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Site Picks Junuam Roshan Sei'Tar & Ingrid Acacia Gaidin: "Dumb, Dumber, & Dead" A Convict The first thing he was aware of as he opened his eyes was the gloomy, depressive darkness he had grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. Then, all the wounds that littered his body started to sear and hurt. They had had him healed when he first came in, or so they said, so that he would not die, but all they had done was to undo it. He had been punched and kicked in his cell and had had all kinds of torturing instruments applied to him, with the assurance that if he spoke up and confessed all he knew, the pain would end. He did confess all he knew when they pressured him, truthfully shouting, “I don’t know!” as they brandished their pokers and whips, but somehow, it only served to make them even more livid. “The truth!” they always insisted as they continued to abuse him, unconvinced and unsatisfied by what little, what nothing, he claimed to know. It was really all he knew, but nobody would believe him. But over the course of those gruelling sessions, he had gathered that there had to be a greater truth, one that he was clearly expected to know. He had delved into his mind, searching frantically for it but found nothing. Everything was a blank. He remembered not at all why he was here, penned up in a dank, smelly prison somewhere in Shienar with only the rats and cockroaches for company. Each time he tried to recall life before his current predicament, all that he came away with was a splitting headache and total, utter blankness, and indeed, it was this blankness that always got him in trouble when they fired questions about his past. He could not for the life of him imagine a life away from the evil-smelling straw and unrelenting darkness that composed his world. Perhaps he had lived here all his life? He had thought so until they told him of his capture, and gradually, the pieces of the puzzle in his mind had shifted and fallen into place. He had had a previous life; he just could not recall it, not a single detail. Something had happened to his memories. He remembered – no, ‘remembered’ was not correct – he knew by some unfathomable way that some people did lose their memory sometimes. It was ludicrous, to say the least, but he had gradually accepted it as the most plausible explanation. His torturers were not as tolerant of this radicalism, however. The first time he broke tradition and put forward his theory, they had laughed in his face and administered him the worst thrashing he had had ‘for taking us for fools’. He still had the scars and bruises to show for that ordeal. Again, as he sat on the straw, he tried to remember, tried to claw away the inevitable void that always materialised and stayed no matter what he essayed, until he got himself a splitting headache and fell asleep again. That routine he repeated incessantly in spite of the migraines it gave him. If he was to be freed from this prison and the prison of his mind, he had to start remembering. But he never had any success. He still did not know what his own name was. Once in a while, his sleep or mind trip was interrupted by visits from the wardens, and he dreaded those, for they signified the start of yet another excruciating session of pain and agony which always seemed to take longer each time. Eventually, he knew there would come a session that would never end. He had calculated a rhythm though. By the midst of every fourth sleep, they would come, cursing and grumbling, as they dragged him from his pathetic sanctuary into the light-filled ‘pain room’, as he termed it. It was only the end of his second sleep this time though, and thus he was perplexed, then alarmed, as a light filtered in through the darkness, and the noises of the gate being unlocked and opened sounded in his ears. They stepped in as he shielded his eyes, unaccustomed to the sudden brightness. There were three this time, and they were different from the norm. The swarthy guards-on-duty he recognised, but the other man, clean-shaven and pot-bellied with a spotless face, he had never seen before. “Good morning, Junuam,” Clean Face greeted. “Who?” “Cut that act out,” Clean Face rolled his
eyes impatiently. “You know as well as me that you are fooling no one.” “I have brought your belongings,” Clean Face continued, scrutinising him carefully. “Perhaps they will cajole you to talk. Speak, and perhaps we will bury them along with you. Keep acting the fool and you will just die.” He stared at the things contained in the unwrapped bundle. There were a shirt and breeches, both stained in dry blood, a hunting knife and a sword. The sword piqued his interest. He had known how to use the sword before, then? Yes, come to think of it, he could wield a sword. He did not think it consciously; he just knew he could. He reached toward it gingerly, but the bundle was quickly moved away. “Nice try,” Clean Face grunted. “Now you yield. How did you end up in the Blight?” “I don’t know.” “Who are you?” “I don’t remember.” “Enough of that falsified crap,” Clean Face scowled. “Did you kill Firin and Sedror Lucetar?” “I don’t think so,” he scrunched his face in puzzlement, mulling carefully over his choice of words. “That’s it,” Clean Face growled as he stormed out of the cell. “Take him away.” He had thought initially that they were setting him free, and indeed, his hopes were raised a good notch when they had given him a new white tunic to change into and led him to the outside, but it was no freedom. To a square cage his limbs were chained, so that the only part of his body he could move was his head. And there was certainly much to see as the cart wheeled him down the street. An armed escort trooped near him, but the interesting things were the civilians. Curious onlookers were swelling the numbers of the procession, and they chattered excitedly as they pointed at him, and gradually, he discerned a little of what they were saying. “It’s him! It’s him!” “Bloody murderer!” “Gets his comeuppance!” Then the pelting began. With his head the only part of him that protruded from the cage, he found to his dismay that it was very quickly the defenceless target of a hail of thrown objects. Stones, sticks, vegetables and all kinds of projectiles were flung at his head, and he could not dodge. A rotten egg dashed itself near his mouth, and he licked at it hungrily. It was much better than what they gave him back in that cell. Slowly though, he realised what his comeuppance was. He was still staring dazedly at the wooden structure as he stepped onto the platform, shoved and prodded along by his masked escorts like a wretched animal. They were a good height above the angry mob now, but the rope that hung over the crowd and ended in a loop looked deathly ominous. He observed nobody around him as simply attired as him in the convict’s uniform. Would it be too far-flung to hope that that noose was not for him? “Junuam Lucetar,” a gruff, old man in flowing silk robes, the only man on the platform besides him not masked, announced in a formal tone. Unrolling a scroll in his hands, he turned toward the listening crowd as his voice boomed. “Charged for two counts of murder and seven counts of trying to deceive the authorities. The penalty,” he paused and roamed his eyes around his audience, “is death.” So his name was Junuam. It was a very bad
time to be Junuam though. He listened in horror as a furore of cheers
emanated from the crowd and deafened his ears, and beheld with aghast
the eager expression that adorned nearly every face, each calling for
his execution. Nearly every. His eyes lingered appreciatively on a slim,
dark-haired woman who was staring at him with the strangest expression,
which at least did not belie malice and bloodlust, and not just for gratitude.
Even at this distance, he could see that she was blindingly attractive. He stared out into the booing crowd, wondering what would placate them and turn them over to his side. Perhaps then he might live. His mind clicked: his innocence. “I would like to say,” he shouted over the din, “that by some way or the other, I lost my memory before I was imprisoned, and I don’t remember anything at all! I am not in a conscious—” “Oh shut up!” the old man interjected and rolled his eyes before motioning to the masked men at the back of the platform. “The flaming idiot still tries to play dumb. Kill him!” The wave of cheers that greeted the imperative was too loud and fervent for him to ever try and make himself understood again. He complied helplessly, his limbs dogged in chains, as his executioners yanked him toward the edge of the platform. He closed his eyes as he felt the noose secured around his neck, even as the incessant buzz from the crowd died down to an expectant silence. He saw and felt every eye in the public square riveted to him, waiting for the instant he tumbled off the platform. “Is he ready?” somebody demanded from behind him. “Of course I’m not!” he yelled. “That’s a freaking noose around my neck!” “He’s ready,” the same voice concluded. “Shove him at will.” He did not know whether to cry or laugh. His past was clouded to him, so that the only life he knew was one spent in the perpetual darkness of the most inhospitable prison in all of Shienar. Perhaps then, if he never lived, according to his mind, then death was nothing. Ingrid Gaidar “Do that be so.” Ingrid peered at the gentleman beside her from underneath an inclined brow. Dressed in a red traveling dress, black leather boots, and a black cape to cover the ensemble, Ingrid looked the picture of a lady. Her dark curls surrounded her face, smoothing its angular planes as no other decoration could. She had not gone so far as to complete the assembly with jewelry, but Ingrid found her demeanor to be convincing enough. She cleared her voice delicately, as befitting a woman of her adopted stature, and masked her irritation with an obsequious smile. A slight down turning of the lips revealed all of Lady Ingrid’s intentions – she was satisfied to function as trophy so long as the Lord riding adjacent to her continued to impress her with her worldly stories. She was, after all, but a quiet country noble from Illian, searching for the High Seat of the House Lenora in the hopes of making amends over an ancient feud. Lady Ingrid knew little of the countryside, you see, and less of the ruffians that traveled it. And the bloody lady, traveling alone, had to accept graciously the escort of whatever pompous lord chose to offer it. She had to feign utter stupidity so that they would neither look beyond her threadbare garments to her overly lumpy saddlebags nor investigate the contents thereof. She would have been content to desert Tar Valon without bothering to disguise her identity, but she did not wish to risk reprehension for a certain murder she had committed in Shienar ten years previous. Great Lord, she just wanted to get home! “I always lead the defense against the Trolloc raids in Ankor Dail,” boasted the man once more. Before she went home, Ingrid wanted to reserve this man a spot on the nearest stake. Anally impaled, preferably. She licked her lips contemplatively, images racing across her mind. She was not normally sadistic, but for him she could make an exception. She wondered if the silly boy had ever seen a Trolloc in his entire bloody life. Never mind the fact that he was easily ten years her senior. She then progressed to ignore the flapping of his lips. Finally tired of the idiocy, she turned to him and said, interrupting whatever he had been babbling about, “How close is this to Fal Moran?” She busied her twitching hands – twitching to strangle his flaming neck! – by checking her saddle bags. Her fancloth cloak had been knocked partly out of its compartment in her saddle bags; she tucked it back inside, trying not to mumble under her breath. The male blinked at her brusque inquiry, resituating himself on his saddle as if Ingrid had kicked him in certain places of the male anatomy. He was insulted thateasily? Idiot. “About half a day’s distance, at an easy ride.” Oh, blow that – she could be out of this bloody hell hole now, and she would be home within a few hours! Now, what was the best way to lose the fool? Her solution was provided for her. They had not been crossing the town for five minutes when they came to the town’s main square. The man’s eyebrows knitted as he surveyed the scene set before them. They had a wonderful vantage point of a bloody scaffold and the criminal placed upon it. The man, distracted, finally forgot Ingrid’s presence and kneed his mount around the crowd closer to the scaffold to see what was happening. In spite of herself, Ingrid remained. She watched the milling crowd with something akin to disgust – she could not stomach the fact that these people were gathered here to survey a hanging so delightfully. A bit hypocritical, perhaps, but at least Ingrid only killed when it was necessary. The man soon returned. “It’s the hanging of a man named Junuam Lucetar,” he explained. “The town’s been in a bit of a furor the last few days; he’s been convicted guilty of the murder of two men. They had a bit of trouble with obtaining a confession, and they’re just now hanging the bastard.” Ingrid gave him one short glance before peering intently to the man on the scaffold. He was dressed in a tunic of white, as befitting a criminal’s execution. Instead of crying for mercy or some such nonsense, he had a dazed look to him, as if he wasn’t sure what was happening or why he was here. No one else seemed to notice, however. They also chose to ignore other key oddities about the man. For one, he was heavily muscled; his arms had the look of heavy exercise, enough to be uncommon even among mercenaries or guards. His entire body was littered with not only the bruises of his no doubt extensive torture, but with scratches and other meddlesome scars – it looked as if he had been beaten by, oddly enough, sticks. This was no ordinary murderer, that was for certain. Still curious, Ingrid paid a boy from the crowd a copper to hold her horse so that she could venture closer to the scaffold. She had not yet begun to walk to the scaffold when she recognized the man. Though his face was not incredibly familiar, other aspects of him were blatantly obvious. Junuam Roshan, her mind cited, as if quoting directly from the book upon which his name was written. There were numerous scribbles, but the entry concluded with this: Sei’Tar. Due for raising to Gaidin. Ingrid wasn’t sure what possessed her to rise to his defense. She rarely took the defense of anyone besides herself; it was often too much of a gamble to risk her own skin. However, there was something oddly familiar in the man’s situation – ready for hanging on a scaffold under the charge of murder. That could have been her, had anyone connected the first name Ingrid with the sur name Lenora. She tore through her saddle bags, releasing from its bundling her heron mark sword. When she was halfway through the crowd, one of the men stepped forward to push the Sei’Tar – or Gaidin, almost – from the scaffold. “Wait!” she ordered, her voice firm and loud, even carrying through the vengeful screams of the crowd assembled. The man at the scaffold paused, searching the crowd for the speaker. It was obvious enough. Cape flowing and shining like a beacon in red, Ingrid rushed through the crowds, nonchalantly elbowing villagers from her path. It was easy enough to plow through them. Not many women had the audacity to brandish blademaster swords at public executions; she was