A Dark Path Homeward

 by Aelric Calrillian

12 August, A.D. 1998
Disclaimer & Acknowledgement

This story is based on the milieu found in The Wheel of Time® series authored by Robert Jordan and published by Tor® Books. The characters found in the story were created by the author or by members of the Netland White Tower (NWT), an internet based, role-playing site. The story is intended to be for entertainment purposes only and in no manner to be construed as an effort to infringe on the commericial rights or copywrite of Tor Books or Robert Jordan.

The author wishes to acknowledge Maihgread Sedai for suggesting the idea of having Darkfriends involved with the removal of Aelric's soul from Tel'aran'rhiod. He also thanks her and Rillian for their technical help in proof reading, though any remaining grammatical errors are his responsibility. Thanks are also due to Jascha Sedai and Cadrien Sedai for offering to convert this "short story" into HTML format.

The author likewise wishes to thank all those NWT members who graciously allowed me to put words into their character's mouths. He hopes that he has done so in a manner that does justice to their own vision of their character's persona. He also apologizes to anyone who was not included that might have liked to have been. His only defense is that the story may well have reached 100 pages in length had he attempted to do so.

Finally, the author hopes that any technical criticisms of the peculiar crossbow design mentioned in the text remain private. This is a fantasy story, and while some modest attempt at realism was made in considering the weapon, it seemed unnecessary to be rigorously concerned about its feasibility.

Prologue

"But how do you know it will work with a circle of only six each?" demanded Paliamihn. She found it difficult to divest herself of the habits of rational doubt instilled during years nominally spent as a sister of the White Ajah. And though she and Temrain were now openly members of quite a different Ajah, Paliamihn still found herself thinking of the former Brown as a bit flighty in her thinking. Temrain's eyes narrowed slightly, as she was all too aware of Paliamihn's arrogance. "I don't know that it will work," she retorted, "but it is apparently the Great Lord's will that we make the attempt. Besides", she added with a grin that held a pleasure born of malice," Idhre is the most powerful amongst us - will you test your power against hers?" Temrain's eyes alit with satisfaction as a glimpse of Paliamihn's fear escaped her normally rigid control - no woman of the Black Ajah willingly crossed the disciple of Semirhage, from whom, it appeared, she had learned all too well the power of pleasure and pain.

"Still" said Paliamihn, in an attempt to restore her dignity, "why go to this amount of trouble and risk to bring back the spirit of a dead Warder - particularly one who foiled that attempt to assassinate the Sitter for the Green Ajah? Surely there must be trained warriors among the Friends of the Dark who could serve in this mission." Deciding then that there was nothing to be gained from baiting Paliamihn further, Temrain explained: "As I'm given to understand, the subject will retain certain aspects of his memory and combat prowess, but his will shall become the Great Lord's. The body the Myrddraal has supplied us with is that of a Saldaean soldier and is physically fit for the spirit that we shall summon - or rather that the Great Lord will summon. What better weapon to infiltrate the White Tower than one with a Warder's skills?"

Temrain broke off suddenly as she felt the channeling of saidar and simultaneously saw from the corner of her eye a horizontal line of light rotate into a gateway. The scene behind it was one of a blasted and dead land, the sky a whirling, putrid vision of ochre colors - the steps of Shayol Ghul. Stepping through were three other sisters pledged to the Black Ajah followed by six Myrddraal - their eyeless faces pasty white even in that unnatural light. Lastly came Idhre herself, a woman who instilled fear before her in measure not far less than that of her sadistic former mistress.

Closing the gateway behind her, Idhre let her cold glance wander about the room. The furniture of the farmhouse had been unceremoniously pushed against the walls creating enough space for the thirteen occupants of the room. Through the windows could be seen the night-shrouded rolling hills of remote northwestern Saldaea. "Is the receptacle prepared?" Idhre asked. Temrain and Paliamihn both nodded, pointing to the body laid out on a black marble slab, the shimmering of a saidar-wrought cocoon about the body clearly visible to the six women present.

"I shall explain," began Idhre condescendingly, "lest there be any misunderstanding of our intent here. It was Semirhage who discovered long ago that a circle of thirteen women and thirteen Myrddraal could turn anyone who could channel to the Great Lord of the Dark. Six however, is also a number of potency for our Patron. I believe that though our subject could channel in life, he will be weak enough at the moment the Great Lord's power infuses his spirit into this foreign body that our circle of six sisters and six Myrddraal shall be able to bind his will to that of the Great Lord's. And thus shall he be made the perfect instrument to bring down that pretentious woman who dares to call herself the Amyrlin Seat! I will show them just how weak they are and what real power is like." Idhre's eyes had taken on a frosty light and it was reflected in the other women's as well, each of whom hated all things Aes Sedai and who lusted for the power that would be granted to those who brought low the Great Lord's foes.

