The rattling rain hitting the top of the roof like a drummer’s sticks was slightly muffled by the celebrating flames in the hearth as they consumed each log with dancing glee and vile greed. A metal against metal sound accompanied the dull drumbeat from above their heads as the blacksmith’s heavy stroke in a constant rhythm kept on working. Outside one or three people at the time took the risk to sprint over the muddy roads through the heavy cloak of water to the protective walls on the other side meanwhile making their way home from work. In a vain attempt to protect themselves against the cloudburst jackets and shawls were held up over their heads. None succeeded as the rain soaked them into the bone in the manner of seconds. It was late afternoon and the threatening clouds that had earlier been seen by the horizon day had finally caught up on these city dwellers that darted like mice back and forth in the maze that was Tar Valon. Now and then a soft thunder could be heard rumbling far, far away in the same direction of the lonely mountain that rose high up from the flat land surrounding it. Its peek was constantly covered in misty clouds but today it seemed as half of its might had disappeared into the vomiting storm that threw its lighting over the plains. Hopefully it would not reach the island and its inhabitants.

Inside the smithy the smell of oil, firewood, and heavy metals mixed with the natural scent of horses ad straw. Four stalls were lined up next to each other on the southern wall, two of which was taken by two mares; both of them resting peacefully meanwhile waiting for their owner to pick them up. Considering the weather he might take a while. A large hearth was placed in the middle of the room and shaped in a circle so that at least five working stations could be occupied at the same time without interfering with each other during a busy day. On the western wall there was horseshoes, wheels, naves, scrapes, belt knives, bread cutters and other tools for the home up for display and sale. On the other wall, the eastern one, the true masterpieces were hanging in neat orders. They were the tools Master Vard so carefully picked up and caressed lovingly in his callused fingertips before weighing it carefully in his hand to see if it was just right for what he intended for it. The floor was well swept; the tools in proper order in accordance to size and kind from whatever Melan could discern with her little knowledge concerning the art of forging metal. Master Vard knew his business, and performed it well. The very reason to why the Shienaran had sought out his assistance in the first place, and the siswai could not help but feel fascinated when watching the man go to work. It was almost like a dance the way the blacksmith transformed a chunk of metal into a piece of art. Literally it was.

Today however the blacksmith had been challenged to work with a material he was not so used to; silver.

Master Vard usually worked with "black" metals, especially iron and did rarely take upon him any job that involved other, softer, material. Especially since such work required another sort of expertise than what he had. However, the job this young woman, whom was now sitting silently in the corner so not to disturb him, had asked for was far too intresting for him to say no to. The history behind the piece, or the actual matter that it was supposed to immitate, facinated the old ox to such an extent that he could not take the risk for another smithy in the city to take it. It was stardust for tales and legends, he would later tell his children, and then his children’s children when he grew older. He would tell them about the day a woman, Master Vard would swear she did not look a day over two dozen years, turned up knocking on his door as if the earth itself had sprouted her on the call by the rain. She had moved with the same feline grace Master Vard would claim, the same way he had seen those Warders that followed their Aes Sedai around like wild wolves mastered to heel. It was not exactly the same, he would then correct himself as if an after thought had struck him, it was different, more floating and not as powerful.

“Will you help me, Master Vard,” she asked in a voice far too serious for someone so young. Her eyes were like topazes dipped in milk, her skin smooth as the surface of a resting pond during the lightest midsummer night, her face molded by some fairy elf from another sphere and with hair like translucent silver. “So she was beautiful then, papa?” His youngest would always ask. “Beautiful? No, not beautiful my dear princess. She was what a man would call average pretty, if that even.” Master Vard would answer meanwhile affectionally ruffling his third daughter’s hair. “She just had the look of someone special, that is all, as if she was born out of he elements of a sort. Perhaps it was just the particular weather that got to me that day… Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. So when she told me what she wanted I could not possibly deny her.” Master Vard would always chuckle softly at this point in the story and say something about how he might have made a impact on legends to come. “Imagine that,” he would repeat, “Imagine that…”

A hadori made out of silver with the mark of the Ki'sain in the middle.