a genuine oddity. She mounted the steps to the scaffold. Her sword began her bargaining before her mouth even opened. The Gaidar stepped between criminal and culprit, glaring daggers at the ladder. His mouth was ajar, as was that of every other executioner on the stand. She was sure the Sei’Tar, had her back not been to him, was watching her with the same unabashed amazement. Ingrid flung her head back angrily to rid her views of the curls intercepting them, hands tightening over the hilt of her sword. Finally, she spoke. “This man must be dealt with in Tar Valon, at the White Tower.” The crowd had hushed, but now quiet murmurs spread like ripples on a pond. When she continued, the villagers were once more silent, listening for her continuation. “He is a Sei’Tar of the Gaidin training. Tenants of the White Tower accused of capital crimes must be tried and hanged there, and nowhere else.” “And under whose authority do you speak, woman?” spoke one of the executioners. He was obviously unconvinced and critical of her claim. The Borderlands were still loyal to the White Tower, but if she was truly of the Tower, then she was depriving them of a day’s entertainment and a week’s gossip. “Ingrid Gaidar, Head Gaidar of the White Tower.” There was a note of authority in her tone, but not one of boasting. She was obviously not lying. Once more, the crowd grew thoughtful, audibly expressing its amazed thoughts. News would not yet have reached here that she had resigned; they had probably heard her name in passing, although it was not as much a household name as that of the Amyrlin. She had become a celebrity in reaching her stature at such a young age, though she was ashamed to say for little else had she become renowned. “Oh,” answered the man in more of a breath than anything else. He glanced at his companions and sighed. “We must release him to her charge.” He gestured towards the criminal, and one of the other men stepped forward to pull the noose from around his neck. Ingrid sighed slightly in relief, allowing her sword to slip downwards some. She finally turned to the now freed man, eyeing him up and down. A raised eyebrow and a slight smirk were the only evidence of her amusement. “Come with me, Junuam.” Junuam He held his hands out as his cuffs were severed and moved his fingers around in wonderment. They had been restrained and bound together for as long as he remembered, and he had never dreamt to regain conscious control of them. He gingerly ran a finger gingerly around his neck where the rope had bit into his skin. That escape had been too close for comfort, and somehow, he had an intuition that this was not the first time he had stared death in the face and cheated it, not anywhere near. He stuck a tongue out at his relieved executioner as he smugly received the bundle of his belongings, revelling in the disappointed murmurs of the crowd. The man grunted, but knew he was beaten, like everybody else. He tucked the bundle under his arm as he raised his nose to sniff the air, delighting in the scent of freedom. “Come with me, Junuam.” It took him a while to realise that his saviour was referring to him. Junuam. The name still failed to ring a bell in his mind, but if everybody referred him to that, then perhaps it was the only link to his past. He averted his gaze shyly as she scrutinised him, but once she had turned her back and started to troop down the stairs, his eyes were given full rein, and they approved. It still amazed him that the only decent-looking – okay, stunning – woman in the crowd had come to his rescue when he had thought it was all over, waving a heron-mark blade of all things, but he could not complain. He took in the sway of her step as they descended the scaffold. The crowd parted for them, many of them gawking in awe. He knew what the White Tower was and the kind of cowing effect it had in the Borderlands, but what confused him was that that knowledge, and so much else of what he knew, had to be bred of memory. Even his speech and articulation had to have been impeded if he had truly lost his memory, but they were fine, along with his sanity. The intricacies of the mind were something he could not hope to fathom. He was from the White Tower, she had said. The woman apparently had connections to his past, or had perhaps decided to cook up the most far-fetched story to bail him out of danger. He knew the White Tower, and inexplicably also knew about Gaidin and Sei’Tar, but with him as one of them? His mind still remained blank, and the headaches were coming on. The past was something he dreaded at times to dwell upon. And so, he dwelled on the present instead. His gaze turned from one of appraisal and satisfaction for the woman in front of him to one of suspicion. Up there on the scaffold, with his life bare seconds away from being taken from him, any other place would have been welcome. But now that he had his back to it, he had time to consider where she was taking him, and he could make an intelligent guess. She was simply bringing him to the White Tower to be retried and hanged. She had said as much herself. There could be no other place that she was taking him. “Lady Ingrid!” Junuam canted his head toward where the outburst had come from, and beheld a well-attired man with his retainers struggling vainly to jostle past the crowd. They were well out of place amongst the dirty, grimy civilians that thronged the town square, and he relished in seeing the man’s spotless helmet get knocked away by a careless ruffian. “Do you know him?” he inquired as they reached their destination: a horse held still by a mousy-haired boy. “No,” was the monosyllabic reply as the woman vaulted herself onto the saddle, placing her feet in its stirrups. He quickly glanced away, alarmed at a fleeting glimpse of bare white leg. “Well, uh, thanks for, um, rescuing me then,” he stammered, grinning like an idiot as he slowly backed away, remembering – for once – where the woman had to be taking him. He wondered briefly at his own uneasy countenance. Did he always clam up like this around attractive women? And the most tragic thing about it was that he did not know the answer. “But I think, uh, you’d best be off on your way and I will take care of my bu…myself.” All that he was rewarded with was an annoyed gaze. He gulped and meekly launched himself onto the horse behind her; if he truly was Sei’Tar and her Head Gaidar, he had best be deferring to her. Before she kicked her horse into motion, however, he unwrapped his bundle, withdrew the sheathed sword within and discarded the rest; they were not of use. He lurched backward as they started forward, and he kept his hands on the horse’s flank to steady himself. There was no way he was going to hold on to that woman’s slim waist for balance, not unless he wanted his fingers burned. He had a plan anyway. Blademaster, Head Gaidar or just a fibbing liar, she would be hard-pressed to turn the tables once they were alone on the road and he held a blade to her throat. Then he could shove her off the horse and make his escape, convict’s tunic et al, into… He had not a single idea where. Ingrid Ingrid noticed neither the glances afforded her by the villagers now those Junuam cast in her direction. She was used to the attention, even when she placed herself on a pedestal, as she had done to rescue the Sei’Tar. In fact, she was oblivious – well, as oblivious as a Gaidar could be – to all but her sense of liberation. She felt free and unrestrained for the first time since she had left the Tower, about a week ago. Ingrid was free to be herself. Well, if truth be told, she was better off refraining from mentioning her real sur name, Lenora, and using her newer one. Using Acacia instead of Lenora was not a lie, regardless – she had inherited the title before coming to the Tower. She felt careless – her shoulders and back lacked the tension from earlier, and she was more prone to smiling. She was significantly less irritable. She even managed a grin at the lord who had escorted her through the town. Oddly enough, he studied her all the more intently when she kneed her horse to a slow canter to leave the pitiful little settlement. “You’re not going anywhere without me, Sei’Tar,” Ingrid admonished as they left the town. “That was no boast. I really am a representative of the Tower, and the Tower must deal with the crimes of its recruits. I’ll escort you there soon enough. First, we’re going to Fal Moran – I left the Tower to go on a vacation to see my father, and I’ll not let you get in the way of that, mister.” She grinned at him mischievously, increasing her mount’s speed simultaneously. The wind combed her hair back with gentle, relentless fingers, kissing the skin of her cheeks as she rode. Ingrid was blissfully unaware that the combination of the wind and her masculine seating were pulling her skirts from her legs, baring them to mid thigh. Conversation was reduced to a minimum due to her demanding pace. She was pleased to note that Junuam had little to no trouble accommodating her, but that was no surprise. He had been in the Blight and survived. She wondered, however, if that meant he was Gaidin now. The stipulations of the test were that you had to find your way from the Blight to the Tower without aid. Junuam had obviously survived the Blight, but Shienar had given him significantly more trouble. She regarded him from the corner of her eye, suddenly wondering how it was that he could speak to her and understand her words. A weave was placed over Sei’Tar to ensure that they had no interaction with anyone. The only explanation was that he had caught up with an Aes Sedai who had taken pity upon him and released him from the weave. Ingrid would not have been pleased, had she still been the Head. Rysor was more merciful, which was fortunate for the Sei’Tar. They stopped a few hours later to stretch, eat, and allow their mount to have a bit of a rest. Ingrid fished through her saddlebags for the rations she had compromised at the last inn at which she had stayed, and offered a piece of bread and dried cheese to her companion. He eyed her suspiciously, but eventually he welcomed the bit of sustenance. She wondered when he had last eaten. Herself, she pecked at the softer insides of one of the loaves, but discarded it, replacing it to its pocket in her saddlebags. She would be home soon, and her father would be most obliged to offer her a <i>real</i> meal. She fairly salivated at the thought. She was occupied with fanciful thoughts of the evening ahead of her. Ingrid paced a bit, but finally paused. All was silent but for her breath. Perhaps it was her heightened sense of alert; after running from Tar Valon to Shienar, the Gaidar was constantly searching for potential threats. Due to this, she noticed that Junuam was not hungrily chewing at his rations from where he should have been behind her – he was silent. She listened silently for a few moments, and then Ingrid heard the whir of steel. The woman ducked just in time to evade a kinetic blow to her head; she pivoted and sent her leg spinning at the Sei’Tar’s ankle level, sending him toppling to the ground. He groaned at the sharp contact with his unhealed wounds; he groaned more when Ingrid quickly lurched over him and wrapped one hand around his throat, squeezing terribly. “What in flaming hell was that, boy?” Junuam “What in flaming hell was that, boy?” Boy? He would have her paying for that. Junuam did not reply, merely took one of his hands away from Ingrid’s hand around his throat and grasped a tuft of her hair, yanking it hard. He could not have spoken even if he had tried with the vice-like grapple her hand enforced on his windpipe. At the same time, the fingernails of his other hand dug into her wrist, clawing and gouging as he tried to wrench himself free from underneath her. Nobody said that he could not play dirty. Boy indeed!. She was exhibiting signs of discomfiture, squirming around on top of him, and he could feel the clasp on his throat start to weaken, but she still clung on like a deranged tiger that refused to give up. And if she did not, she could very well choke the life out of him. His fingers left her hair and started poking at her eyes, prompting her to shy her face from side to side distractedly. Then he brought his knee up into her stomach, and she finally relinquished her grip as she doubled over. Flipping to his side, he shoved her away and clambered to his feet, sputtering and gasping for breath as he groped around the ground for his sword, which had flown out of his hands as he tumbled. He found it in due time when he felt its blade tip press threateningly against his throat. His hackles stiffened when he realised that it was Ingrid who held onto the hilt. There could be no escape from this predicament. The woman, with her hair dishevelled and eyes burning like twin hot coals, resembled a wild animal, ready to tear into him and rip him apart for what he had attempted. At least one doubt was clarified here – she really was a Gaidar, skimpy dress, feminine curves and lady-like manner notwithstanding. “Go on, kill me,” he sneered, his eyes meeting hers coolly in challenge. Any uneasiness or reservation he had around women was conveniently forgotten; no self-respecting lady tried to choke people to death with her bare hands, and certainly no woman could call him a boy and expect him to still kiss the hems of her skirts. “You are going to dump me at the White Tower and let them kill me anyway. Go on, get your hands stained with my blood. One way or the other, I am a dead man.” He balked and hastily decided to essay a different approach when he realised that his words had hit home, and that she really would not hesitate at piercing his throat if he drove her to the brink. The manic look in her eyes belied as much. “All of you are trying to kill me!” he berated. “All of you are against me. You all want to find me culpable of crimes I didn’t commit. The Borderlands or the White Tower, all of you flaming idiots want to jump to conclusions and heap all the blame on me! “I did not kill anybody! Mother’s milk in a cup! I don’t even know who the bloody hell those two people I purportedly killed were! I’m not following you to the White Tower to be given another phoney trial and hanged anew! Who will vouch for my innocence there? Light burn you, I never killed nobody!” He lowered his head, spent, and was as surprised by his outburst as she looked. He could still feel her gaze on him, however, and it was accusatory, doubting his statement. “I don’t know…” he admitted as he buried