"Let us begin then, for the moon has waned" she said, after a moment's pause. The six Myrddraal unsheathed their black shadow-blades that gleamed coldly in the chill Saldaean night. They formed the circle of twelve about the naked male body lying atop the makeshift obsidian altar, alternating female and shadowspawn. "Great Lord of the Dark, O'Lord of the Grave" intoned Idhre, beginning the unholy rite, "grant us your authority to carry out your Will … call forth from his place of watching, that one of your enemies named Aelric Calrillian to infuse this body … bind him to your service … send him forth to slay those who oppose you …

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The first rays of the sun touched a farmhouse in northwestern Saldaea. None of the sounds that could be heard, the mooing of the hungry milk cows, the passing of a buck and his does through the slowly melting snow, or the wind through the evergreens, gave evidence of the power that earlier had brought such an unearthly stillness to the surroundings. As the sun rose higher into the eastern sky, its light entered through the windows of the dormant farmhouse alighting upon a man's figure lying upon the scuffed wooden floor. As the first glint of light touched the man's face, his eyes opened - pale green and oddly troubled.

The Awakening

The man who called himself Careil looked up at the sign of the inn that read The Dancing Cartman. Appraising his own mud splattered and poorly patched clothing, he hesitated for a moment until he realized that the other denizens of the town known as Four Kings who entered or exited the place were no better off in appearance than he himself was. The Dancing Cartman was no different from many other such establishments found throughout the world; a common room with a straw-strewn floor, large fireplace, and heavy, crude wooden tables and chairs. Careil seated himself in a corner, his back to the walls. The choice seemed natural and yet he could not be certain from whence the inclination arose - like so many things. The pale green eyes that met the bored look of the serving girl were abstracted as he ordered a mug of ale.

Four weeks and more, he had been wandering since his awakening - at least that was what he called it - opening his eyes to find himself in an isolated farmhouse, naked, and apparently alone. Apparently, because upon exploring the house, he had found the bodies of an older couple and two young girls who would have just been entering adulthood. They had been dressed in the simple clothing one might expect of rural folk. Some part of his mind seemed to recognize these people and yet any emotion or conscious thought concerning them seemed to be nebulous, never quite taking a coherent form. He had found clothes in the house that fit him - another oddity. Had he killed these people? There appeared to be no outward sign of physical violence on their bodies. That vague part of his mind rebelled at the notion and then suddenly, a dark and sibilant voice whispered in the silence of his thought that is was his destiny to kill, but in another place, far away. And when this voice spoke, there seemed to be no will to resist it.

More people were entering the tavern now. He watched them all with a measured, but casual look. A few were obviously locals, but more and more of the later patrons were, like himself, associated one way or the other with the merchant caravans that passed east-west between Baerlon and Caemlyn or north-south between Lugard and the Andoran capital.

In addition to the clothes, he had found a simple, but serviceable sword in the farmhouse. Wielding it seemed oddly familiar and yet not quite right somehow. Certainly, his hands were thickly callused and, though his body was well muscled and limber, the sword forms - where did those words come from? - he executed seemed off balance somehow and yet to perform them seemed as subliminal as blinking. The voice spoke again in his mind, telling him to move southward. He was troubled by his obedience to the voice, but any thought of resistance was crushed as it was formed. He recalled taking passage on a riverboat named the Silver Crown that was southbound on the river Arinelle. Why had the captain allowed him on board when he had no money to pay for his passage? Clearly, the hand signal that had arisen unbidden to his mind had meant something to the taciturn sailor; Careil had sensed the man's sudden fear.

Following the impulses set in his consciousness, Careil traveled in the Silver Crown as far down the Arinelle as Whitebridge in Andor. While on board, he had use of a mirror to aid his ablutions. Each day, he would look at his own pale-green eyes and wonder who he was and why, on occasion, it seemed that deep-gray eyes looked back at him. Their gaze was troubling, for it seemed as if they were pleading for something. Though the black color of his hair seemed fitting and natural, its short, military-style cut did not. Most troubling of all however, was a patch of white that seemed to grow from his forehead just over his left eye. It hadn't been there when he had awakened, yet now the new growth of an inch or so was pure white. The voice in his mind spoke sharply whenever he thought about that lock of hair and Careil sensed anger, mixed with chagrin behind the voice's admonitions.

