The more senior Asha'man, of course, rarely sweated at all. It would take these lads more practice to get that down while concentrating so much.
"Good men," Androl said, standing up and glancing over them. Androl laid a hand on Jaim's shoulder. "You lads are doing a fine job here. The Two Rivers, it grows men right."
The lads beamed. It was good to have them, particularly compared to the quality of men Taim had been recruiting lately. The M'Hael's scouts claimed they took whoever they could find, yet why was it that most they brought back had such angry, unsettling dispositions?
"Mästet Genhald?" asked one of the soldiers.
"Yes, Trost?" Androl asked.
"Have you . . . Have you heard anything of Master Logain?" The others looked hopeful.
Androl shook his head. "He hasn't returned from his scouting mission. I'm sure he'll be back soon."
The lads nodded, though he could see that they were beginning to worry. They had a right to. Androl had been worrying for weeks now. Ever since Logain had left in the night. Where had he gone? Why had he taken Dónalo, Mezar and Welyn three of the most powerful Dedicated loyal to him along?
And now there were those Aes Sedai camped outside, supposedly sent with authority from the Dragon to bond Asha'man. Taim had given one of his half-smiles at that, the kind that never reached his eyes, and told them the group from the White Tower had first pick, since they'd come first. The others waited, impatiently.
"The M'Hael," one of the Two Rivets men said, expression growing dark. "He- "
"Keep your heads on your shoulders," Androl interrupted, "and don't make waves. Not yet. We wait for Logain."
The men sighed, but nodded. Distracted by the conversation, Androl almost didn't notice when the shadows nearby began creeping toward him. Shadows of men, lengthening in the sunlight. Shadows within the trough. Shadows of rocks and clefts in the earth. Slowly, deviously, they turned toward Androl. Androl steeled himself, but couldn't dispel the panic. This one terror he could feel despite the void.
They came whenever he held saidin for too long. He released it immediately, and the shadows reluctantly crept back to their places.
The Two Rivers lads watched him, discomfort in their faces. Could they see the wild cast to Androl's eyes? Nobody spoke of the . . . irregularities that afflicted men of the Black Tower. It just wasn't done. Like whispering dirty family secrets.
The taint was cleansed. These lads would never have to feel the things that Androl did. Eventually, he and the others who had been in the Tower before the cleansing would become rarities. Light, but he couldn't understand why anyone would listen to him. Weak in the Power and insane to boot?
And the worst part was, he knew deeply, down to his very center that those shadows were real. Not just some madness concocted by his mind. They were real, and they would destroy him if they reached him. They were real. They had to be.
Oh, Light, he thought, gritting his teeth. Either option is terrifying. Either I'm insane or the darkness itself wants to destroy me.
That was why he could no longer sleep at nights without huddling in fear. Sometimes he could go hours holding the Source without seeing the shadows. Sometimes only minutes. He took a deep breath.
"All right," he said, satisfied that his voice at least sounded in control. "You best get back to work. Keep that slope moving the right direction, mind you. We'll have a mess and a half to deal with if the water overflows and floods this area."
As they obeyed, Androl left them, cutting back through the village. Near the center stood the barracks, five large, thick-stoned buildings for the soldiers, a dozen smaller buildings for the Dedicated. Right now, this little village was the Black Tower. That would change. A tower proper was being built nearby, the foundation already dug.
He could visualize what the place might someday look like. He'd once worked with a master architect one of a dozen different apprenticeships he'd held in a life that sometimes seemed to have lasted too long. Yes, he could see it in his mind's eye. A domineering black stone tower, Power-built. Strong, sturdy. At its base would be blockish square structures with crenelated tops.
This village would grow to become a town, then a large city, as vast as Tar Valon. The streets had been built to allow the passing of several wagons at a time. New sections were surveyed and laid. It bespoke vision and planning. The streets themselves whispered of the Black Tower's destiny.
Androl followed a worn pathway through the scrub grass. Distant booms and snaps echoed across the plains like the sounds of a whip being cracked. Each man had his own reasons for coming. Revenge, curiosity, desperation, lust for power. Which was Androl's reason? All four, perhaps?
He left the village, and eventually rounded a line of trees and came to the ptactice range a small canyon between two hills. A line of men stood channeling Fire and Earth. The hills needed to be leveled to make land for farming. An opportunity to practice.
These men were mostly Dedicated. Weaves spun in the air, much more skillful and powerful than those the Two Rivers lads had used. These were streamlined, like hissing vipers or striking arrows. Rocks exploded, and bursts of dirt sptayed into the air. The blasting was done in an unpredictable pattern to confuse and disorient foes. Androl could imagine a group of cavalry thundering down that slope, only to be surprised by exploding Earth. A single Dedicated could wipe out dozens of riders in moments.
Androl noted with dissatisfaction that the working men stood in two groups. The Tower was beginning to split and divide, those loyal to Logain shunned and osttacized. On the right, Canler, Emarin and Nalaam worked with focus and
dedication, joined by Jonneth Dowtry the most skilled soldier among the Two Rivers lads. On the left, a group of Taim's cronies were laughing among themselves. Their weaves were more wild, but also much more destructive. Coteren lounged at the back, leaning against a leafy hardgum tree and overseeing the work.
The workers took a break and called for a village boy to bring water. Andtol walked up, and Arlen Nalaam saw him first, waving with a broad smile. The Domani man wore a thin mustache. He was just shy of his thirtieth year, though he sometimes acted much younger. Androl was still smarting from the time Nalaam had put tree sap in his boots.
"Androl!" Nalaam called. "Come tell these uncultured louts what a Retashen Dazer is!"
"A Retashen Dazet?" Andtol said. "It's a drink. Mix of mead and ewe's milk. Foul stuff."