his face in his hands. Another headache was coming on. “I don’t remember.” Ingrid “A sneering little child,” Ingrid spat, impaling the ground with his sword. She doubted he would gather the energy or conscience to attack her, it being clear who bested whom, but the Gaidar remained vigilant of its location as well as that of the Sei’Tar in front of her. He did not move from his spot even after her insult; his awareness was focused inward, not at her. Though her breath was not labored, it came out in forced hisses between her clenched teeth, a physical symbol of her anger. She literally spat, then, though not at Junuam. “Prisoners, especially those of a childishnature, don’t need swords.” She grasped his sword by the hilt and threw it bodily into the stream from which the horse lapped thirstily. It was swept away downstream and disappeared from sight. The Gaidar forced herself to breathe deep, even breaths, regaining her composure, before she turned back to the Sei’Tar. She wouldn’t refer to him as anything more until he had returned to the Tower and attained his fancloth cloak. “You’ve got more honor than this, Junuam,” Ingrid began, eyes intent on the man before her. “I do not doubt that you maintained some semblance of it throughout your life, even before you came to the Tower. You would not have come as far as you have if you didn’t have immaculate self control.” She paused, sighing. She scowled at her skirts, stained with dirt from their tumble. “For this reason, I cannot imagine you killing two men, and if you did, then you would have had a very good reason, I’m sure. The villagers were probably over zealous to hold someone accountable for the deaths of those two men, and you, a stranger, fit their need perfectly.” She lounged carefully about the perimeter of the clearing, flaunting her visible lack of caution. Ingrid did not believe that he would kill her, off on a tangent as she was. “I would’ve simply seen you off to the Tower and dismissed whatever happened in Ankor Dail. No one would have heard of it. If you allow me to keep my bloody skin intact, then perhaps no one will hear of it. It all depends on whatever shreds of honor you still possess, child.” She scowled at him, contemplating his later words. “But if it is true that you can’t remember anything,” —at this she cast him a wary, skeptical glance, signifying her doubt— “then I cannot allow you to wander off in the vague direction of Tar Valon. You should stay with me until you regain your memory. I will do everything in my power to help you. I swear this,” she said in a more serious tone, “by my hope of salvation and rebirth. “That is the most I can offer you,” Ingrid concluded. “I ask only that you trust me. And considering I’m the only person in the vicinity from your past, I’d wager your choices are somewhat limited.” She winked, her spirit somewhat regained. Junuam The suspicion did not fade from his eyes, but Junuam nodded reluctantly. So long as he had her assurance that she was not leading him to certain death, he could trust her a little. Ingrid had after all spirited him away from certain death at the gallows. The moment she betrayed it, however, and he swore he would not be so careless. She turned and remounted her horse as he followed suit, clutching the horse’s flanks again to maintain his seat atop it. As the horse lurched into motion once again, his eyes glazed over the part of the stream where the sword had disappeared from view. Sooner or later, she was going to pay for that. Junuam stared into the mirror as he scrutinised his reflection. Now that he bore witness to its contrast to his previous self, he could see that Ingrid was right, and that he really had been a physical wreck. His grimy face had been scrubbed clean, and he had been relieved of the convict uniform. Her father would have a seething fit if he showed up at their manor in that, she had warned. Instead, a dark blue coat now fitted his shoulders over a simple white shirt, with matching trousers below. The beginnings of a beard and moustache around his lips had been shaved, and the effect was tremendous: he looked less a wild man than a civilised gentleman. His hair was grown long, skirting his collar, but trimming it was out of the question, not unless he wanted to take up even more of Ingrid’s precious time, and thus a comb had sufficed. He tugged his lapels into place before paying the shopkeeper the coin Ingrid had loaned him, confident that he presently was fit enough to be presented in a lord’s manor. She was already waiting for him outside, standing beside her horse and changed into a new dress, which though cleaner was no more modest than the previous. Again, he ritually averted his eyes as she swung her legs over her saddle, and waited for her to settle down and arrange her skirts before he jumped in behind her. And they were off. The sun loomed low in the horizon, but they were already on the outskirts of Fal Moran. Her home could not be much riding distance away. He knew not whether to look forward to reaching their destination or dread it. “You look much more like the old Junuam now,” she observed in approval as she guided the horse with the reins. He stared down at himself. The silky sensation of real fabric brushing against his skin was definitely an improvement. Thank the Light he really had not lived in that hellish prison all his life. Frowning at his open right hand, he balled it into a fist to conceal the minute scar there, the only one that was still visible and unhidden by his long sleeves and trousers. It looked old, and he did not remember it being imprinted there while he was tortured, but then he had been teetering on the throes of consciousness on those occasions. “You know of my past,” he responded. “Tell me of the old Junuam, the Sei’Tar of the White Tower. Who was he?” Perhaps that would rouse something buried deep within his mind. At the same time, they went over a humongous bump in the road. He nearly lost his seat as he tugged frantically at the horse’s back. The blasted beast gave a whinny before jolting him again for good measure. Ingrid Lenora Ingrid eyed the Sei’Tar up and down, considering his attire. He appeared significantly different than he had clad in a convict’s uniform. Far different from a Sei’Tar, for that matter. Ingrid could summon only a vague recollection of that aspect of Junuam’s past; they had not been terribly familiar. Although, he was a charming specimen. His torso was well muscled, given his extensive training at the Tower. There was little to no fat on his frame, and his legs easily matched his arms in potential strength. The outfit was flattering, truly. Ingrid found herself considering the Sei’Tar in another light than that of before. She tilted her head to the side and grinned predatorily. Fortunately, Junuam did not notice, or if he did, he thought nothing of it. They continued on their journey shortly thereafter. The pair were only about half an hour’s easy ride from Fal Moran, so despite Ingrid’s impatience, she let the horse have its head and go at its own pace. That, it turned out, was a slow canter. The speed allowed for conversation. It also allowed for uncomfortable – well, it really depended on one’s definition of uncomfortable – contact between the two people. Just as Junuam finished speaking, the horse hurtled over a bump in the road, sending the unfortunate male to clutch at the horse’s backside. He had resolutely refused to have any contact with Ingrid, favoring clinging to what support there was behind him. This time, however, he was forced to nestle himself up against her so that he did not fall from the horse to the ground. Ingrid only grinned, pretending that the bump had affected her likewise, pressing her backside against him suggestively. As soon as the horse returned to its normal pace on the now smooth road, she formulated a response. “Truthfully, I didn’t know you so well,” Ingrid said, tilting her head back slightly to allow her words to carry to the man seated behind her. “Your full name is Junuam Roshan. I don’t know why those men were referring to you with the sur name Lucetar, but. . . That is the name that you enrolled with in the Tower. You were always a good student, and you got through the ranks quickly. In fact, I can almost certainly tell you that before you lost your memory, you were probably on your way back to the Blight. You would’ve been raised to Gaidin when you returned safely to the Tower.” “Only almost certainly?” Junuam queried. “Rysor takes care of raisings,” Ingrid covered, considering. Well, it wasn’t as if the Sei’Tar would know if she was fabricating or not. He would find out when he returned, but he would also know that Ingrid hadn’t been present for his ceremony – Rysor would have already found a replacement for her. That thought left a bitter taste in her throat. “He’s the Master of Arms,” she added, recalling that Junuam probably had no idea who the man was. She pulled a hand from the reins and pulled her hair from her neck, contemplating what next to say. She really hadn’t known much about Junuam; she couldn’t even remember when he’d come to train. A thought occurred to her abruptly, and she wondered whether or not she should say it: Junuam had been seeing Isobel lately. Ingrid wasn’t aware of the context of their relationship, but men and women were seldom as often together as friends as Junuam and Isobel had been. The Gaidar mulled the thought about, pondering the complications this might add to their relationship. Ingrid had every intention of taking full advantage of the Sei’Tar while he was so malleable under her fingertips. Naming his love might bring back his memory too quickly; it might also awaken his sense of honor, preventing him from keeping her company until she chose to return him to the Tower. She grinned thoughtfully and turned to peer at him through narrowed eyes. The full truth could wait. “I’m afraid that’s all I can say, Junuam. Anything click?” “No,” he answered, a sigh slurring his words. “Perhaps another time.” “Yes.” Ingrid ceased conversation as they neared the walls of the city. She slowed the horse to a trot and then a walk. The city gates were open, but the guards kept a meticulous eye on all of those that passed through. The Borderlands were particularly thorough when it came to surveying their people. For example, those entering the cities were not allowed to enter hooded – all hoods had to be down so that the guards could verify that the person was not a Myrddraal. Few contemplated the fact that the Lurks seemed to get inside when they desired it anyway. The Gaidar kneed the horse forward slowly, excitement mounting. In a few minutes, she would get to see her father and her childhood home . . . something she had not done since Siannon’s death many years previous. Once inside the walls, she urged their mount to a canter. Soon they arrived. Ingrid was near breathless. She nearly pushed Junuam from behind her so that she could bound from the horse quickly. She paused to peer, panting, at the building before her. Her father’s banner, a black heron on a field of red, waved lazily in the breeze, protesting his presence and his eminence. A number of men and women, some servants and some guards, were scattered about the perimeter of the courtyard, likely by her father’s orders. She grinned at all of them. A few recognized her – these sent her a grin and a wave, honoring their master’s daughter for her distinction rather than her personality. She returned the gesture to one and all, practically beaming. “Father!” He was already coming down the steps of the main hall of their manor when she burst through the doors. Someone had apparently already announced her entrance. Ingrid hiked up her skirts to run to his arms, grinning like an ecstatic five year old. The man, his hair graying but his stature still masculine and powerful, tousled her curls and fairly lifted her in his embrace. It was obvious their joy at seeing one another was mutual. “Ah, Ingrid!” the man said, finally releasing her from his burly grasp. “We weren’t expecting you for another week! You made good time.” His eyes surveyed her face and figure, and it seemed he found nothing disappointing. His eyes, ever vigilant, slid past hers to the male standing the doorway. Junuam had awkwardly followed Ingrid’s entrance, but he was obviously ill at ease in the face of such exclusive familiarity. Tyron, Ingrid’s father, glanced back at her. Noting the assent in her eyes, he strode past her to the man at the doorway. “Tyron, High Seat of House Lenora. And your escort’s father.” His ice-colored eyes, framed by tiers of black hair, stared threateningly into those of Junuam, daring him to make a wrong move. Ingrid only stood and watched with a slight smile on her face. Junuam Junuam froze as the patriarch of the house ambled over toward him, his feet glued to the ground. I had not been trying to slink away, he glowered to himself as he stared at the approaching man. He felt an outsider intruding on a blissful reunion between father and daughter and his presence a mere gooseberry. Another instinct pervaded his mind. Nobles. The possibility that Ingrid was one of them haughty ladies with a High Seat for a father had not crossed his mind, but it was plain for him to see now, and something in him warned that he and nobles did not mix. He was still staring blankly at her father with a touch of frost in his glare while the older man waited expectantly. The petulant smirk on Ingrid’s face did not help things any. Belatedly, he realised that perhaps an introduction was expected of him. “I am Junuam…” What was his surname again? “…Roshan, Gaidin of the White Tower. Pleased to meet you, sir,” he extended his hand in a surly manner that amply showed he was not at all pleased. And the other man stared coolly down his eyes before reluctantly shaking it, as if his hand was filth, before turning away. “A guest of my daughter is a guest of House Lenora,” he boomed. “Follow me. I expect you are starving, Ingrid?” Nobles. The woman considered him thoughtfully for a moment before she turned to her father and sidled down the hall with him. He did not care if she disapproved anyway. He was probably going to end up a dead man or be cast from the White Tower soon, and before that happened, he could assume the identity he wished, the rank that demanded more respect. She had said that he was returning from the Blight and nearly a Gaidin. He followed reluctantly after them, noticing with disgruntlement that Tyron had not asked him whether he was hungry; so much for hospitality. Through a bewildering array of doors and rooms, they finally emerged into a dining room, where the table had already been set. Gingerly, he took a seat, ensuring that it was far away from both father and daughter. An invisible barrier seemed to have sprung up between him and Ingrid since they had entered the manor doors, and he avoided looking at her. Instead, he stared at the tablecloth before him, trying to find something interesting in its flowery pattern. He glanced up for a respite and was filled with an ominous dread when he realised that Tyron was seated opposite him. But the other two started up a conversation almost immediately, and he was content to ignore them and be ignored. They were not trying to draw him in, and that was enough – he loathed the place and its inhabitants. More than once, he felt the High Seat’s glance travel disapprovingly over him, but he did not care. He was not courting Ingrid or something, and to hell with good impressions. Fortunately, the food came soon enough. Unfortunately, he stared perplexedly at the slab of the chicken nestled in his plate. If he had known how to eat that with a knife and fork some long time ago, it eluded him now with the rest of his memories, and even he had not forgotten, weeks of eating and scavenging his plate like a wild dog back in that prison had to have burned away any table manners left in him. His eyes never left the chicken as he caught up his cutlery and felt their cold, unfamiliar touch on his skin. Manoeuvring them a little awkwardly, he started on the vegetables and potatoes strewn around the meat. “So, Junuam, what brings you here?” He glanced up, jolting from the surprise and wistfully felt the precariously balanced peas on his fork fall off and bounce on his lap. No idea, he wanted to say, but aloud, “I came to escort her,” he jested toward Ingrid, “and will be following her back when she returns to the White Tower.” “What? You are going back there?” Tyron turned back to his daughter, leaving him to his solitude. He ignored the dirty look Ingrid shot his way. His time alone did not last long, however. “And how long have you been at the White Tower, Junuam?” the bloody old man was demanding of him again. Can you just shut up, you… “I don’t know,” he murmured, trying to hoist some corn with his fork. He had stuck them in his mouth, munched and swallowed before realising that Tyron was still staring at him, and he nearly choked upon realising his error. “I don’t know…five or six years since I went there?” he offered, frowning in what he hoped was consternation. “A pretty long time ago.” A very long time ago. “And what were you doing before that?” He paused, his fork swinging in mid-air as his mind raced. Good question. He glanced down at his food for a respite to think and frowned when he realised that nothing was left in his plate but the chicken. His knife and fork hovered over it, wondering how to tackle the immense problem, even as his stomach growled and rumbled. “That was some time ago,” he stalled as his knife contacted the chicken, cutting and tearing for all it was worth. “I was in…Tar Valon, yes, selling—” He broke off when he realised they were no longer looking at him but at his hands, or rather his right hand. His left hand dangled the fork uselessly over the plate while the knife in his right slashed and stabbed in a vain attempt to skewer himself a piece of meat. Even as he himself watched, the chicken, which was already swimming around the plate in the gravy as his knife poked at it, lurched and landed on the tablecloth. Growling in exasperation, he laid down his cutlery and