Careil left the Silver Crown at Whitebridge; the ship's skipper seemed relieved to be rid of him. He had found a merchant train heading east to Caemlyn and had offered his services as a guard. His 6'2", 210 lb frame quickly proved his capabilities to the handful of ruffians who were providing security. Though he didn't understand how he knew on any intellectual level, he was aware now that he was, or had been, a soldier and his daily practice with the sword has eased the initial awkwardness he had earlier experienced.

"Hey you! Yeah, you there. We're talking to you!" intruded a voice. Careil looked up from his half-finished mug of ale to see three burly and none too clean individuals standing before his table. While he had been recollecting over the last few weeks, the tavern had quickly filled up and entertainment in the form of a lutenist had begun. Oddly, and perhaps foolishly given the immediate circumstances, in the back of Careil 's mind was the thought that the musician was quite amateurish - and how did he know that? "This is our table you're sitting at, so we suggest you leave while you can still walk," bellowed the most obviously drunk member of the trio. Looking coldly at the belligerent leader, Careil asked softly, "you say you're a regular here? Well, is there anyone here who can set broken bones? No? A pity that is, since you're going to require such a person if you don't find someplace else to make trouble." A moment of doubt crossed the face of the bully who was all too used to having his own way in these parts and not encountering resistance. The liquor in all three however, sealed their fate as one of their members pushed away the table and lunged for the stranger in their midst.

Unfortunately for this first ruffian, pushing away the table only provided room for Careil's foot to fly upwards, connecting just under the man's ribs, simultaneously knocking out his breath and propelling him backwards into his comrades. The other two disentangled themselves just in time to intercept Careil's fist with their chins - with predictable results. The laughter of the other patron's at seeing the three flat on their backs unfortunately led to affairs becoming more serious. The leader, and biggest fellow, dragged himself to his feet drawing a dagger from behind his back. The other two looked doubtful for a moment, before drawing their own weapons. Careil looked at them with contempt, unsheathing the sword that had remained unseen lying upon the bench beside him. "Leave while you still can," said Careil, both giving them a chance to flee and assuring that they would not. It took a few seconds for the three to work themselves up to it, but then with a bellow, they attacked.

"My apologies for the mess," said Careil to the tavern owner. Taking out a few coins and depositing them into the astonished man's hands, he continued: "this should make up for whatever damages you've suffered." The voice in his head dripped with malice as it spoke of the joy of the kill and the pleasure of power. Disturbed, and yet unable to deny the authority of the voice, he walked out into the night and looked north before heading back to his room for a few hours sleep, not knowing that his eyes were directed to the still far distant city of Tar Valon.

Arrival at Tar Valon

The first sight of Dragonmount brought with it a peculiar feeling of familiarity and homecoming. Before Careil could ponder these emotions, the voice within him began its usual dark utterings. In the past few days, the voice had begun making hints and suggestions of glory to come - if only Careil would submit his will and worship the voice. One one occasion, Careil had tried to fight the voice, making an attempt to assert his own identity, thought he wasn't at all certain just what that identity was or had been. He learned then that the voice could do more that make suggestions; the pain was as if his flesh were melting from his bones. He had opened his eyes when it was over, fully expecting to find his skin horribly burned, but to all outward appearances he was unharmed.

The city of Tar Valon came into view slowly, for the Ogier-wrought marble towers and causeways were visible from far away. Dominating all else, save for the massive peak of Dragonmount to the west, the White Tower stood forth over the city, like a finger of the Creator pointing towards heaven. He winced as the voice conveyed its displeasure at this image. The man beside him looked askance, noting how Careil seemed to have odd fits from time to time. Careil cleared his mind by looking back at the other wagons, all bearing casks of wine from Illian. He had joined the merchant Jonash in Caemlyn. It should have bothered Careil that Jonash seemed to recognize the same hand signal that had bought him passage on board the Silver Crown, but that thought, like so many others, simply wasn't allowed to develop.

It was late afternoon by the time their half-dozen wagons entered the small village of Alindaer. They slowed as they approached the southermost bridge over this, the western branch of the river Erenin. The guards here were members of the regular army of Tar Valon and they dutifully examined Jonash's papers before allowing him and their cargo to cross the great bridge into Tar Valon proper.