That was what the lithe Shienaran had come for that night in the beginning of her seventh year in the Tower. A hadori was only worn by men of the ancient Malkieri as a headband, given to them to signify the day they entered manhood. This one was going to be decorated with a small stone in the middle to represent the Ki'sain . The dot that women of Malkier painted in their forehead to represent their marrital status. The hadori was going to be wrought out of the very core of the Mother; out of metal and silver it would be made to forever show anyone that saw it that she stood ready to once again be embraced when her time was over and to be an eternal reminder of the foul lie she had lived on cover of for six whole years. In fire it would be forged as the shame she carried proudly consumed her from within. The red Ki'sain would stand for the marriage between her and the promise she had made herself for so long that had pushed her this far; the oath that fed the desire that raged inside of her; the passion that forced her to keep on going. To work harder than anyone else. To go a little further than anyone else. To take it just another step, just one more than anyone else. Together the hadori and Ki’sain would represent her honor, her failure, and her never-ending strife towards glory.

At first people would probably think it strange that a woman not from Malkier would choose such a thing to immitate. That it was strange and odd and thus not acceptable. Yet the Shienaran had chosen something from a neighbouring nation long since swallowed by the Blight because nothing else would stand for what she wanted this piece to symbolize in a better way. She had done it because of the same reason an Atha’an Miere would tattoo his or her clan into their own skin so that everyone could see it. The same reason why men and women of the Aiel fought over the silly notion of ji’e’toh until their last breath, blood feuds that could last for hundred of generations. For Melan it made complete sense and represented reason beyond questioning. What other country were there more legends and songs spun around concepts of virtuous living, honorable fighting and with a prideful end? An end that forever wrote their name into the memory of man? Did all of that not stand for exactly what this yong woman herself had always dreamed of?

The siswai’s eyes refocused on the blacksmith whom was now heating pieces of wrought iron in the forge until the metal got soft enough to be shaped with his tools. Heating it was accomplished by the use of the large forge in the middle of the room that was now radiating heat like the burning sun. At times the young woman had to turn her gaze away to protect her eyes from the crazed inferno fueled by coal and firewood. It was admiring that the blacksmith himself seemed not even to notice what for Melan was on the verge of painful even from a distance. Now and then Master Ward would remove the piece he had chosen and employ a blowtorch for more localized heating. Color was apparently important for the blacksmith as he often took the piece out and measured it with his gaze, not that Mel knew this but the color of the metal indicated the temperature and workability of the metal. As iron is heated to increasing temperatures, it first glows red, then orange, yellow and finally white. When it reach a yellow-orange color the large beast of a man grunted to one of his apprentises that he could take it himself from there and sent the young lad home. As Master Ward worked it quickly to a rough half mooned shaped piece he now and then quenced it in oil, and then water, and then oil again. The purpose of quenching is to produce rapid cooling to generate specific microstructures in the metal. A quench from a bright red or orange heat generally results in steel that is hard and brittle, so a second process, called tempering, is usually done to increase the toughness of the piece and reduce its hardness. The blacksmith wanted the piece to be as hard as possible, yet he needed it to be soft when he worked it. It was a tough balance on a razors thin edge and it took years to learn this proffession yet decades to perfect it as Master Vard had.

Meanwhile watching the old man work the siswai leaned her head back in patience and thought about the things that had transpired that had lead her up to this very moment. It was one particular day that represented the very climax of her life that pretty much summarized everything since leaving the peaceful town Shol Abela and her family. Well, as peaceful as any town in Shienar ever could be anyway. The word peace itself was hard to apply to it. Her smoldering gaze continued to observe every movement of those muscular arms and broad chest as her mind started to distance itself from her body. Unseeing eyes followed how the sparks danced through the air before dying out long before they hit the ground in the chill air brought by the rain outside. The sparks seemed to be of every hue imaginable within the range of fire; hot red, illuminating orange, golden yellow, and blinding white. It was hypnotizing watching them over and over again shoot out from underneath Vard’s hammer, and follow their flight in the air and fight before giving in and, eventually, die out. Slowly she lost herself into that deadly dance, allowing the sparks to become her whole world and slowly pull her back in time. It had been a long struggle, these last six years since arriving to the Tower dressed in nothing else but rags and owning what could be kept in a little bundle slung over her shoulder. For six years had she thought that she had them all duped, but it had showed just a few days ago that she had been oh so wrong.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Being nervous was something Melan rarely was since she had grown used to the idea about living on the edge of existence as she had the last sex years of her training here at the White Tower. Well, on the edge of existence might be a slight exaggeration yet nevertheless it was how it felt for someone when every time one took a bath one risked that someone one knew walked around a tree and thus discovered who one really were. That this someone would then betray one to the authorities, authorities that had the power to ruin everything one had ever dreamed of, everything that one had worked for and so strongly desired. Perhaps for someone this way of living could indeed be compared to a life dancing on the very edge of existence if this someone could understand the dire need to pursue one’s own dreams no matter what it would cost one and not show any consideration for the risk for complete public humiliation that would threaten to take away the only thing a woman or man can call their own; their honor.