caught the meat up with his bare hands. Bloody, flaming nobles and
their ways. Ingrid The table was set with heaping piles of food; Ingrid suspected her father had ordered that half the content of his kitchen be placed on the table to sustain the two hungry travelers. Ingrid really was starving, but she was more interested in conversation with her father than the food placed before her. Junuam, it seemed, did not share that preoccupation. Also, the unfortunate male appeared to have forgotten how to eat with any propriety along with the rest of his memories. Ingrid tilted her head to the side, regarding him. Tyron cared little for a noble’s worries; he judged a man by his character rather than his nobility. In this case, however, Ingrid knew her father would take an exception, at least until he had established his own sentiments toward the unfamiliar man on the far side of the table. The Sei’Tar had apparently already identified her father as a noble and nothing more. Ingrid wanted to go to him and whisper a few words of reassurance, but she wondered if the effort would be appreciated. Or believed. Ingrid shrugged and hefted her piece of chicken, bringing it to her mouth in a method sorely lacking in manners. But then, like her father, Ingrid had never held much stock in manners. “I suppose we’re just starving,” she explained, raising an eyebrow at her father and Junuam in turn. Tyron grinned, finally abandoning his attempt at stony disapproval. His torso shook in a series of chuckles. Junuam seemed surprised – he was clutching his chicken as if it was his final defense against a man gone mad. Ingrid simply gnawed gratefully at her food. “Come, Junuam, don’t separate yourself from us,” Tyron remonstrated. “Move your plate down here.” It was something between an order and a friendly request. Ingrid noted that Junuam was reluctant to do as the gentleman asked, but he did so anyway. Ingrid grinned at him from across the table. Perhaps Junuam’s presence would not be so much of an inconvenience. After they ate, Junuam immediately left the room. As much as Tyron was going at lengths to make him feel welcome and comfortable, it was difficult for an amnesiac man to feel situated among an obviously loving family. Ingrid couldn’t blame him. She relished his absence, however – she had much to discuss with her father. The gentleman himself pushed the front two legs of his chair off the floor, lounging indolently with a glass of wine in hand. Tyron appeared at ease no matter what he was doing. His light eyes were abruptly intense, an unusual restoration of his attitude of previously. Tyron and Ingrid upheld brutal honesty with one another more than anything else, and Tyron was showing signs of integrating that tendency immediately, with Junuam’s removal. “Who is he really?” He wasted no time. Ingrid paused, pouring herself a glass of the wine which her father drank. It was an Andoran vintage, a dry red. She had always associated this drink with her father – he rarely drank any other vintage. “You haven’t changed, Father,” she said, wondering if it was a reassurance for herself or a chastisement. “Neither have you.” “We’re too much alike.” “You’re stalling.” “Well,” Ingrid finally said, as if the word was all the explanation necessary. “Earlier today I was riding through a village called Ankor Dail. A man was awaiting execution when I arrived.” She steadfastly ignored her father’s alarmed glance. “I recognized him and saw that he was freed, with the explanation that criminals of the Tower must also be dealt with by the Tower.” “You don’t have that authority any longer, peach.” “I’m still a Gaidar, aren’t I?” Ingrid snapped. She stood from her seat, wine glass in hand, and paced the length of the dining room, a frown creasing her forehead. “It’s true, too. If he had really committed those murders, then the Tower would want to deal with him, not leave him at the mercy of a hundred rabid villagers.” She took a long drink from her wine glass, sighing when the warm liquid pooled down her throat. How she wished she could get completely flaming drunk. “Why do you care?” Tyron had moved from his chair to stand next to her. He placed a mammoth hand on the small of her back, massaging it lightly. His eyes were an icy brilliance of concern and curiosity. Ingrid shrugged, moving beyond his grasp. “I don’t.” Her father simply inclined an eyebrow. The question was prevalent even without oral support. “I wanted things to work out, Father. I liked the Tower, and I liked my place there. I didn’t appreciate the discomfort that a woman’s authority could bring to that station.” She pressed a wayward hand to her belly, thoughts of Craig and the children she would have borne for him lingering. In a furious gesture she threw the wine glass into the fireplace. The fire surged with the newfound fuel, but the glass only glittered, reflecting events that would become memories. “I don’t like the idea that I don’t have any power anymore,” she concluded, a sigh pleating her demeanor. “You do,” Tyron said softly, arresting her gaze in his. Ingrid needed no words to understand his implications. Ingrid’s feet alighted like butterflies on each step through the manor. The sun had long since descended, and with its departure had come restlessness. Ingrid was plagued with thoughts of the could have beens and should have beens – and she was left with nothing but the empty present, promising but rarely fulfilling. She would have been content to drown herself in her ale, but her thoughts had left her otherwise occupied. She had attempted to find solace in conversation with her father, but he was absent for the evening, though he had told her neither his plans nor his destination. In short, Ingrid was left with nothing to do but see about her promise to the Sei’Tar residing within her home. The door to his chamber was cracked, so she swung it ajar and stood in the doorway, her back leaning against the doorframe. Junuam was reclining in his bed, his arms bent at the elbows and hands cradling the back of his head. He turned at the door’s movement and remained in his previous position, eyes fastened to her frame. Ingrid tilted her head and grinned at him, reclining her head backward to free curls from her gaze. She was clad in a housedress that was little more than a nightgown for all the cover it afforded her. It had slim straps at the shoulder, a scooping neckline, and a virtually unadorned white expanse stretching from her breasts to her ankles. It was an arresting piece, and from Junuam’s intent gaze, he could not help but appreciate it. She lifted a leg and bent it at the knee, leaning a bare foot against the doorframe. A hand lifted to peck a finger at her lips and teeth. “Care for some company?” Junuam The room was dark, and had been so for quite a while. Junuam watched the shadows dance on his ceiling. He had retired to his guest quarters early owing to the beginnings of a headache, yet that same headache presently prevented him from falling asleep. Crooking his arms and laying his head on his hands, he sighed. He was lying on a clean bed for once instead of rough, grimy straw, and yet rest eluded him. The footfalls on the carpet outside were nearly silent, but he knew somebody was coming. Like those of all the servants who eternally scurried on their way, he expected them to pass by his quarters and disappear to where they needed to be, but he soon knew with conviction that the person had paused outside his door. His eyes flickered over to the doorway, and he gave a double take when he saw who it was. Or rather, how she looked. That dress looked a pitiful excuse for a shift, and the way Ingrid stood there in the doorway, rubbing her foot along the wooden doorframe with a finger coquettishly placed around her lips, was a herald of nothing but trouble. What if somebody passed along and saw her like that? She appeared not to care, however, with the way she stared straight at him with that predatory glint in her eyes. It made him squirm. He wanted to decline, make up some lame excuse that he had to rest, but the words died in his throat. More aptly, he was sure his heart had leapt there. Helplessly he watched as she took his silence for assent and swayed into the darkened room. He pulled the sheets higher up his chest, as if they could protect him. She turned. And locked the door. Light! he wanted to cringe in horror as she slowly, leisurely crossed the room toward him. She’s a Head Gaidar, for the Creator’s sake! She had all the time in the world; he was trapped and going nowhere. He wanted to avert his gaze, tear his eyes away from the curves and lithe body that were so implicitly hinted at by that shift-dress, but he found that he was entranced. Meeting her gaze was even worse; it felt like he was going to be swallowed whole. It was too good to be true. Just last night, he had been locked up in prison with no escape in sight, and despair had descended into resigned monotony. He had been sure he would live out the rest of his life in that dank, musty hole and already, he was dwelling at some bloody lord’s manor for free. In the morning, he had been seconds away from the hangman’s noose when a stunning woman, of all people, chose to rescue him and force him to follow her. And what was going to happen now? As he watched her approach, he wondered if he did not really want this. A faint aroma of scented soap wafted in his nose as she settled down next to him, far overstepping the proper distance between a man and woman who had only met for a day. The bed groaned under the additional weight, and it finally roused him from his stupor. “I, um, maybe you shouldn’t…” he reproached in trepidation, thankful that he had his smallclothes on under the blanket. “The servants or your father, they might find you in here, and…and…” The image of her in that flimsy material and him in his smallclothes snuggling up in a bed was not going to be appropriate in anybody’s eyes. “We can’t even talk?” she grinned innocently as she rested her hand on his arm. He nearly yelled in panic as he felt her bare skin against his, but he reined it in so that all that came out was a pathetic whimper. And once he recovered from his shock, he felt his cheeks catch fire. Yes, yes, of course she wanted to just talk, what else would she have wanted? Light, he had to have appeared a pea-brained lecherous buffoon! Raising his outside leg a little, he tried to conceal the growing bulge under his bedcovers. “Talking is, uh, fine,” he replied, at a loss of words. Clearing his throat, he took a deep breath so that his next words were no longer punctuated by strangled gasps for breath. “So what do you want to talk—” “Are you fine?” she leaned in closer, way too close. “Am I fine? Am I…of course I’m….I, uh…” he stammered, lowering his gaze from her eyes and averting it in horror when he found himself staring down her dress. “It’s fine…no, I’m fine.” “You sure?” she breathed again, this time in a husky whisper. “Yes, yes,” he replied quickly, trying to appear nonplussed to that sudden change in tone. “Just a small headache here, but I’ll be…fine.” Before he could protest, he felt her hands on his temples, their cool and pleasurable touch soothing the turmoil within, which appeared to have intensified with her entrance. His head was captured in place, so that all he could see was a choice between her dark glinting eyes, her insinuating grin and her cleavage. He shut his eyes. He hoped he was going to be fine. Ingrid OOC: *snickers* As Angela would say, don't read this if you're a pansy. Ingrid abandoned propriety – or what had been remaining of it – and unleashed the full mirth of her grin. Junuam was making a valiant effort to disguise his discomfort and honor the desires of his hostess, but he was not succeeding. Her grin only discomfited him more. The Gaidar gave a mental shrug, briefly contemplating the consequences of her actions. She shrugged again. “I’m not surprised,” she replied. “You had a tough day.” Ingrid grinned coquettishly; she sounded for all the world like a cosseting mother. However, mothers did not occupy themselves as Ingrid soon would. “Scoot forward.” The Sei’Tar blinked and followed her command. He relinquished his pillow and moved to a seated position further forward on the bed. Ingrid, having been sitting only on the edge of the bed, took advantage of the new position and sat behind him. He peered back at her, but Junuam was struck dumb by her unpredictable actions. He was further stupefied when she nonchalantly spread her legs and placed them at either side of him, baring her slender legs far up the thigh. She could not see his face and hence was unaware of his expression, but Junuam’s shoulders had tensed and the pace of his breath had marginally increased. Ingrid noted his efforts to refrain from glancing at her legs, but even he had not that kind of self control. His head turned slightly side to side as he surveyed the skin uncovered for his perusal. Ingrid grinned wider and leaned back comfortably upon his pillow. He verily started when her hands came to rest upon his shoulders. Junuam jerked his head to peer at her with wide eyes, hesitant, alarmed, and eager. Her hands began stroking the length of his neck, increasingly applying pressure. “A reward for your troubles,” Ingrid explained, her voice a silky purr and little more than a whisper. She pulled herself forward, ‘accidentally’ brushing her breasts against his back. His breathing increased, but he had yet to relax. She continually massaged him. Her legs accentuated the effect by slowly sliding back and forth, her feet kissing the blanket and her thighs maintaining a steady pressure to the sides of his hips and stomach. Eventually she ceased her motions. She grinned and leaned forward, wrapping an arm possessively around the male’s chest. No words were exchanged. She smiled slyly, eyes narrowed, before leaning forward and kissing the side of his neck. It was barely a brush of lips to flesh, but Junuam shivered nonetheless. She bared her teeth and abruptly sunk them into his neck. The bite was quickly replaced by her lips and tongue, caressing the injured flesh with unmistakable tenderness. She paused for a few moments, allowing Junuam to regain his composure. Ingrid retrieved her legs, carefully arranged her skirt, and stood from the bed. She stretched languorously and grinned at her companion. His efforts to disguise the lump underneath the blankets ceased; it was unavoidable; Ingrid’s eyes simply evaded glancing downward. She returned to the bed, but this time Ingrid ushered Junuam backward, nudged his legs apart, and nestled her back against his chest. His breathing rocked her back and forth, testament to his excitement prevalent. “Going to return the favor?” she prompted. Ingrid hefted an arm and brushed the hair on the back of her neck to the side, baring her shoulders suggestively. Junuam “Going to return the favour?” That was not so much a request as a command. With trembling hands, Junuam rested his hands on Ingrid’s neck with as much caution as if it was a scalding piece of iron. It was cool and silky smooth to the touch, but that did not placate his nerves any. Uncertainly, he moved his hands up and down along the length of her neck as she had done, except that his fingertips barely grazed her skin. