Unawares

Nathalia groped frantically for saidar even as her hands frantically groped for her reins. With a sickening thwump, the gelding’s rearing threw her from his back, and she fell into the deep, wet snow. The sudden cold all over—in her nostrils, in her mouth, in her eyes and ears—made her gasp for air, which only made it worse. Sharp ice crystals scraped her face and hands as she thrashed in the snow, her arm finally finding purchase on something solid. Her hand clenched around it, and she pulled with all her strength, almost catapulting her body out of the sodden mess. Too late did she realize it was a man’s arm, not a branch, that she clung to—too late did she see his black coat and glittering pins, for he had pulled her towards him and had her in his arms.

He kissed her. Warmth suffused her body from head to toe, a strange thrumming that made her knees weak. She was pulled into it, as taught as a bowstring then as relaxed as a blade of grass in the wind. She was floating in water then being sucked into its depths, but all the while not caring. She felt dizzy and light-headed, and the world spun as if she were being twirled around the dance floor at a magnificent ball. Then, just as suddenly, reality snapped back into focus and all the cold, all the wet, and all the confusion hit her. She was still spluttering and spitting snow from her mouth and nose, blinking it from her eyes. Her knees were weak from whatever had just happened, and she continued to cling to the blasted man’s arms as if her life depended on it.

“Wha—” She spit the remainder of the snow out of her mouth, then took a step backwards, her blessed legs taking her weight, though she did stumble a bit in the soft snow. Her faculties were returning, and her eyes flicked in the direction of her quickly disappearing mount. “Blood and bloody ashes man, what under the Light did you just do to me?” None of Therelise’s preparations had mentioned any form of channeling like this, neither had Toveine’s—what under the bloody sun had he done?

“Pardon the kiss, ma’am,” he said politely, in the lilted tones of Andor. “It’s how we’re taught it.” He, too, was wiping snow from his face. Nathalia wanted to run, but felt her feet oddly planted in one place. She could have moved them, but didn’t want to. Blood and bloody ashes, her mind raced. What—?! Her captor—or was he?—continued to stand in front of her, and she got a good long look at his face. It was lean, and tanned for such a season. He was blonde, blue-eyed, just short of middle age, and stood a head and a half taller than her. He had broad, muscled shoulders beneath his black coat, and both a silver sword and odd serpent decorated his collar.

“Taught what, Asha’man, you had better explain or I’ll have your ears instead.” She folded her arms and stared him down, not being able to do much else.

“Now then, there’ll be none of that,” he said mildly, straightening his coat and brushing the remaining snow from his ashen hair. “I bonded you, Aes Sedai. The kiss is how we’re taught it, for wives and the like.”

Nathalia could feel her eyes widening. “You—you bonded me, you great bloody—for wives and the like?—you what?!” Blood began thumping in her ears, all through her body, as even more adrenaline made her begin to shake. Her stomach twisted into nauseous knots. It was unthinkable. She was Red! Never to be bound to a man, even one of her own choosing. Men were—

Her thoughts were cut short by him placing his hands on her shoulders, and almost to her dismay, the anger and adrenaline faded almost as quickly. She was calm and in control of her emotions again, if still indignant. “There, that’s better,” he said with a slight smile. His interference abated the emotions for a moment, but Nathalia felt them bubble right back up. He frowned.

“Bonding someone against their will is akin to rape,” she hissed at him. “Shall I lift my skirts and spread my legs for you too, Asha’man?”

His cheeks reddened. Slightly. Instead of answering, he turned from her, and began striding purposefully through the snow, back to where their groups had first encountered each other, before Nathalia had given the orders for the sisters in her group to bolt. Shielded as they were, it had been their only option. She reached for saidar now—while struggling to keep up with the Asha’man in her divided skirts—and the Source flew into her body, the lifeblood a reassuring presence in this suddenly bizarre twist of events. They hadn’t been prepared for anything like this, nothing like it at all. The heightened senses that the Power gave her made her realize she could sense more than just her own body, for once—there was a bundle of emotions and sensations that seemed disembodied, until she realized that they belonged to the man striding along in front of her. Cold determination, anger held back, and a growing sense of something else that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it resonated within her, too.

“Crawley, report!” he barked, and a man in an identical black coat—though one with only the silver sword pinned to the collar—whipped around and gave a hasty bow.

“All present and accounted for, Asha’man Donnel. Only one unconscious, and that just from fainting. The M’Hael will be pleased. The guards have scattered too, but we can deal with them later. I don’t think any from this bunch had Warders.”

“So you’re a Red then,” the Asha’man turned to her, and gave her a second long look. Nathalia’s back stiffened, prepared for the worse. Instead, he smiled at her again, but there was no warmth behind it.

A slit of shimmering silver appeared behind the Asha’man, then spun and widened into a hole big enough for men a-horseback to ride through two abreast. It took all of Nathalia’s training not to shriek and step backwards, but doubtless the Asha’man felt her shock through the bond. The thought twisted her stomach again, even more so than from the fact that saidin was being channeled so closely to her and she couldn’t seem to even lift a finger against it.

She had to force calmness onto her face—and throughout her body—as one by one, the five other sisters that had been with her reappeared back in the clearing in which it had all began. They were one of several groups in such an arrangement—mostly Reds, but she spotted Corbaen, the single Yellow in their group, and the youngest. She didn’t look nearly frightened enough, considering that they now stood surrounded by at least fifteen men in black coats, though only six of them—the six of whom stood closest to sisters, and had probably also bonded them—wore two pins on their collars. Only another few had even one, and the rest simply wore black. There was no other pattern to them, however—they were of any age, any skin or hair colour or barbering, and all held themselves with the taught alertness that she usually associated with Warders.

“Your horse, ma’am,” the Asha’man—her Asha’man, she almost thought of him as—handed her the reins to the roan gelding, Strawberry. The horse was foamy on his sides, still breathing heavily, but appeared no worse for the wear. She gave him a pat, oddly comforted by the softness of his pink nose. “Crawley, bring the guards back to the Tower, too—we can’t have them flapping their tongues.”

Crawley saluted, and the Asha’man swung up into his saddle, motioning for Nathalia to do the same. She pulled herself up easily, and despite the feeling of something crawling all over her neck, followed him through the silver gash in the air through to—

She stared about her in surprise. A bustling grounds; men, women, carts, and even children darting about, all purposefully bent to some task or another. Around her structures were being erected, protected now by wooden scaffolding but underneath she could see black stone. And a bit further away, a tree with something hanging from its branches—heads. Human heads. Her stomach twisted again. At least that much of the Amyrlin’s information had been correct. But everything around her spoke to just how much the White Tower didn’t know about this supposed Black Tower, this farm that fifty-one sisters and two hundred Tower Guards had been sent to deal with quietly.

From her vantage point on horseback, she could easily see over fifty men in black coats. Nathalia felt cold shivers race up her spine. The Black Tower has risen.