Today, however, Melan was nervous, and rightly so. Today was the very day she was going to come clean about her background, about who she really was. Today was the very day she was going to go face to face the legendary Mistress of Arms, Filaree Hashan, and the very woman whose reputation was spreading far and wide over the known world. Today was that very day, and Melan was indeed nervous. Hands that usually were confident, that were calm and quick in action were now tugging at the shirt to make sure it was straight, brushing of imaginary sand corns from clean pair of baggy breeches or raking through straight, platinum hair when imaginary winds ruffled it. Feet that had started their long journey on becoming a master, or mistress in Mel’s case, in stealth and would confidently carry her on into many future battles were now hesitant in their otherwise so smooth stride. A stride that for every day came closer to that of a Warder’s but which carried another tone of grace, more like the mountain cats instead of a wolf’s.

What if she will reject me? What if she ignores me completely? What will everyone say? It was not the fact that people would be talking that worried Mel, as it worried her best friend and partner in crime Michael. What will become of me? No, it was the fact that there were people out there that she had either straight out lied to, or allowed them to be fooled by her appearance instead of correcting them. Pretending to be a young boy instead of the young woman she now as at twenty-three years. What will I do with myself if she forces me to leave? That fact, that she had lied, would always, no matter what the outcome here would be, stain her honor. A fact that had been clear for her that day for six years ago when she had landed at the Northern Harbor in Tar Valon; dirty, hungry and thirsty for adventure. What will I do? Can I leave Michael? Rakein? Nei? Should I seek a living in Tar Valon? Or will I be forced to leave? Honor was the only thing a Shienaran had when they were striped of everything else like Melan Chulien had, even though her loss had been a volunteer action. She had freely made the choice to strip herself of her name, leave her family, abandon her country and come here as a poor refugee seeking protection and training under the mercy of the White Tower. What left will there be for me if she takes this away for me? But what else do I deserve? Left behind all that was lost was the core that could be found in every man, woman and nursing babe of the Eastern Borderland, the core that kept them together as the last wall made out of flesh between the rest of the world and the Shadow that never rested. And even that, which was the most sacred, had been fouled by her own stubbornness not to be give in and be treated differently compared to the male siswai that came there for training. Oh Light, I pray forgiveness for all my sins though I knew perfectly well what I was doing from the beginning and was ready to pay the price…Does that make me an even worse person!? And now when the day to pay is here, please give me strength to hold on, to not budge and falter. In the Light I pray for forgiveness.

Those dreams about glorious battles that had brought here in the first place had been born in front of the fire when young. The reality of war was as far from glorious, that had been told to the young girl many times as she had listened in awe to her grandfather’s tales. War was brutal, ugly and raw. Far from honor and virtue, he would say at first meanwhile describing in whispers of the nightmares that would face a man on the battlefield. Her mother would, if she heard any of those details, shush them both and warn her father for putting any ideas in the children’s heads. “But then,” he would whisper when his only daughter left them alone again, his eyes watery of tears at the memory of his past life and comrades that he had left behind a long time ago, “Then, after a triumphant victory against an army who’s might no one thought could be conquered, that is when everything you have seen and done is made into nothing as people will sing your leave for Ages to come.”

“A legend you will become and immortality will be yours,” here her grandfather’s hand would clasp hers and in his hoarse voice explain to his grandchild the horror of every man. “An ordinary man can always hope that he one day will have children, children who will honor his name and praise his leave. And his children will one day have children of their own that will remember his name, but then, what happens then? After two, at the most three, generations your name will be erased out of the wind young Melan, and the dust after that the Mother has once again embraced you spread over the earth itself in a thousand directions.”

“Immortality can only be won where honor is found and where kiserai reigns.” The ancient word seemed to hum with a power of its own as the silence would take them, and the sparkling fire in the background shine in their identical eyes. Before he would leave for the night, her grandfather would lean over and kiss her forehead and tell his daughter why she could not have made Melan a boy instead, like the other two. “This one, at least, has her head where it should,” Mel’s mother would only shake her head and mumble something about crazed old soldiers not knowing reason from the song of the wind before going back to her own business. As his daughter would leave them alone to make their good byes the siswai’s grandfather would lean down to hear and ask her in a grave tone. “Now, who better but a Shienaran to know honor, Melan?” And before she could answer he would giver her another kiss on her forehead and whisper, as if it was the most secret secrets of the world; “Carai an Shienar”, and then leave.