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. He was not frightened yet, just alarmed at what she was doing, and making him do. They had only met in the morning and already, she seemed eager to go beyond mere acquaintance. Not that he was complaining – she certainly was a fine-looking woman to be adorning his bed – but what if he had a lover, a wife waiting for him somewhere faraway in a recess of his mind? Ingrid herself had admitted that she had not known him well – that detail could well have escaped her notice. No. She was just tired like him. She had tried to make him feel better with a massage, and obviously expected him to do the same. Give her that and she would be gone, contented and satisfied. Her own administrations had soothed his body somewhat, even if the headache still raged on, and he was indebted. With that in mind, he kneaded her muscles more confidently. He blissfully ignored the proximity between their bodies – they were pressed against each other, in fact. She was merely snuggling for warmth, nothing else. He did wish that she would not lean against him so, however, for she had to feel his organ pressing into her by now, and that was a source of embarrassment. He struck a chord with his fingers and winced as he heard her moan in pleasure. Immediately, he seized the opportunity to push himself backward, and gulped as he felt the wall against his back. And almost immediately, she had done likewise, sandwiching him against it. Sob. He could almost see her smirk in triumph. A shove could relieve him of some personal space, but he was not sure that would be appreciated. She was the mistress of the house and if he upset her somehow, a call of distress could rally the whole house to her side. He shuddered as his predicament became clear to him. Nobody would believe that Ingrid had ventured into his room of her own accord. He worked his way out from her neck with greater vigour, even as she purred again in contentment. Hearing her in such a state of arousal made him want to cringe, but it was a good sign. As long as he kept her happy, she would not do anything rash. His hands kneaded with expertise at her shoulders as if he had done it before. He just could not place when, where, who. His breath caught as her tongue clicked and she suddenly reached back toward him. He had thought she was going to spur him on, or perhaps even slap his hands away, but what she eventually did was even worse. Eyes glazed in horror, he watched helplessly as she lazily lowered the tiny straps of her dress down her arms, baring her shoulders to him. An expanse of uninterrupted white greeted his eyes. She had already made sure he caught good, long glimpses of her bare legs and shoulders. Any further this went on and he was going to be made to look at something taboo. “Ingrid, uh,” he tried, finally finding his voice. “Maybe this, um—” Whatever he had to say was drowned out as he felt her hand coil around the back of his neck and pull his head down to her skin. And so he traversed the point of no return. The events replayed themselves in his mind: her rubbing against him on that horse when he had assumed it was accidental, her abrasion against his back minutes before and her kissing his neck. Here was a stunning woman throwing herself all over him, and he was worrying over every trivial matter like a stupid prude. He could not deny that he had lusted over her more than once since morning, and there perhaps would never be another opportunity. And what if he regained his memory, only to find that he had been a loser all his life, one whom women steered clear of? He would regret this night for the rest of his life. He nibbled her neck fervently and speckled her shoulder with wet kisses as his hands roamed over her chest, tugging at the silk of her dress. Burn his memories, all of them. Ingrid A change of position and the removal of a few pieces of hindering clothing were all that was necessary to solve their problems. Ingrid smirked throughout the ordeal. And when she reached that peak – for the first time, at least – it was somehow enhanced by the fact that this was her doing. Junuam had a lover; she had easily pulled him from her grasp. She felt obnoxiously evil, and that was the joy in it. Of course, her artifices had only begun. There was yet more planning to be fulfilled. It was afterwards, and later, that her plots truly began to take shape. After some time spent in an unparalleled escape, Ingrid yawned indolently in Junuam’s arms. She had yet to abandon his grasp, and truthfully, she was perfectly content to remain where she was. They had made a mess of the bedding in general, but neither seemed to mind. Junuam’s breath came in intermittent gasps; Ingrid was not even certain whether or not he was awake. She pulled herself to her side and rested her head on her elbow to ascertain his state and found that he was indeed awake. He watched her movement with half opened eyes, for all the world looking like a cat distracted by its own pleasant purring. The blanket, serving as little more than decoration, slipped from her shoulders at her motion. It came to rest at the hollow of her waist, baring her chest. She yawned and stretched once more, her legs splaying wide, deserting the cover of the blanket, and coming to rest on Junuam’s. He lifted a hand and allowed it to rest upon the curve of her waist. His thumb rubbed a lazy circle on her lower back, massaging away weariness and thought. Ingrid’s head lolled back as she enjoyed the caress, moaning in little breaths that were more purrs than anything else. Her head rolled to the hollow between Junuam’s shoulder and arm. Ingrid stretched once more, this time throwing her arms into the air. It accentuated certain aspects of her female anatomy, but from Junuam’s slight smile, he did not seem to mind. She exhaled another yawn and returned to her previous position, head resting on contrived palm. Ingrid smirked in his direction. “What?” he questioned lightly, his arms circling her waist to pull her closer to him. She wriggled her body against his, ignoring the question. The smile in her smirk became more of a grin; the smile still adorned her tiers as she leaned forward to press her lips against his in a tiny kiss. Junuam’s arms increased their pressure on her back, suggesting her to continue the kiss to something more, but Ingrid resisted the temptation. And then the smile faded. It was a purposeful abandonment, echoing Ingrid’s abrupt determination to complete her task. She bit her lip, her expression twisted by feigned consternation, withdrawing slightly from Junuam’s embrace. His fingers made slow circles on her back as his frown gradually grew to reflect hers. “What’s wrong?” he queried, concern clearly twisting his tones. Ingrid placed her hands on his chest, splaying them delicately. Though her palms were scarred with calluses and the like, she knew that the femininity of the gesture would appeal to Junuam’s senses. “I have a confession to make.” She put all of her effort into sounding properly guilty. Apparently it was sufficiently convincing, for Junuam retrieved his arms and pulled back some. Ingrid schooled her expression to something suitably apologetic, biting her lip virginally. She wondered if she was too far gone to still strike one as marginally innocent. The gesture had its effect on the male in front of her. His frown deepened, but he said nothing. “I didn’t tell you everything I know about you.” If she had not been intent upon maintaining her ploy, Ingrid would have laughed at Junuam’s wary expression. Likely he expected her to admit that he had a lover somewhere – which he did, but Ingrid was not well equipped to give him the truth. “You must forgive me,” she explained quickly, careful to allow nerves to enter her tone. “I didn’t want to tell you at first because I didn’t think your reaction would be all that good.” He calmed somewhat at that; she could not be speaking of a lover. “Just tell me, Ingrid.” For one moment, Ingrid hesitated. She could not help but note the resignation in the man’s voice, and she knew that the lie she was about to fabricate would leave him shocked and desolate. Ingrid had never been one to adhere strictly to her conscience, but she did not appreciate deception, either. Finally she steeled herself against the temptation to come clean. She would never have gotten anywhere without a little deception; no one could. This situation was no different. “You’re a Darkfriend, Junuam.” She pulled her eyes from his and paused, her face schooled to serenity. Let him believe that this declaration caused her as much pain as it would him. “And so am I.” Later, she told herself. She would give the Sei’Tar the opportunity to cope with the idea, and then she could continue with her plan. First, she returned her eyes to his, wondering at what his reaction would be. Junuam “You’re lying.” Junuam averted his eyes from her expectant gaze and stared at the door, that which Ingrid had stood by close to a lifetime ago. That revelation had sprung a wall between them, and suddenly, he did not want to look at her. A deep sense of loathing filled him, and repulsion filled his chest where her hands still touched him. His world simply came crashing down; all the expectant hopes and purple dreams. He had been sure that he was an upright, virtuous man, trained at the White Tower, trained to fight the Shadow, only to be told that it was all an illusion. Was that why he had been thrown into prison? Had he murdered two innocent men as a merciless Darkfriend on the prowl? Light, perhaps he had really deserved to die. Was he even permitted to use “Light!” in his thoughts? “Don’t touch me,” he growled as he felt her hands move down his chest. The hands retracted in a hurry, and he could feel her reproachful gaze pry the back of his head. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, throwing back the blankets and swinging her legs to the side of the bed. “I shouldn’t have said that. I knew it would be too much, too early for you to handle.” And silence filled the room, not of post-coital bliss but of the antipathy between two strangers. He continued staring at the door. Never in all his despondent respites in that prison had he ever thought this possible. Never. The pressure on the bed lessened and he turned. “Ingrid.” She bent to retrieve her discarded dress on the floor and appeared not to hear. He repeated her name but she simply, nonchalantly pulled the white fabric over herself. “Ingrid, curse the Light! Stop it!” he nearly shouted as he reached over and snatched the dress from her hands, tossing it as far as it would go. He locked his arms around her bare waist and tugged her back onto the bed before rolling himself on top of her, so that he was staring into her face. She looked ready to cry. A fleeting image appeared in his mind. Somehow, he was sure the woman below him had wavy, dirt blonde hair with darker tanned skin, but a blink and the hallucination was gone. Ingrid still lay below him, complete with flawless complexion and dark ringlets of hair falling into her face. And she was beautiful. “You said you’re a Darkfriend too?” he inquired, brushing away the stray tufts of hair on her forehead. Darkfriend. He was, had been, a Darkfriend. It had to be fact – she would not lie to him – but that did not make it any easier to stomach. She nodded. “Then it doesn’t change anything,” he reassured, kissing her on the forehead. Moving his attention lower, he did not notice the smile
creasing her lips. By the time he finally woke up, she was long gone. Shrugging himself into the garments he had worn the day before and splashing water onto his lethargic face, he barely had time to check his appearance in the mirror atop the dresser before making his way down for breakfast. His hair was in a tousled mess; that he could smooth, but the bedding was strewn all over the place. He grimaced. Nobody would think that he could have done that alone in his sleep. Ingrid and her father were already there when he reached the dining hall. Purposefully averting his eyes from Ingrid, he took his place and lowered his head. Tyron was again seated opposite him, and he dared not look him in the eye either. For all the bloody flaming ashes in the world, he did not want to look at anybody of House Lenora at all, not after what he had done. Picking up his knife and fork and handling them with a more adept grace, he had just settled in to catch the tail-ends of their conversation. “…I’ll have to go now then, Ingrid. Be back around noon. You both take care of your…anything wrong, Junuam?” Junuam retrieved his fork from the floor, that which he had dropped with a start. Gathering himself, he glanced furtively at Ingrid, whose visage belied no expression. He had a feeling that the woman had planned it. “No, sir. No,” he grinned awkwardly and lowered his head. No? Of course something was wrong. Once the High Seat left, only Ingrid and him would be left in the manor, discounting the servants. There was a lot of room for something to go wrong there. He dimly heard the kiss on the cheek and the shuffling of footsteps. Then the door clicked and he knew he was alone, with her. He drew in a sharp intake of breath, intensely concentrating on his plate. Ingrid “I don’t bite, Junuam.” Ingrid tilted her head to the side, considering the man down her side of the table. She grinned suddenly – they both knew that, if the desire possessed her, she did indeed bite. The Sei’Tar noted her grin; he clenched his jaw in shame or perhaps simple resignation. Ingrid wondered if he would blush. He did not, but she could not help but feel his unease. Surprisingly, her father’s exit had not lessened his discomfort; apparently he considered it more dangerous to be in a room alone with him than with her father. What, does Junuam expect him to provide protection? Great Lord, Tyron had been the one to suggest their coupling! Ingrid wanted to admit that choice piece of information just so she could see if she could coerce the male to blush. She suspected he would be possessed by fury if she conceded it to be a woman’s bored plotting. Blood and ashes, how would he react when he discovered that he had never been a Darkfriend? Ingrid could only grin in anticipation. “Come sit with me, love,” the Gaidar instructed, purposefully inserting the endearment. The man scowled for a moment, but