As they made their way to a warehouse to unload the winecasks, Careil felt something peculiar happening in or to his body. His stride became lighter, balanced on the balls of his feet. His whole body felt fluid and loose, yet seemingly prepared to unleash itself in an instant. A few hours of labor saw the unloading of the wine casks after which Jonash paid off the wagoneers and other two mercenary hirelings. Looking penetratingly at Careil, he said, "I think you'd best come with me. There's an inn where Friends like us may find welcome." Careil didn't think of Jonash as a friend, but it was also clear that Jonash hadn't used the word in the usual manner. Careil followed him at the urgings of the voice, now somewhat used to its obscure promptings.

The inn to which Jonash took Careil was called Natiah's and seemed outwardly to be no different from a half-dozen or so others that they had passed. The inside was neat and sober, a far cry from the typical drinking establishment usually found near dockyards and warehouses. The innkeeper clearly knew Jonash, though he remained circumspect. Careil took a room and quickly went to sleep. It had been a long day and he had a premonition that a storm was just beginning to build.

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The dream came upon him with an preternatural clarity. It was all the more odd because he felt as if he were walking in a dream, in a world of dreams. And this body was not his own, was it? Though there was no objective means by which to measure, he felt that he was shorter by several inches and proportionately lighter. He wished that he could view himself, when suddenly before him appeared a full length mirror. Somewhat shocked at this seemingly miraculous manifestation, another part of his mind assured him that HERE, such things were to be expected. Looking at himself, he saw the deep gray eyes that had peered back at him before. His hair was long and held in a tail at his neck by a beaten silver ring set with green stones. He wasn't surprised to see the full and long streak of white hair.

Without warning, he felt himself bound by an overwhelming power; its touch was cold and malicious. He sensed himself reaching for a source of light with which to defend himself, but his effort was blocked somehow as though a thick sheet of glass separated himself from the pulsing source of illumination. As he struggled, a thin, seemingly endless black thread attached itself to his body like unto an unearthly cephalopodic tentacle grasping its prey. The world about him spun around and seemed simultaneously to rush past, leaving an uncanny notion of travelling a great distance in space and, perhaps, even in time. This continued for some unimaginable instant before Careil realized that he was being forced into a kind of cell. Not a physical room, but some allegorical place of holding.

His eyes would not open physically, but his mind's eye could see about him figures at the edge of shadow. Twelve of them it seemed, some of which were garbed as dark as the blackest night, holding coldly gleaming swords. It was curious that they seemed to have no faces. A voice he could hear, a woman's voice, one that would have been beautiful in song save that it now held the cadence and timbre of the echo within a dank crypt. A vague image of her came unbidden; she was surrounded by light, similar to a nimbus, yet this vision offered little comfort, rather just the opposite. Then the voice came to him, and the fear and loathing he had known before towards the unknown woman became as nothing, and all went dark.

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Some point later in the night, the voice returned to him, explaining what he was to do. A certain level of excitement filled him even as he slept. Tomorrow, he would seek to enter the White Tower as a Warder.

Wolves Enter the Fold

The practice yard was alive with the sound of the clacking of practice swords, the heavy breathing of men's exertions, the occasional cheer of a victory, or the oaths that accompanied a blow received. Garic Lisown Gaidin, Warder to Cadrien al'Muir Sedai, was overseeing the day's training. His implacable face was all the Warders-in-Training (WiTs) needed to know about their performance. Little was Garic consciously aware that his expression mirrored that of the Warders who had charge of his own training years before. Indeed, for countless centuries had Warders passed down to successive generations the combat skills and code of honor and of dedication that they themselves had received. Garic's musings over the shortcomings of the current crop of "newbies" - as he thought of them - were interrupted by the approach of Madic Nasir, Ashandarei to the Tower. "Garic," he began, "I want you to take a look at this fellow who just showed up today." Nodding his assent, the two men wandered over a ways to where a half-dozen or so of the Katanas stood together, a bit apart from a man of fair height and build, wearing clothes and a cap that had seen better days. Sizing up the newcomer, the warrior in Garic immediately noticed the wary eyes, the light-footed stance, and even the way the man held the practice sword at rest, point down in a firm, but relaxed grip. Madic had mentioned the man's name was Careil and had already quickly defeated two of the Katana's in one-on-one combat.

Calling out the names of three of the WiTs, Garic's eyes met Careil's and stated bluntly, "let's see what you can do, lad." The man nodded gravely, then began to dance. Garic was somewhat disturbed by what he saw. Certainly, some of those who came to the White Tower were already fair swordsmen and the three Garic had selected were among the more proficient of the new crop. This Careil moved with a style and grace that was curiously reminiscent of … something. Very slight errors either in reach or in balance however, so small that only a expert would notice, seemed to imply that the man hadn't fought in some time. Shaking his head to clear his mind of a feeling of deja vu, Garic set his face to impassiveness as Careil made fairly quick work of his three opponents.

