jaryion intoned, his voice free of emotion.  “This is because the constant threat of Myrdraal, who wear hoods over their faces because they have no eyes.  Also, for this reason, the streets are always very well lit.”

“Very good, novice Jaryion!”  Proclaimed Ryelle Sedai.  “The rest of you would do well to take heed from novice Jaryion’s exemplary recovery.”

The words did not go over so well with the other novices.  Theon could feel the tension in the air and see the derision on their faces from the corner of his eyes; the Aes Sedai had made her declaration truthfully, but it would earn Jaryion no friends.  Perhaps she did it because she was fascinated by the way the novices would react.  As far as Theon was concerned, she was a cold-hearted hag who was resentful because of her lost beauty.

Many other novices were called, and many more found themselves in the proverbial hot seat. Theon was picky about who he helped.  One golden haired Andor girl looked to him desperately with pleading eyes, until she finally burst into tears and confessed that she simply did not know the answer.  Instead of being dismissed, she was forced to explain, in detail, why she was crying when all she had been asked was “a series of simple questions.”

Theon knew the answers, of course.  He simply didn’t care for the Andor girl.

Nevertheless, whether or not he chose to aid a girl had nothing to do with whether or not he cared for her. It also had nothing to do with whether or not she was pretty, ugly, skinny or fat.  Once, he’d even helped a woman from Illian.  No matter how helpful he was, none of the girls ever acknowledged him.  None of them had ever sat with him at mealtime.  Certainly none of them ever reciprocated his kindness.  But he didn’t care about that – he never had.

Obviously, Theon held them to another criteria entirely.

When his turn was called, he stood before the class and carefully studied the students, as if committing their faces to memory. He also smiled, which was, perhaps, a foolish gesture.

“Novice Theon.” Snapped the old witch. “Why are you smiling?”

“I like to smile, Aes Sedai.” Said Theon. “I find that smiles are often contagious.”

She studied him curiously, and circled him fiercely.

“Who is the lawful King of Saldaea?”

“With all due respect, Aes Sedai.” Said Theon. “There is no such a man.”

She smirked.

“What is the name of the full name and title of the Queen of Saldaea?” She asked. “Answer carefully, novice Theon.”

“Her Illumined Majesty,” Theon said carefully. “Tenobia si Bashere Kazadi, Shield of the North and Sword of the Blightborder, High Seat of House Kazadi. Lady of Shahayni, Asnelle, Kunwar and Ganai.”

“Is that all?”

“I believe so, Aes Sedai.”

“You are certain you have left nothing out?”

“Quite certain, Ryelle Sedai.”

“See what happens when we take notes?” She asked the classroom.

Theon could see their faces clearly now. Many of them held contempt or derision of some nature. A handful of them were thoughtful. He swept a glance over them before lowering his head in humility.

“You’re dismissed.” She declared.

Toward the end of the lecture, novice Medaea sur Yvaine was called to the front.  He couldn’t say whether or not she met his standard, so he decided to err on the side of charity, should she find herself perched in a predicament. She was asked to give an explanation regarding the various ranks of servants and their structural responsibilities within the houses, but she was one of thew few who needed no help. He studied her carefully as she recanted the structure, her voice both meek and succinct. She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t stammer or stumble – but she certainly didn’t smile.  Much like him, she did not appear to be the least bit intimidated.

It wasn’t that leatherface wasn’t an intimidating woman. Theon got shivers up his spine just thinking about her, but he’d discovered throughout his short tenure in novice whites that the only witches who could ever really get his goose were those who he considered to be pretty as well as powerful.

“The classroom is adjourned.”  Barked Ryelle Sedai. “Novice Mailyn Haeron. I wish to speak to you privately.”

The golden haired woman had long since stopped her sniveling, but if Ryelle had anything to say to her, it would wait until the others had departed.

“Thank you for the notes.” Whispered Jaryion. “I’ll sound them out tonight as best I can.”

“Just keep practicing your penmanship.” Replied Theon, waiting for the women in white to pass them by before he continued on. “How are your read—“

Jaryion nudged his shoulder, and suddenly Theon looked up.

“Hello,” Said the voice of an unfamiliar woman, sun darkened as any Tairen but with an almost exotic countenance.  “I’m Medaea.”

Theon looked toward Jaryion and then back to the Mayener with a quizzical expression on his face.  Am I really seeing this? It seemed to say.

“I haven’t seen you about the Tower but I’ve only been here a week.” She continued. “How long have you two been here?”

“Sincerest apologies, novice Medaea.”  Said the coppery skinned Altaran, his black eyes appraising her from behind a few locks of his handsomely disshelved, equally stark hair.  “My friend here is not accustomed to the attentions of women, the Light bless his virgin heart.  My name is Jaryion, and I’ve been here for five weeks.  Might I say that—”

“Might I say that this louse is supposed to be my guide.”  Said Theon.  “No matter that he still doesn’t know his way around the Tower grounds.  I’m Theon Mavidante.”

The Altaran playfully punched his arm.

She smiled fondly, but there something about the way her lips pinched at the end.  Scorn, perhaps?  Curiosity?  Theon couldn’t quite say.