as if to placate an eccentric, unpredictable person, he did as she bid. Junuam carried his plate of food – almost empty, now, but Ingrid suspected he would fill it as soon as he had taken a seat – with him, clutching it with knuckled fists. Is that his armor? He took a seat across from her, but he dared not look her in the eye. Ingrid shrugged and half stood, leaning forward to spear another piece of ham with her fork. It afforded the Sei’Tar with a delicious view down her blouse. She grinned watchfully as he allowed himself a peek at that bared expanse of flesh before catching himself. Was he always this antsy around woman? Surely he had bedded Isobel; he had seen all of Ingrid, as well; why was he now nervous? Ingrid slashed into her piece of meat with playful vengeance. Conversation was nonexistent as Junuam likewise focused on breaking his fast. Servants came and went without interrupting the pair overly much, though Junuam seemed to glare at their backs as they retreated. A plate of food and servants, Ingrid verified with a grin. What protection. Abruptly she brushed aside the various plates separating her from her companion. Junuam blinked at her, utensils at the ready to eat his vacated food. Before he could object to her unconventional behavior, Ingrid had pulled herself up and over the table to a seated position in front of him. Her legs spread, she pulled the Sei’Tar to a standing position suggestively between her legs. She pulled his head down to connect their lips, and Junuam’s supposed resolve to avoid her contact melted. He clutched at her with the same reckless abandon with which she urged him on; she clung to his muscled frame with a wanton urgency that he seemed to return. Before either of them had a chance to gather their wits, Ingrid’s blouse was fully unbuttoned, Junuam’s hands possessively cupped her breasts, and Ingrid had made an impressive start at freeing the belt from Junuam’s trousers. Junuam’s lips were making a rapid trail down Ingrid’s neck and chest when she was untying his belt and working to free him from his trousers. Typically, it was at this moment when a servant chose to enter the dining hall. “Lady Ingrid, are—” The serving girl’s words were cut short when she caught sight of the scene upon which she had intruded. Her mouth had formed a round O when the pair glanced up to encounter their interloper, who then clutched her skirts and ran from the room as if frightened by a ghost. The mood outlived, Junuam pulled back from Ingrid’s grasp with rapidly reddening cheeks. He sputtered with embarrassment and humiliation. Ingrid grinned at first; quickly her grin possessed to outright laughter that left her lungs panting and tears on her face. Junuam glared at her religiously when she finished, his clothing already stubbornly repaired. Ingrid lolled back on her elbow in much the same position as earlier, grinning at the flustered male. Despite the embarrassing situation, Junuam’s gaze lingered on her still naked flesh, a glazed over look to him that suggested he would not mind finishing what they had started. Ingrid stretched purposefully from her half prone position, taunting Junuam with the goods of which he seemed disdainful. When he refused to take the bait, she sat up and began to button her blouse, but she left a significant portion of cleavage bared for his perusal. “You don’t believe I’m lying anymore, do you?” There was no need to explain to what lie Ingrid was referring. Junuam’s expression darkened slightly, and his jaw clenched in determination. He shook his head resolutely, avoiding her gaze. “Then there is much we need to do.” Junuam blinked at her; an explanation for this was apparently necessary. “There’s more to declaring yourself a Friend of the Dark than a few words, Junuam,” Ingrid continued, rolling her eyes as if speaking to an ignorant child. “And besides, I think I’ve come up with a solution for your . . . dilemma.” Junuam’s eyes abruptly became wider as he considered her words, eagerness obvious in his tense stature. “I think that if you swear your oaths as a Friend of the Dark again, then your memory will return to you.” The Sei’Tar licked his lips and nodded, distracted by the tantalizing thought. Ingrid did not pause to consider whether she was telling the truth. If Junuam’s memory did not return after he had been sworn in, it would not be any great loss on her part. That way, he would never learn that she had lied to convince him to become a Darkfriend, and he would probably stay with her and provide her with companionship. However, the Gaidar half hoped his memory would return – she suspected he would provide her with weary company at best if he remained for too long. Junuam It was almost an impossibility, but distinctly, perhaps it could happen. Perhaps, if he swore his oaths again, that could stoke something buried deep within his mind and perhaps, he would remember. Just the possibility of it happening was tantalising. The prospect of filling that hole in his mind outweighed anything else that mattered to him, and since he had been a Darkfriend, what did he stand to lose from merely renewing his oaths to the Shadow? On the contrary, he was probably even expected to reinforce what he had sworn and pledge once again his allegiance after being clean robbed of that memory. There could be no pitfalls, nothing for him to lose. “You really think it will help?” Junuam frowned, a look of scepticism etched across his features. “I might remember something?” When she nodded with conviction, his mind was made up. The desire to know his past was too much of an opportunity to pass up, even if he was not doing too badly in this place swathed in blissful ignorance. There were the two dead men and a life in the White Tower and Shadow and many other questions unasked, their answers all hidden somewhere within his mind. For weeks he had been a man of no name, no history, no records. Ingrid had called him Junuam and briefed him of part of who he had been, but it was not enough, not by a long shot. “Fine, let’s do it now,” he assented, barely concealing the upbeat in his voice, and raised his hand in avow. “What do I say?” He pouted in dismay and hastily retracted the hand when Ingrid only snickered in response. “There is a ceremony, dear, and that will have to wait until my father returns.” And that was not until the end of the morning. “Then what do we do before—” He froze in mid-sentence, glancing furtively at Ingrid, who had sauntered away. He had a very vivid idea of what she would prefer to do to while away the time, and it was not appropriate, no matter how much it could interest him. There was something terribly awry about a guest bedding the mistress of the house in her own manor, only metres away from the nearest servant. But then, like he had had a choice. She was by the door on the left of the dining hall, the same one which the servant had burst through moments ago in that timely interruption. Even as he watched, she approached him, a smile playing on her lips. He blinked, and his glance fell onto the laden table in front of him. Blood and ashes, they were in the dining hall, not safely tucked behind the private walls of a bedroom. The door behind her was closed. He did not need to try it to know it was locked. Ingrid “You take things too seriously,” Ingrid chided. She suggestively curled an end of her lips upward, her hand straying to the buttons of her blouse. She had already managed to part the tails of her shirt by the time she reached Junuam. She smirked at him, keeping her hands to herself for the next few moments. He looked like a cornered animal – again. Ingrid couldn’t help but wonder why. He knew nothing of his past loves; why was he so timid to accept that which was offered to him? Ingrid prided herself on being just the type of woman that every man would love to own. Perhaps some subconscious portion of him recognized that she was dangerous, that she had always represented a way of life into which he could never stray. Perhaps his heart subconsciously longed for the childish romanticisms he no doubt associated with that Isobel. Well, love Ingrid would not and could not give him, but she could give him something far more tangible and enjoyable. Something uncomplicated and free from the possibility of heartache or worry. Ingrid steeled herself against the onslaught of bitterness, stupidly wishing for Craig. He had understood her, mostly; he had understood her need to love without all the restrictions and worries that came with the typical relationship. Of course, that had not been enough for him, just as it had not been enough for Akuma. Ingrid was the type of woman men wanted to own in secret, a person they never had to encounter outside the bedroom. Men would always run to the women like Akuma’s silly little novice, or the number of women Craig had wooed and maintained for their innocence, the women with whom Craig consorted in Ingrid’s absence. And Junuam . . . Ingrid realized that he was no more than another name on the list. She wasn’t sure what those names represented to her, but she suspected their foul essences. Great Lord, she couldn’t even remember the names of most of the men she had taken to bed! Perhaps they symbolized the beauty she knew would eventually fade. After all, she was nearing twenty six – she was almost an old woman! What would she do when she reached thirty? Or, Great Lord, forty? Great Lord guide me. . . She shook her head from those thoughts and back to the matter at hand. However much Ingrid might dwell on the past and her failures, she never dwelt on her own faults, what few she had. She never doubted herself. And that was probably why she had lasted as long as she had. Great Lord calm me. . . Ingrid practically tumbled into Junuam, forcing him to embrace her. She would force herself to forget. Great Lord give me strength. . . Junuam There was something too casual about her. There was lust in her kiss but no passion. The unspeakable things they did in his room and her dining room were more of a mere ritual than a spiritual fulfilment. It was no consummation of love but a façade of intimacy between strangers, and really, she could have reminded him before she had jumped on him that there were open windows in the dining room. He still felt faint remembering the mortification when he had discovered them. He did not love her, he felt sure. Attraction had been alluring, but he had already had her. Perhaps he felt a little of it at the height of their sex – lovemaking was no term to describe it – but it dissipated quickly when he came down from his high. It was a necessary clause that came with enlightenment. He had to comply with her if he was to learn more of his past, for rejection would sever the link between the only person he knew who could regain his memory. He did not feel guilty bedding her as a tool, however, for he was sure that it was reciprocated. She was too practiced, too refined, too rehearsed, seemingly using him as an object for her pleasure and amusement before she flitted to somebody else. If he did not know better, he would think that she was some harlot plying her trade in a nearby brothel. But then, that was what they said back home: a good wife is a cook in the kitchen and a slut in the bedroom. Junuam sat bolt upright on the grass, his eyes glinting with excitement. Where had I remembered that? Perspiration beaded on his forehead in spite of the cool weather as he concentrated. He had felt it, a knot tugged unloose deep in his mind. He remembered a woman, presumably his mother, a fatherly figure which he somehow knew was not a parent. He probed deeper, eagerly seeking for more. All his senses were alive, tensed and primed, anticipating what he was about to uncover. Pain stabbed into his temples, and he knew that was all he was going to remember. He clutched at his head until it died down to a dull throb, cursing in frustration under his breath. He had been so close, so very near. “Junuam!” He lifted his head from his hands and hastily stood, absent-mindedly fiddling with his shirt-tails. “Junuam, my father is going to return any minute,” Ingrid related, running a hand down his chest. “It is time.” She left the last unspoken, but he knew what it was time for. He was going to swear the oaths, that which would bind him to the Shadow. Slipping a hand around her waist, he could sense the pleasant surprise in her as they sauntered back toward the manor. Appearances had to be kept. Nihad, Dreadlord Bloody rotten job. Nihad hated it. He respected that he had to pay his dues and prove his allegiance and loyalty before he was to be considered for other, more important things. After months of languishing in this bristling chore, however, the respect lingered by a thread. He felt like a simple errand-boy. How else could a title befit a channeller whose only job was to bind potential problematic Darkfriends to the Shadow with a ter’angreal? Great Lord, he had only a little more respect among the Dreadlords who knew of his identity than the gai’shain had with the Aiel. Just two days before, one of those Black Ajah wenches had mocked him through her mask while he bristled under his own, unable and disallowed to retaliate. Then, adding insult to injury, she had left the scene by a Gateway. A Gateway, screw that bitch. Only those high in the Great Lord’s favour could have the privilege to learn to Travel. He probably would not have that opportunity for many years to come. One day, he knew he was going to become great. He was going to become the greatest Dreadlord ever in the Great Lord’s service, perhaps even become one of the Chosen and His trusted lieutenant and aide. He already had the inherent ability; he wagered that no other Dreadlord could fight like him and seek alternative options when the chips were down and the One Power was not of use. All he needed now was perseverance and diligence. And once he reached the pinnacle, he swore he would hunt down that Black Ajah wench and literally screw her over. Stupid bitch. In the meantime, the dues still waited to be paid. Nihad tried to appear dignified and regal as he walked alongside the older man beside him, who trotted his horse. It was easy, having being second nature for him during his time in the Shaido. Another client sought his services on this day, and for once since his first assignment, he was slightly looking forward to this. He did have a little contact with Tyron Lenora from time to time, so this was nothing to get excited about, but he had heard of his daughter, and now he was going to catch a glimpse of her. Associates of the White Tower did join the Shadow, and he had personally converted most of them. What they told him of Ingrid, Head Gaidar, intrigued him. It would be interesting to meet one of the fabled sluts of the White Tower. The banners of House Lenora flapped in the breeze as their entourage stopped in front of the house manor. Tyron dismounted and led the guest in. Nihad followed his client with a swagger. The navy blue ensemble he wore – he avoided any hue that remotely looked like it would fit on the cadin’sor – was embroidered with finery, fit snug over his muscles and set off his pale blue eyes nicely. It was stately enough to impress any nobles he expected to find in House Lenora, and certainly any slut. Tyron was adamant that he leave his spear behind, and he had complied reluctantly. Its absence with him here made him a little insecure, but only a little. At the end of the day, he could channel and nobody else here could. Tyron sent a servant to fetch Ingrid and whatever subject Nihad was supposed to be converting