Every night after her grandfather had come to visit her those ancient words would ring in her ears; over and over again she would murmur it until sleep took her. Then her dreams would take her into a world beyond worlds; where women were allowed to take up the sword and fight for what they believed in. Fight to gain a place of recognition and fame, a place among the legends and heroes where kiserai would be given.

Now, here at the White Tower, she fought what those dreams had made her decide to do in vain hope that it would help her further in her training. Sure, there were women among the trainees today. Many of them in fact. Even the Mistress of Arms was a woman for the Light’s sake! When counting all of those facts and measuring them into the calculation it was still no doubt, at all, in Mel’s mind that women would either get a harder or, what she feared even more, a softer treatment by the Warders and other male trainees. No matter which one she would receive it would be an obstacle in her path to a place among the heroes in the legends and a part of the immortality it promised. All she wanted had been a fair treatment and not to be looked upon differently, whatever the cost. And as reality had showed it had taken a hard toll on her inner self for living under such false pretence.

The setting sun was shining at the back of the platinum haired siswai, giving her a ironic illusion of a halo as she entered the house that was the office of the Mistress of Arms, nodding shortly to the man seemingly at ease on the outside. Hashan Gaidin had been one of Mel’s first teachers and had seemed to grow a certain fondness for the young lad that had been so powerless against the larger and stronger trainees the first two years of the Shienaran’s stay here at the Tower. Regardless of the number of trips Hashan had sent Mel Chul, the name Melan had taken since arriving, to the Infirmary he had never ceased to go hard on the boy or try to teach and guide him. If someone fed such a strong spirit and dared to dedicate himself or herself to such a rate as Mel, he said, then they were worth the effort no matter how worthless they seemed at first. Unfortunately that was not the opinion among all her teachers. Many had asked ‘him’ as the lithe siswai had worked hard to keep back tears of humiliation as ‘he’ crawled back up on all his four, spitting blood through her teeth, if ‘he’ was ready to go home now? The answer had only spurred Mel to work harder, more diligently and put even in more time of whatever spare time they were given to perfect herself within the various areas of mortal combat taught in the White Tower’s training for future Warders.

Today she would find out if all her hard work was going to pay of, or if nothing mattered and Filaree Hashan would live up to her reputation to be a hard and ruthless leader for her pack here behind the protective Shining Walls. Sky blue eyes darted around the waiting room and pink lips let out a soft sigh of relief when discovering no one else was there. Take a firm grip of your heart young pup before you are about to go fight the bear! Michael’s last words seemed to echo from within. Who knows, you two might be sitting over a cup of tea sharing stories about how awful living with all us smelly, snoring and shortsighted men are before dawn! Well, one thing could be said about the Taraboner, and that was that he did not like seeing reality for the crudeness and certain tendency to slap you in the face when you least of all need it. Michael always seemed to see the good side of things, always focusing on the most positive outcome and always, always, always joking when others would advice for a more serious nature.

knock

knock

knock

The famous three knocks and as a response she heard a voice calling from within. Melan opened the door, took a firm hold of her heart, sent a short prayer to the Light about forgiving her lies and other sins she did not know of, before stepping in and carefully closing the door behind her. Slapping her fist to heart the Shienaran then bowed gracefully as a lower rank soldier would salute his General in her home country; directing her forehead towards the Mother and voicing her loyalty. “In the Light, I greet you Filaree Hashan, Mistress of Arms of the White Tower. Gaidar of Lislea Sedai of the White Ajah. I have come here to ask permission to speak freely and to ask for forgiveness.” After that short, and very traditional greeting though leaving out her own name, since that was a part of her ‘speaking freely’ part Melan stood in attention; her eyes directed forward, back stiff and heart pounding.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That meeting had brought many unexpected things to her attention. Two of them stood out from the other however. First of all was the mere fact that Mistress Hashan had known about her identity all along and been hoping that she would gather herself together and see reason. The second thing that had drawn upon the siswai’s attention was the notion concerning honor that the Mistress of Arms had brought to her attention. Those words now echoed inside of her with the same rhythm as Master Vard’s hammer struck the steel beneath it. The light of the flames illuminating the outline of his heavy set body.