“You’re a Tairen, aren’t you?”  She asked.

“Tairen, yes.”  Said Theon, grunting at the punch.  “Tairen Lord, no.  Frankly, I don’t think our political views on Tear are quite so different.”

“Is that so?”  Asked Medaea.  “What foreign insight allows you to make such a presumption, I wonder?”

“Well, my ancestors didn’t try to oppress yours.”  Theon quipped.  “So I figure that puts us on some degree of common ground.”

“If the two of you would be kind enough to excuse me.”  Said Jaryion.  “I fear I have chores to complete.  Sincerely, Medaea, it was a pleasure to meet you.  I hope my boyish friend doesn’t scare you off.”

“What,” Theon quipped. “You plan on giving her one of those wedding knives?”

“I’m nothing like him!”  Jaryion called, a sour grin on his face as he left.  Then, without regard for decorum, he turned to the rest of the girls as they all fell out into the anteroom, single file.  “Light’s blessing on all here.”

Medaea laughed easily, for all the world as if she were talking to two normal boys.  The rest of the girls regarded them coolly.  None replied to Jaryion’s benison.

“ . . . obviously boy-crazy.” One of them remarked.

“Penchant for dangerous men, Medaea?” One of them quipped.

“Is your friend always so formal?”  She asked, unsurprised. As if the two other novices hadn’t spoken to her at all. As if . . . they were so far beneath her that they didn’t merit her notice.

“Do Silverpike spawn in the winter?”  Theon replied.

For a hairsplitting moment, he felt as if he were being studied.

“You’re a fisherman, then?” She asked.

“Only in the sense that every Tairen is a fisherman.”  He replied, extending his arm as if to escort her.  “Walk with me, Medaea?”

“And why would I do that?”  She replied.  “I haven’t the slightest clue where you’re going.”

“Well, why don’t we start by heading downstairs?”

“As you wish.”  She said, shrugging.  “But you, master Theon, will walk with me.”

“Shall bow and fetch your parasol as well, my Lady?”

“Not at the moment.”  She replied casually.

There was a peculiar air of superiority about this woman that screamed nobility, but in a classy sort of way. The boyish Tairen couldn’t be sure whether his admission of poverty – or lower social standing, at the very least – would be a setback or an advantage. In any case, they both needed to head downstairs no matter what sort of semantics she played. He followed her carefully, one hand lightly skinning the railing as he used his cane for balance.

“So, what possessed you to speak to the two of us?”  Asked Theon.

“Why did you help some women and refuse others?”  She replied.

He paused after about four flights, lingering in the stairwell and making a careful gesture that beseeched her to pause in turn. She did so, but her eyes immediately drifted toward the leg he so clearly favored. If she had questions about that, she didn’t voice them.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Medaea,” Theon said with a shrug. “But wilders are about three rungs above men, and most men are about six rungs below sea level.”

“None of those women gave you any gratitude.”  She replied.  “Certainly none of them feel indebted to you.”

“Can you be so sure?”

“It’s the obvious truth.”  She replied.

“It was a moral issue.”  He said, leaning against the corner. He stretched out his dead leg as if tending to an old injury, once again thankful that it was disguised by a bleached leather boot.

As she waited for him to explain himself, he felt her scrutinizing gaze level against him, but he dismissed it easily enough.  It was all too easy to be paranoid in these parts, and the sensation was brief at best.

“The three women that failed Ryelle Sedai’s test were all brought into the Tower through naturalmeans.”  He used the word natural with a curious degree of contempt.  “If they believed that you were a wilder, they’d turn on you, quick as a school of Silverpike on a sinking kitten.”

“They’d regret it.”  She stated indifferently.  To Theon, it didn’t seem to him like a vengeful statement at all.  She might as well have been reminding him that the sky was blue.

“Perhaps they’d find a leopardess instead.”   Said Theon.  “Still, you would be scorned.  This way of thinking is divisive – I wish to topple it.”

“How?” She asked.

“This is certainly a good start.”  He replied.

She looked to him as if she were appraising the statement.  For a moment, he felt like she was debating whether or not he was an intelligent man or a fool.

“I’m headed to the library.”  She said.  “I’m stuck cataloguing books for Devora Sedai.  Where will you be?”

For a moment, it looked as if Theon was staring off into space. In fact, he was recalling their conversation, running it back through his mind. This novice was more cunning than he’d initially suspected. Moreso than any Tairen Lord he’d ever met. Looking back on it, he realized that she’d hardly answered any of his questions at all. He, however, had found himself so eager to be in a woman’s company that he was practically ready to recant his life story.

“With you, I’m afraid.”  Said Theon, as if snapping out of the brief spell.  “Fortunately, I’m very good with books.”

“I see.”  She said, canting her head at him like a fisher-bird with its eye on an unsuspecting mudfish.  “Well, I am rather new to the Tower.  Perhaps you can help me?”

The implication was almost clear as spring water: perhaps you can do it for me?

Theon pursed his lips, as if considering the statement for what it was truly worth.

“Perhaps we can help each other?” He replied.

His words, however, did not seem to imply anything about books.