to the Shadow. Nihad then followed his client to a private room. Junuam, the High Seat had said. The subject’s name was Junuam, with a last name. More wetlander thrash. The couple eventually entered, and Nihad raised an eyebrow at the sight of Ingrid. Slut or no, she definitely had the looks to be one. The man who followed her he gave an impatient once-over. A few muscles here and there, maybe a little brain up that dark crown of hair, but he generally resembled what all the recent recruits inevitably looked like: all style and promise with no substance. Still, he was in no position now to question the inclusion of useless Darkfriends in the Shadow. Some time in the future, he would. “I believe we know what we are here for,” Tyron announced when all were seated. “You may begin, Nihad.” Tyron perhaps never noticed this, but Nihad had always considered him a daft idiot. Wetlanders tended to be so. “I would prefer to have less people with me and the subject,” he explained, his tone well rehearsed. Tyron nodded and rose. “We will leave. Ingrid?” The daughter glared stubbornly at the father. Rather cute, Nihad nodded mentally in approval. Junuam was expressionless. Nihad cleared his throat. “She might be useful,” he nodded toward Ingrid. Yeah, she was of much use to this process as a spear in the hands of a Tinker. He wanted her to stay as eye-candy, but he certainly could not voice that out loud. The High Seat looked a little miffed but the door was soon opened and silently closed, leaving only three in the room. If it were not for this stupid assignment, he would order that Junuam guy out too and lock the door. In a few years, he comforted himself. In a few years, he could do whatever he wanted. Brandishing a sphere from his pocket, Nihad held it out to the would-be Darkfriend. The ball was dull red-brown and cold to the touch like a rusted piece of metal. But he channelled a spark into it, so that it suddenly lighted up with a blood-red glow. Now all there was to it was for Junuam to touch the other side of the sphere himself and repeat the oaths he would utter. Then another sliver of Spirit would seal the oath, binding it to the Shadow. The only way Junuam could then get out of that was to find another Dreadlord stupid enough to allow him to repudiate his oaths. “Touch it with your right hand,” Nihad instructed. For the first time since Junuam entered the room, he displayed a little emotion. Uncertainty and hesitation furrowed his brow. Nihad had seen that countenance many times before. Somehow to everybody, touching anything to do with the One Power unnerved the person. Over time, they would get over that indecision, but Nihad decided not to wait. “Ingrid, show him how he’s done,” he suggested, holding it out now to her, bathing her body in the eerie red glow. “A renewal of your oaths won’t do you any harm.” She confidently touched the sphere with her right hand, perhaps attempting to set an example for the man beside him. His forehead creased in a frown, Nihad pretended to see something wrong in her hand’s posture as he readjusted it with his free hand. His touch on the skin of her wrist lingered a little longer than necessary. “Now repeat after me.” Ingrid Ingrid tilted her head and twisted her gaze askance to study the man progressing at her side. He was still as nervous around her as he had been originally, so why was it that he easily perched his arm at her waist? Perhaps he suspected she – or her father – would be angry if he refused to humor her wiles. Tyron found Ingrid’s failures amusing, especially considering how rare they were. Ingrid felt a little guilty that Junuam felt obliged to keep up appearances, but she dismissed the pervasive feeling quickly – she ought to feel guilty for what she was coercing him into, not the pleasure she gave him in bed. And occasionally out. She shook her head dismissively. It was no use. She knew that a good person would not have forced someone to commit their life to something they did not fully understand. She should not have told him that he had been a Friend of the Dark. She should not have taken advantage of him to the point where she neglected to mention the fact that he had a lover elsewhere, that she was cuckolding with full knowledge. Ingrid had made many mistakes in her life. Unfortunately, these were not the worst of them. She shrugged and led him to the Great Hall. The Gaidar had noted his approach and gone for the Sei’Tar before her father had even led his consort into their household. Therefore she hadn’t gotten a glimpse at the stranger, but she was curious. He was the first thing she laid eyes upon when the great doors opened to admit the pair. Tyron and the Dreadlord were seated at two chairs in front of one of the large hearths. A fire roared cheerfully in its depths; it was a chilly afternoon, cloudy enough that even the Shienarens might feel inclined to remedy the situation. The Dreadlord was opulently dressed in an outfit of navy blue; he looked as if he was purposefully avoiding a Friend’s stereotypical black attire. His eyes locked with hers the moment she stepped into the room; he spared a minute glance at her companion before giving her his full attention. Well, I suppose my reputation precedes me, hmm? Amused, she unabashedly returned the gaze. He raised his eyebrow but said nothing. Her father was the first to speak. As expected, he immediately took control of the situation and stirred everyone to action. The Dreadlord finally spoke; from his accent Ingrid guessed he was Aiel. That would make sense, from his light hair, eyes, and extensive tan. She raised her eyebrow and quirked her lips upward – the Aiel were known for their endurance. Ingrid was less pleased with his words, however. “I would prefer to have less people with me and the subject,” he explained, suggestively glancing from Ingrid to her father. She raised her eyebrow further, her slight smile diminishing. “We will leave,” her father immediately concluded, reverting to treating her as if she were still his to command. She pursed her lips and inclined her eyebrow a few degrees further, attempting a stubborn pose. “Ingrid?” It was evidently believable. The Dreadlord, who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself beyond her father’s referral, interrupted, “She might be useful.” The manner in which he eyed her suggested otherwise. Ingrid smirked, fully aware of his reasons for her continued presence. She cast him a quick grin before returning to her previous state of feigned ignorance. This was the part Ingrid did not appreciate. She had become a Darkfriend after leaving Shienar; though she had wanted to strengthen her affiliations with the Dark before leaving, she hadn’t gotten the chance to swear her oaths until she had arrived in Illian after her exile. She remembered the process all too well. It wasn’t precisely painful, but it was anything but pleasant. She wrinkled her nose at the recalled sensations. She had been ignorant enough to believe that the oath rods were used as no more than a ceremonial certification, something that threatened but did nothing more. She had been mistaken. The oath rods actually embedded whatever was sworn into the person; they were physically unable to forswear their oaths. Nihad brandished a sphere that soon began to glow with an unearthly light. Ingrid wondered with a spark of amusement if he expected her to be impressed. She smirked purposefully to defy the man’s desires. “Touch it with your right hand,” he instructed. For a moment Ingrid forgot that they weren’t alone in the room; her thoughts had wandered to the point where any words uttered gained sexual connotations. She grinned when she realized that the man was asking Junuam to put his hand on the sphere. The Sei’Tar hesitated. Ingrid raised an eyebrow and glanced from him to the Dreadlord, but she said nothing. “Ingrid,” Nihad said, his voice more a caress than anything else, “show him how it’s done.” She wanted to do anything but. She’d rather take the Dreadlord to bed, truthfully. Perhaps he could impress her there. “A renewal of your oaths won’t do any harm.” He proffered the ball suggestively. She sighed and did as he asked. The Dreadlord frowned and readjusted her hand, his warm fingers lingering on hers. She raised an eyebrow at him; the exchange went unnoted by the pensive man at her side. “Now repeat after me.” It was Ingrid’s turn to hesitate. She sighed irritably and retrieved her hand from the sphere, placing it instead on Nihad’s hand. He smiled slightly, though it was little more than a curling of his lips. “He’s seen how it’s done. He can swear the oaths now. Can’t he.” It was not a question; it was a challenge. She knew Junuam would rise to the bait in order to prove himself. Nihad nodded, and Junuam determinately replaced Ingrid’s hand on the sphere with his own. “Well then,” the Dreadlord continued, glancing from one to the other. Junuam The way the Dreadlord smugly regarded him, so soon after brushing his hand against Ingrid’s, Junuam had a sense that his courage and manhood were being raised in question, right before Ingrid. The silkily well-dressed man was mocking him, there could be no doubt about that. This was a decision not cut out for impetuousness, but the way events were unfolding, he felt like rushing through his oaths and slamming that ball of glowing light into the other man’s face. That smirk begged to be ripped away. “Get it done with,” Junuam dismissed coolly, staring the other man in the eye, clenching his fingers tight around the sphere. It steadily grew warmer under his touch. He had a feeling that the Dreadlord was heating the ball a little more than it was accustomed to. No matter. All the better for burning his face later. Nihad curled his lips momentarily in a sneer before drawing his face close. The way the red light from the ball cast dancing shadows on his visage, he looked some twisted incarnate of the Dark One. That had to be another of the Dreadlord’s tricks up his sleeve. “By my hope of salvation and rebirth,” he began. Junuam hesitated again. The most powerful oath. It was neither fear nor uncertainty that had stayed his resolve before, but an ominous sense of foreboding. Somehow, no matter how Ingrid told him otherwise, he just could not fashion himself a servant of the Shadow. This was going to be a binding contract. Once he stepped in, with hope of salvation and rebirth et al, there was no backing out. Nihad simply laughed in a condescending manner. On his back, Junuam could feel too Ingrid’s frown, disapproving and worried. Try announcing to them that he had a bad feeling about giving up his soul to the Shadow. They would only laugh at him. ‘By my hope of salvation and rebirth,” he repeated loudly without a quiver in his voice. “Do I pledge allegiance and loyalty to the Great Lord and the Shadow.” Junuam swore that. “I swear to serve the Great Lord’s bidding, and any authority He places above me, without question, without dissent, without doubt. I swear to forsake the Light and toil toward its eventual defeat. I swear to present everything I am and was to the Great Lord for Him to shape what I will be. There is no longer anything in me not enshrouded by the Shadow…” The words, and so many thereafter, seemed to melt into one long monologue. Junuam repeated what Nihad said every time the latter paused, and gradually, the full meaning of what he was vowing dissolved into his sub-consciousness. The sense of…wrongness only intensified. As Junuam’s lips moved meaninglessly to shape the vapid words, he felt his misgivings rise. This was all a terrible untruth. “…Because I am a Friend of the Dark.” Nihad paused again, and Junuam knew it was for the last time. Once he uttered that incriminating quote, it would be final. The doors would shut, and he would be truly meshed in the Dark One’s service. The glowing sphere would make sure of that. The misgiving peaked. There was still time to back out, still that last open door. He could rise from his seat and storm out of the room, pretending that he had never seen a Dreadlord so much as heard of the Shadow. He could follow his intuition, even if intuition sometimes caused the doom of the more deluded. Perhaps he was deluded now, perhaps not. The whole affair simply rubbed him the wrong way. But Ingrid would never lie. “Because I am a Friend of the Dark,” Junuam solemnly declared. And his mind exploded. “It was the Whitecloaks that killed her.” “No, Junuam,” Piran Gaidin corrected him impatiently. “The Children of the Light do jump to hasty, unfounded conclusions and end up murdering innocents, but judging by what you have told me, your mother was different. She minded her own business and kept to herself, and you say somebody put the Dragon’s Fang on your door the night before. It had to have been a tip-off.” “Who would do that?” Junuam answered hotly in disbelief. “If everybody shunned her, they at least did not dislike her.” His demand went unanswered, for as soon as Junuam voiced it aloud, he knew who had done it. The Shadow. Friends of the Dark had borrowed the swords of the Children of the Light and stabbed them into her mother. Flicker There was a man in front of him: a Child of the Light mounted atop a pristine white gelding. Junuam himself held onto an unsheathed sword, dry blood speckled to his cheeks and arms. The other man had a bow and was a safe distance away. Junuam knew that the game was up. Sedror Lucetar would let the shaft fly and give him a slow, agonising death. “You asked why, stepbrother?” the Whitecloak sneered as he raised his bow and drew the bowstring back. Expectant pause. “Because I am a Friend of the Dark.” Flicker The Trollocs came against him in droves, teeth bared and scimitars flashing menacingly. Junuam roared back with the same bloodlust as he danced amongst them, his own sword glinting bloodstained silver in reply and flaming torch defying the darkness. They wanted to mangle his body into pieces and stuff him in their boiling cauldron. Such were the barbarous creations and images of the Shadow. They were here to kill him, and he would resist them to the last. His triumphant bellow tore at the night as he sank his sword into the hide of another hideous Trolloc. Flicker He was literally hanging on to dear life by a thread. Or bare fingers for that matter. His body flailed in the howling gale as he struggled to gain a foothold. The woman simply stared down at him, mocking and shaking with silent laughter. How could he have been so stupid? The truth had always been there; the hints and signs had been subtly dropped left and right. The wool had been pulled over his eyes, but he had only lowered his head to let it cover more. All the while deceived, and all he had had to do was to pay more attention. “Why?” Junuam demanded, trying to buy more time as he desperately sought a lifeline. “Because I am a Friend of the Dark,” the woman