”Your sense of honor is a good trait to have, but honor can sometimes hold a person back from their true potential. The men who are too honor bound to do their duty properly will not make it far in battle. One must do whatever it takes to protect this Tower and their Aes Sedai. Melan, you have the potential to be a great Gaidar, a dedicated Gaidar, one who would make her Aes Sedai proud. Your sense of honor is admirable, and I would not force you to cast aside who you are for the sake of your advancement. What I tell you, I tell you for the sake of your own survival when you're out there on the battlefield. The enemy will do whatever it takes to kill you or your Aes Sedai, and you must do whatever it takes to keep her alive. The honor lies in the fact that you would have given your life to save that of your charge. I don't expect you to foolishly sacrifice yourself, however, but sometimes we have to make that choice."

Those words had left the young siswai restless for many night after they had been spoken to her. Honor, justice, vice and virtue was things ingrained in the young woman since her early childhood by her parents, near family, neighbors and every part of their society. It was what made Shienar what it was, made them capable to survive, at least to Melan’s steadfast belief. She had herself since arriving to the Tower discovered a newfound passion in reading, and learning and thus enjoyed the few classes her teachers allowed her to participate in with the Novices and Accepted. Under the jurisdiction of the Sisters of course. More than once, whenever she had time to spare apart from her extra training, the platinum haired siswai could be found in the Library devouring over books that showed great thinkers ideas in a whole new perspective. Some of them she had taken to herself, others she had pondered upon before moderating a little bit, picking them apart a little bit before choosing a thing or two that she approved of or even liked before leaving the rest for the garbage it really was. From this personal interest of hers principles, priorities and a waken mind for what was right and what was wrong had formed.

“Honor”, Melan had once tried to explain to Rakein, “is built upon the foundations of virtue, and virtue is something learned through constant practice that begins at a young age.  Where we try to learn excellence… You know, like a good horseman can exhibit excellence in horsemanship without necessarily implying any sort of moral worth in the horseman. It should be obvious to anyone that excellence in horsemanship cannot be learned simply by reading books about horsemanship and hearing reasoned arguments for how best to handle a horse. Becoming a good horseman requires steady practice; one learns to handle a horse by spending a lot of time riding horses. Excellence by habit, you see!” Yet there were so much more to it since the complexity of the idea otherwise left so much room, room in which thoughts like the ones Mistress Hashan had sowed would otherwise be capable of grow root and start expanding in.

Melan was convinced that there always was a way ‘in between’ to be found when it came to honor; a way between vice and virtue that was precisely right and thus righteous. For example was the notion of courage. Saying that courage is a mean between rashness and cowardice does not mean that courage stands exactly in between these two extremes, nor does it mean that courage is the same for all people. Rather, we need to approach matters case by case, informed by virtue and a fair dose of practical wisdom. So in the case of Mistress Hashan the Shienaran would have to say that she had to disagree, and agree as the same time. In the Mistress of Arms’ situation it was rational that the woman would think that honor might be holding a Warder back under certain particular circumstances to do his job well. It was rational since Filaree Hashan’s background was so different from the one Melan herself had grown up in. It all came down to the notion of habit that had been described to Rakein in the example concerning the master horseman. Habit was created by your parents, by the people around you as young, and not by yourself. Mistress Hashan had revealed for her young student in a moment of confidence that her own background was not so pretty, so simple, and had demanded a whole other perspective of the world to keep her alive. Melan’s habit was on the other hand to always do the righteous thing, no matter what, had been possible because of her surroundings.

For her own peace of mind the Shienaran had decided to live by the code to always treat one’s enemies with courtesy, because the she would see how valuable it really is. It costs little but pays a nice dividend; those who honor will be honored. Politeness and a sense of honor have this advantage; we bestow them on others without losing a thing. Melan believe that she has honor if she holds herself to an ideal of conduct though it is inconvenient, unprofitable, or dangerous to do so no matter what the circumstances were. It did not matter what. If she would sow virtue, then she would reap honor. Reason and logic however told her that the problem was that in battle, just as Mistress Hashan had claimed, other men did not care of such notions so there would be backstabbing, betrayal, and innocent getting injured because they happened to be on the wrong place at the wrong time. And in battle she would walk in the future if an Aes Sedai would her choose to Bond. What Aes Sedai then would take upon her a Warder that believed so strongly in a concept larger than their own life that it would in the end endanger both their lives?