As the contest ended, Garic called a rest. "Where do you come from, Careil," Garic asked? A peculiar look came over the man briefly, almost one of pain, before he replied "Saldaea, Garic Gaidin; northwestern Saldaea." Garic noted the unfriendly stares being directed at the newcomer by the other WiTs, but Garic suspected the man was safe enough, all things considered.

Excusing himself, Garic went off to find Janus Kirin, the Master of Arms, at his desk, clearly unhappy to be bogged down in the paperwork that accompanied high office in the White Tower. Janus hesitated only a second or two before taking up the excuse to postpone his administrative labors. "Don't think that I don't appreciate the excuse to get away from that, Garic," laughed Janus, "but its not the usual routine to notify me about a newcomer." "No, its not," agreed Garic, "and its not just that this man is good, but, well, if didn't know better, I'd say he's been Tower trained. I thought perhaps you might recognize the fellow," trailed off Garic with a clouded expression. "There's more to it than that, though, isn't there," inquired Janus discerningly. "Yes," agreed Garic, "but I can't quite put my finger on it."

As they approached the still rather tense group, Garic noted the slight negative movement of Janus's head signifying that Careil did not appear to be someone whom he recognized. The look on Janus' face brought the six young Katanas to attention. Garic observed that Careil stood in an attitude of respect, but not that rigid subservience one might expect of one in the role of a new recruit. As Careil nodded affirmatively to Janus' query regarding his readiness, Janus looked at Garic and said flatly, "why don't you see what this fellow can really do?" Nodding grimly, Garic tested a few practice swords before selecting one whose balance and weight pleased him. Garic felt wary, but confident for as a seasoned Warder and a blademaster, he could easily have handled the three-on-one situation earlier. As the two began to test one another, it became clear to Garic that they were very evenly matched, albeit that their styles were dissimilar. Those peculiar miscues of Careil's allowed Garic to score slightly better, though neither man was able to deliver a critical blow in the five minutes before Janus called time. The feeling of something both familiar and yet terribly out of place was all the more poignant to Garic now than before. His body had responded as though this fight was one in a long line of such contests.

"Well," said Janus, breaking into Garic's reverie, "I think you've certainly earned a place here in the Tower as a Warder-in-Training, Careil. Don't believe for one instant however, that your skills will prevent you from all the duties required of any entrant to the Warder training program. Apply to the Training Master for a room."

Walking away together, Janus looked at Garic for a few moments before saying quietly, "I don't know why, but I agree with you. There was something vaguely familiar about his fighting style, but I can't put my finger on it. Still, we can't turn away good talent. We'll find out soon enough whether he has the mettle to become one of us. It takes more than a good sword arm to become a Warder."

Later that evening, as Careil walked towards his newly assigned quarters, distantly aware that he had walked these grounds hundreds of times before - before what? - he looked up to where he knew were the quarters of the Amyrlin Seat, the Tower framed against the moonlit sky; and a faint tear appeared in his eyes.

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That night, the innkeeper of Natiah's was going about his usual rounds, assuring himself that his patrons were well fed and well entertained. His eye was caught by the entrance of three women. Outwardly, they appeared to be of modest, though secure means. That particular curl to the one's fingers though - Great Lord! - was a sign of one very highly placed among the Friends. Attempting to hide his sudden fear, the man walked over to them. "Three rooms, together," pre-empted the apparent leader; the one's whose hands had passed the recognition sign. Even without that proof of her authority, the woman's eyes compelled his obedience. The order would require some rearrangement of rooms, but he had the sure feeling that to cross this woman's wishes would be to invite the worst kind of disaster. "Of course, er, mistress," he finally replied when his throat had regained some trace amount of moisture. "This way, please," and so saying, he turned to lead them to their rooms.

The woman's eyes looked at her two companions with no apparent outward emotion. Earlier questioning of the innkeeper had confirmed that their subject had arrived in Tar Valon and had left just that morning for the White Tower. Of course, the man would recall nothing of their questions. Turning to look out the window, and the view of the moonlit Tower it afforded, she allowed herself a brief moment of anticipation as her mission neared its climax. Soon, the White Tower would be decapitated and in the resulting chaos would the Great Lord of the Dark strengthen his grip on this world. The rewards that had been promised would be hers - she shivered in contemplation of the pain and the pleasure to come.