declared proudly, just before he fell. “Why? What why? You are a Friend of the Dark, no why’s about that.” Junuam glanced around the room in surprise. He had never fainted or done anything of that sort, but he had been so immersed by the images in his mind that he had forgotten he was still in the eerily lit room. With Ingrid. With Nihad. With Darkfriends. Nothing had changed since he departed on his mind trip. No, everything had changed. He remembered. And as the last few days caught up with him, he felt an impulse to retch. Ingrid, her eyes still wide in concern after receiving no response to her inquiry, reached for him. DON’T TOUCH ME, Junuam howled in his mind as he shirked away. But aloud, “I’m fine.” Had she heard everything? Or only the ‘why’? He had to have voiced the last aloud, but judging from the puzzlement on Ingrid’s visage and the wording in her statement, that was all he had said. Idly, he realised that both predicaments were similar, both him befuddled and tossed around by tarty, scheming women. But this was worse, far too worse. At least that had only been death. He stumbled backward, adding as an afterthought, “Actually, I don’t feel too well. Must be something I ate.” He left before either of them could respond and shut the door behind him. His semblance of strength and normality no longer necessary, he stumbled blindly down the corridor. He had not been entirely lying. He did feel faint, and a repulsive sensation tingled his insides, so he felt a strong predisposal to vomit. His whole body quivered with disgust. The world and Pattern, as he knew it, had collapsed. He had become one of them. Nihad chuckled silently as Junuam fled the room. He had won, there was no doubt about it. But Ingrid had risen after the weak-kneed coward and was making for the door, and that would not do. “Leave him,” Nihad instructed as Ingrid paused. “They get a little queasy sometimes. The weak ones all do. “On the other hand, I,” he continued smoothly
as he placed a leg atop the table, “never broke a sweat when I swore
the oaths.” His confusion gradually died down and before long, Junuam had found himself of sound mind to rationalise what had befallen him. Logic and reason had soon given way to rage and hatred. He wanted to pull his hair out by the handfuls, gouge out his eyeballs and rip out his innards. He was that repulsed by himself. He wanted to scream and shriek and murder the first person that was going to step into the room. That last suited him just fine. After what had to be eternity crouching in the shadows, the door finally sidled open, and Junuam watched as the woman entered the room and slammed the door behind her. He should have known, should have stopped it all before it was too late. Her sheep’s wool no longer deceived him, but it was too late. Ingrid, whore of a Gaidar. It was no inaccurate rumour that accused her of sleeping her way to the top. He had seen her before many times from afar, and scoffed at who she was. When she had finally shirked her duties as Head Gaidar, he had not missed her. He would not miss her either after she was dead. He leaped and pounced her as she walked in, shoving her onto the bed before sitting on her sprawling back. She could be more skilled in fighting than him, but he was heavier than her, and for now, only the latter mattered. Reaching unceremoniously for the dark curls of her hair, he yanked her head back toward him by an iron grip as his other hand, holding Ingrid’s sword, directed the blade to her neck. Its edge froze and quivered millimetres from the white of her throat. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you here and now,” he hissed, increasing the pressure on her scalp. Ingrid Lenora Despite herself, Ingrid tensed as the process began. Nihad seemed immune to the tension permeating the air, but Ingrid could not ignore the tension aligning Junuam’s rigid stance, or the way he unconsciously clenched his hand over the Dreadlord’s sphere. He hesitated as Nihad began to utter the words which he was to echo. Nihad laughed, finally submitting to the atmosphere’s strain, but Ingrid could only frown. Part of her wished this over and done with. She recognized that there was little to no chance of the forces of the Light conquering over those of the Dark. She also knew that this path to power was no more volatile than more traditional methods; there was no irrefutable evidence that she was wasting herself in serving the Dark Lord instead of more mundane lords. This path was significantly easier, as well. Few had the courage to pursue dark allegiances, while all desired the power of the lesser lords of the world. Darkfriends did not have to utilize death, destruction, and mayhem to meet their ends, either. Their methods could be just as savory as those of those who trod in the Light, if such means could be called acceptable. Junuam was not the type of man to take his allegiance to the Great Lord too far; Ingrid knew he would employ a good amount of decency and honor when going about his duties. He was no worse off than if he were to travel beneath the Light. The rest of her recognized the futility of her excuses. Yes, this was the better path – but no one deserved to be forced upon it. Even Ingrid had chosen to pledge herself to the Dark One of her own volition. Junuam was, too, after a fashion, but the facts which influenced him in that direction were faulty, if not outright false. Those thoughts considered all in a few moments’ time, the oaths began. Junuam seemed to have regained some sense of himself as he repeated Nihad’s words. He continued to speak them and Junuam continued to endorse them for what seemed an interminable amount of time. Finally, they were concluded with a few simple words: “Because I am a Friend of the Dark.” The world stilled and came to a pause. For a moment any interloping noise was muted. Junuam’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he considered the magnitude of his commitment. His mouth fluttered open and shut for a few moments as he physically imitated that disbelief, his body shuddering slightly as the oaths set in and took control of his mind. Nihad lounged back indolently, no doubt accustomed to a person’s reaction to this sort of thing. Ingrid felt his eyes on her skin; it prickled as if at the unexpected touch of his fingertips. She jerked her head from Junuam to the Dreadlord and back again. “Why?” Junuam finally exclaimed, his voice taut with resigned fury and confusion. Ingrid’s eyes widened as she prepared herself for the onslaught of his reaction; nothing came. Nihad responded with something akin to sadistic amusement. Junuam gathered himself at the response and abruptly stood, muttering something a bit too late about an upset stomach. Ingrid stood as he retreated from the room, unconsciously knocking her chair prone to the ground. She glanced uncertainly at his withdrawal before she was reminded of the Dreadlord’s proximity. “Leave him” were the only words that Ingrid paid any mind to. She noted the man’s braggart tone, but she hadn’t the strength to formulate a response, flirtatious or otherwise. She simply left, even with Nihad’s protests echoing behind her. The Shienaren would have fled after Junuam immediately, but a firm charge around her arm steadied her to immobility. Ingrid bit her lip and turned to wrest herself from the stranger’s grasp. It proved to be her father. His light eyes gleamed threateningly into her dark ones as she pursed her lips in irritation and attempted ineffectually to pull her arm from his grip. His will matched her own as he unceremoniously dragged her through the halls of his manor in the direction of his study. There he flung her inside and entered as well, sealing the door with a purposeful slam. She felt like a ten year old pulled before her father for a lesson on the consequences of disobedience as she stood there beneath his stern regard. He crossed his heavily muscled arms over the expanse of his equally muscled chest, an eyebrow raised in imperious questioning. She felt the ridiculous urge to burst into tears and rush to his embrace, but she tossed her hair from her neck and lifted her head determinately, blinking to clear her vision. “That wasn’t right,” she explained unnecessarily. She knew Tyron would know full well of what she spoke. “And what are you going to do about it?” Leave it to him to confront her with reality. She paused, uncertain. There was nothing to do. Junuam could only forswear his oaths if a channeler was stupid enough to provide him with an oath ter’angreal and allow him the opportunity. No Dreadlord in their right mind would do such a thing. Junuam was stuck as he was, and there was no way Ingrid could make that better, no matter how much her conscience protested. In stubborn refusal, she squared her shoulders and sped past her father, knocking him aside in the process of exiting the room. This time, he neglected to impede her path – he let her go where she would. She progressed straight to Junuam’s chambers. He would not leave without an attempt on her life; of that Ingrid was sure. He would be waiting for her approach there. She nudged the door aside and peered at his horizontal figure on his bed. Before she could make sense of his action he had leaped at her and pinned her beneath him, the tip of her sword pressed threateningly to her throat. His weight sank her down into the bed and almost hindered her ability to breathe, but Ingrid only tightened the closure of her lips and endured it as he spoke. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you here and now.” He tugged at her hair more, baring her throat to her blade’s caress. Wouldn’t that be ironic, her mind had the chance to utter, if I were to die by my own blade. . . “Because that would only solidify your allegiance,” Ingrid spat. She lunged and arched her back in a sudden burst of strength, overcoming even Junuam’s hefty weight. No longer atop her, he snarled as he struggled to fasten his hands around her throat, her sword having been knocked from his grasp, but it was to no avail. She moved like a thing possessed, slithering away from him and then pouncing him as he had her. She wrapped her legs around him – had she more time, she would’ve compared the action to that of nights previous and found it incredibly amusing – securing him below her. Her hands, however slim, clawed at his face until they locked around his neck. He spat up at her face while his legs kicked furiously in an effort to dislodge her. Her feminine flexibility came to her advantage as she evaded each lunge. He did not settle easily, but finally he went limp in her imitation of an embrace. Ingrid panted in her triumph, her hands twisted and tightening around his throat. His breath took on a slight wheeze as he strove to breathe past her grip. Finally, she spoke. “Get out of my house, Junuam,” she instructed, her voice a low hiss. “You disgust me.” She knew he would’ve said the same had he the breath with which to do so; she also knew that she would’ve deserved it. “Remember that if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I can tell everyone that you’re a Darkfriend, too. I can show them that the Great Lord has marked you. You cannot get away from it, and you know it.” She paused and studied him for a few moments, a small smile curling her lips. “You could be great.” With that, she sprung from atop him and exited the room.
She did not look back. He did not stop her. Junuam Junuam glared daggers at the door through which Ingrid had vacated the room. Once again, he had failed. Once again, that harlot had bested him when he had struck with the element of surprise. Granted, she had been Head Gaidar, but he was already deemed fit to be Gaidin. Surely, that circumstance made him adequately qualified to defeat her when she did not expect him? But defeat was not what afflicted him most. What gnawed at his insides was the realisation that if Ingrid had not countered and simply laid there at his mercy, he would not have had the strength to kill her. He knew that he would glare at her, try to flick his wrist and ultimately fail. She had, after all, saved his life mere seconds from the gallows only the previous morning, and he could not commit the deed against a fellow human being, defenceless and disadvantaged. Killing her in that scenario would only make him Darkfriend, in name and in soul. He was a Friend of the Dark now in nothing but name, but that was solely enough. That ter’angreal held him subjugated, and the process was irreversible. A nice ruse Ingrid had set up for him, and a fine little pickle she had left him. As scathing as her threat had been, he realised that it was the truth. If he let the cat out of the bag and unmasked her for who she was, she would let her cat out of the bag. Between new Gaidin and ex-Head Gaidar, it was not difficult to see whom the support of the masses would end up with. Would he even be Gaidin now? How long had he been away from the White Tower? A week? A month? Had he trained all these years to have everything destroyed by that two-faced wench? Had the Amyrlin, Keeper of the Chronicles or any Aes Sedai in the Tower ever been aware that all this while, a Friend of the Dark had been mingling in their midst, with every Gaidin, every trainee under her thumb? Bitch. No normal people would believe that he had ever lost his memory: the crowds that had filled the execution square of Ankor Dail had belied as much. Ingrid had, but she was not normal. She was a Darkfriend, vagrant and whore all rolled into one insidious conniving bitch. As good Alell was Head Gaidar now. Or perhaps she was too a Friend of the Dark? For the first time in his life, Junuam realised how far the Shadow had spread, how long the shadows of darkness had grown while the Light remained oblivious. Blood and bloody flaming ashes, the Shadow had even taken him prisoner. Junuam finally rose from the bed, doing up a button of his shirt that had come loose during their scuffle. As he popped it back in place, he felt his world spin even faster as more of the situation at hand came crashing down upon him. How had Isobel been coping all this time while he had been sidetracked by this detour? One week or one month, she had to be worried sick by now! And…and…he grimaced. He had not been raped – males would never be on the receiving end of that – but he could think of no other word that could aptly describe what Ingrid had done to him. That nymphomaniac had permanently, irreversibly tainted the purity of his love for Isobel. Isobel would never listen, whatever the circumstances had been, if he was going to admit to have slept with another woman. Ingrid had probably even relished it, pulling the wool over his eyes and flat-out lying to his previously amnesiac self that he had had no other paramour. But no, Isobel would not hear of this; he would simply keep his mouth shut. Nobody would ever have an inkling of what had befallen under the roof of the profaned manor of House Lenora. Preparing to leave, Junuam’s attention was caught up by the sight of Ingrid’s sword, which lay forgotten on the bedroom floor. He sneered. He would need a sword for his return to the White Tower. Bandits and pirates lurked around the next corner on every route that led from Shienar to Tar Valon, and a sword would be paramount to ensure his safety. Ingrid had thrown his into some nondescript river leagues from here. He retrieved the heron-mark blade from the floor and sheathed it into its scabbard. It would be scarce payment for what she had done to him. He was going to return to the White Tower, whether they accepted him as Gaidin or not, and he was going to train like he had never done before. One day, he would be back for revenge. He would challenge her to a duel, and he was going to kill her with her own sword. He was returning to the White Tower. Within the sanctum of the infallible Shining Walls, he would find a way out of this mess. It was a miracle that he was still alive after all that had happened to him in the Blight and Shienar, but that was not enough. As he left the manor, he took his first steps toward certain redemption. Somehow, he would renounce the Shadow. Somehow, he would get on with his life as if this had all never happened. Somehow, he would find a way.
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