Still, they nodded to him as he passed. Most of these were among the men who had been recruited from the Two Rivers. Sturdy lads and men, eager, though many were on the young side. Half of them didn’t need to shave but once a week. Androl walked up to them, then inspected their work, eyeing the line of string he’d tied to small stakes. He nodded in approval. “Angle is good, lads,” he said. “But keep the sides steeper, if you can.”
“Yes, Master Genhald,” said the one leading the team. Jaim Torfinn was his name, a spindly young man with dusty brown hair. He still held the Power. That raging river of strength was so enticing. Rare was the man who could release it without a sense of loss.
The M’Hael encouraged them to keep hold of it, said that holding it taught them to control it. But Androl had known seductive sensations somewhat like saidin before—the exhilaration of battle, the intoxication of rare drinks from the Isles of the Sea Folk, the heady feeling of victory. A man could be swept up in those feelings and lose control of himself, forgetting who he was. And saidin was more seductive than anything else he’d experienced.
He said nothing to Taim about his reservations. He had no business lecturing the M’Hael.
“Here,” Androl said, “let me show you what I mean by straight.” He took a deep breath, then emptied himself of feeling. He used the old soldier’s trick to do that—he’d been taught it by his first instructor in the sword, old one-armed Garfin, whose heavy rural Illianer accent had been virtually incomprehensible. Of course, Androl himself had a faint Taraboner accent, he was told. It had faded over the years since he’d last been home.
Within the nothing—the void—Androl could feel the raging force that was saidin. He grabbed it as a man grabbed the neck of a horse running wild, hoping to steer in some small way but mostly just trying to hold on.
Saidin was wonderful. Yes, it was more powerful than any intoxicant. It made the world more beautiful, more lush. Holding that terrible Power, Androl felt as if he’d come to life, leaving the dry husk of his former self behind. It threatened to carry him away in its swift currents.
He worked quickly, weaving a tiny trickle of Earth—the best he could manage, for Earth was where he was weakest—and carefully shaved the sides of the canal. “If you leave too much jutting out,” he explained as he worked, “then the canal flow will stay muddy as it washes away the earth on the sides. The straighter and more firm the sides, the better. You see?”
The soldiers nodded. Sweat had beaded on their brows, flakes of dirt sticking to their foreheads and cheeks. But their black coats were clean, particularly the sleeves. You could judge a man’s respect for his uniform by whether or not he used the sleeve to wipe his brow on a day like this. The Two Rivers lads used handkerchiefs.
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?
“Master 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 Donalo, 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 Rivers 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