Either way, she had made up her mind. Mistress Hashan’s advice had in the end benefited the Gaidar’s student in more aspects than what the Warder could have possibly imagined when first giving it. To be able to be true to herself, and to her beliefs both religiously and philosophically, the Shienaran had decided that she would fight fair and be righteous. For the honor of Shienar she had to. There was no other way. If that would end in her dream never to be fulfilled; to never walk among the legends of old and know that her name would be sung forever among the fires of the world’s nations and never be forgotten, then that would be it. It was more important that honor was kept and vice fought against with claws and teeth than for her personal success to be achieved. But Light help her and know that she would work three times as hard from now on to be able to find away, to make a place, where a honorable way of fighting would be equally as successful as with dirty tricks and devilish inventiveness was. That was the only way she would ever be able to repay her sins and lies may the Light save her soul.

“It is done.”

Melan jerked by surprise from hearing the man speak after hours of silence. For a moment there she most even have dozed of. A short glance in the direction where the northern wall should have been, but where only a long opening out to the road could be found, told her that it was late after lights out for the trainee in the barracks. The rain was still a thick veil between her and whoever might be out there; the only difference was that now a heavy darkness had been added to the equation.

“Try it on.”

The diadem was as comfortable as a headband would have been as it fitted around her brown with a delicate smoothness only a master would have been able to accomplish. It was barely a fingerbreadth wide, light and cool at touch. The piece seemed to be as hard as the steel in the Warder’s blades, as delicately wrought as a piece of art and with the same exotic shine as a Lady’s jewelry. Or it would have the same shine after that she had polished it since spots of oil and charcoal still smeared its surface. Not something she would be able to wear when hiding from enemies’ eyes, yet perfectly in accordance to her description.

“I added this,” Vard said in his harshest voice and pointed on a piece that elegantly flowed out from the middle of the brow where the Ki’sain had been imbedded into the metal, the extra piece curved into a soft S-curve. “It will help you to easier attach it to your belt when you can’t use it, you won’t be able to wear it underneath a helmet however. Now, what did you want those inscriptions to say?” Melan felt with her hand over the front of her forehead where the symbol for her oath, honor, dreams and hopes was. The piece was perfect. With steady hands she took it of and handed it back to Vard meanwhile following him over to his work station where small tools that must have been three times harder to make than her own piece considering their small size and spectacular carving. The older man handed her a clean handkerchief and gestured towards her forehead with a hint of a grin on his marred lips. Smiling softly back the lithe woman cleaned her forehead and handed back a handkerchief that would be of no more use.

“I can use it for polishing,” the blacksmith grumbled meanwhile taking a seat and gesturing for her to sit down on the chair opposite to him. “Now, what did you want it to say on the inside of the diadem?” The Shienaran looked at him in an expressionless way before responding in a calm yet careful voice, pronouncing the words for the first time out loud and thus unused to the very sound of them and the way they curved her tongue.

“Mordero daghain pas an duente cuebiyar. Tsingu ma choba. Carai an Shienar, Kiserai n’Mahdi.”

All it earned her was a blank look from the blacksmith, who just calmly laid down his pen unconsciously meanwhile leaning back in his comfortable chair. The blank look turned slowly into a sharp one as a light started to dance in his eyes, a dangerous light. “You will have to write that down to me, since I can’t spell it myself… What does it mean anyway if I may ask?” The siswai, whom had been prepared for this, drew out a piece of paper that had been carefully folded and tucked away earlier that day in her pocket meanwhile being in the Library. “The translation is not exact, not the first part at least, but it goes something like this…” Her eyes looked down on the paper before tossing it over to the blacksmith, daring him to read it himself, and as if fearing that the blessing, or spell, might receive more power if she said it in her own language. The man only looked at the paper once, on which the inscription was written in both the Old Tongue and in his own.

“Bloody worth writing on any piece of metal if you ask me. Whatever it might mean to you, lass.” With that he went to work to perfect this masterpiece, which’s strangeness would never leave his mind for the rest of his years to come. “What did it say papa, what did the note say?” His children would ask him every time he would tell the story, the same thing their children would ask him when they heard it over and over again. “It said,” the old ox to man whispered as if in conspiracy, looking over his shoulder towards the other grownups as if making sure that they were not listening and thus making all the children lean in closer. “It said in the ancient language, now only spoken by the great and the dead, by the Aes Sedai and their legendary Warders…” Gnarled hands from decades of hard labor gesticulated to underline the importance of his words and had little ears on perk up almost like a little pup’s meanwhile the eyes bulged with interest over such mastery of magic. Master Vard would then, when their interest was on its peek, and their breath kept in by fright to miss what was then going to be revealed, in a mere whisper that did not carry far in front of the warm fire of his house, say;

”Fear of death holds none of my heart. I am unworthy. For the honor of Shienar, the Glory Seeker.”