A New Way of Life

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Hadar
Posts: 1
Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2012 3:07 am

A New Way of Life

Post by Hadar »

Huh. Gray.

Hadar was walking down a long hall on the fifth floor of the White Tower, which was lined with windows on one side, to Hadar’s right, and doors on the other.

The morning sky was gray and neither dark nor bright.

The doors led to apartments in which Aes Sedai of the White Ajah lived, with whom Hadar had no business. He was going to the spiral staircase at the southern end of the hall. Hadar wondered how it had been built: Although it seemed to be made of stone like that which could be found in many a building, it had seamless railings, which spanned seven floors.

You’re in Tar Valon, and you’re wondering how a staircase was built.

Outside, mist-like rain was falling at such an angle that the outer sides of the windows had barely been wet.

Hadar smiled: It’ll be cool out, and I’m certainly not going to miss the blinding sun.

Sunlight reflected by a sword could effectively blind a man for a moment, which Hadar knew how to use to his advantage and avoid, but he would not be sparring this morning.

The tactic was not very honorable; but neither is killing.

Hadar had never expected to learn swordsmanship: While he had been given a sword long ago, when he was younger, it was mostly ornamental—for show. Daily swordsmanship training was, however, only one piece of a mosaic: There was Samira, his . . . Aes Sedai, and more, whom Hadar would protect with his last breath and who was, as the Light must have had willed, just as Saldaean as he was, and then there were the other Aes Sedai and the battle between the Light and Shadow, into which Hadar had been drawn.

In truth, the will of the White Tower, and even the battle, were not directly important to Hadar, but they were to Samira; and that’s enough.

Ten paces or so ahead, one of the doors was opened inward, and a woman—who was as obviously Aes Sedai as her shawl was white—stepped out, closed and locked the door, and started walking up the hall, facing Hadar. She had short black hair and a small face, which looked as if it was made of porcelain; she might as well have been made of porcelain, at that, for how stiffly she was moving.

There are the Gaidin and their students, too. Oddly enough, I claim membership in both. But I won’t be a student forever.

As the Aes Sedai neared, she eyed Hadar as a queen does her subject. There was curiosity within her pale blue eyes, though.

Without slowing, Hadar folded his left arm across his chest and bowed before her.

True, bowing as such was something like how the Cairhienen did, and Cairhienen Hadar was not. However, bowing before anyone was new to him, and the gesture seemed appropriate for honoring women of the White Tower.

She barely acknowledged it.

Hadar smiled at her.


The training grounds were crowded with other Gaidin and students, Aes Sedai and Accepted, which was like always.

Hadar walked to his spot, which was south of the training grounds proper—he needed aloneness and quiet. To the south, on grassy mounds, were all kinds and colors of trees and flowers, glistening in the drizzle falling from the slate-gray sky; stunning.

Moving every part of his body at the same time, Hadar drew his sword from his sheath on his back with his left hand, brought it before him, gripped it with both of his hands, its point angled upward and to his left, and stepped his left foot backward.

Hadar did not understand the meditative method that most of the swordsmen that he had met used; he was always ready—a sheathed blade, himself.

He twisted his sword right and then left, eyeing its razor-sharp edges, which he had already put to use more times than he could count; while bundled wood lathes were used for safe sparring, Hadar was alone, and it made sense to train with the very greatsword that he would continue to wield in battle, the Light willing.

I hold death, and life, in my hands.

Hadar stopped focusing his eyes and started sidestepping rightward along an imaginary circle on the ground, which was about two paces across, paying equal attention to everything in his field of view inside or near the circle—he mostly ignored everything in the distance, the orchard, the training grounds, the White Tower and the tops of other tall buildings in Tar Valon.

And he struck, from high on his left side to low on his right side, stepping into the circle with his left foot. Immediately after, he pivoted rightward on his left foot, turned over his wrists and slashed straight upward, a strike that would take out a man’s throat. With his next two steps, Hadar circled around to the left side of his imaginary opponent, violently twisted his body rightward, and, transferring his momentum to his sword, cut horizontally through him, back to front.

I have to be faster.

Hadar ducked under an imaginary horizontal attack at neck level, rolled to his right, lifted his sword high overhead and struck downward as powerfully as he could, executing Leopard in the Tree; it was a simple movement, in itself, but it left one open to attack—one had to create space to safely use it. Hadar envisioned lightning rather than a leopard as he did.

There are always more.

While rapidly stepping backward, Hadar parried imaginary attacks from every angle, and then rushed forward, attacking four times at an imaginary Trolloc: He hacked at its right shoulder; slashed across its body, from low on its right side to high on its left side; kicked its torso while cutting downward through its face and chest; and, finally, thrust his sword at its heart.

But he did not stop: He let go of his sword with his right hand, swiveled leftward and swung backhandedly, hacking at another Trolloc’s back.

Hadar breathed deeply as he moved and struck, in a controlled manner. He started individually practicing each of the movements that he had learned, trying to strike faster with each and every repetition.

He had to become better. Trollocs were not imaginary. They did not stand still. They attacked with strength and speed that he would never have. They also wore armor—which was crude, true, but effective.

Hadar had been to the Blight a few times, and, while those were before he had started training with the Gaidin, there had not been anything welcoming about it: The beasts there were frenzied, those Trollocs fighting not only for . . . pleasure, but also in defense of their homes.

Samira would return, and Hadar would go with her; whenever that was, he would protect her, and so he had to become better.


Hadar repeated The River Undercuts the Bank for the forty-third time, reversing his grip on his sword, ducking and spinning rightward, all the way around, slashing horizontally.

Hadar imagined where his Aes Sedai would be and how he would move around her in a circle, striking high to low and turning away fictitious weapons at every angle.

He was her sword, one which she did not need to wield, but she would wield another: In his mind’s eye, Hadar watched her as she fumbled the rapier that he had given her, slashing pavement and then almost stabbing him with it. Hadar wryly smiled, for she had even done that gracefully.

After only an hour or so, she had been wielding it with the confidence that befit all that she was, which had been about as surprising as green grass.

While slashing in large arcs with his sword in his left hand, Hadar swung his right arm, using his bracer and glove, which was studded, and reinforced with chain, defending blows and impacting torsos, heads and necks.

Returning his right hand to the grip of his sword, he spun around, swinging it at a downward angle, from chest level to knee level; sliced upward; and then sheathed it.

Sweat soaked Hadar’s shirt, which was beneath his coat, jacket and cloak—fancloth was fascinating. He stood still for a few minutes, slowing his breathing, thinking about his present—Samira, the White Tower, training and battle—and his past—his family, Saldaea, Kandor, manors, lords and ladies; two different lives in the same world.

His new way of life protected his old, however different they were.

“Hmm.”

Hadar started walking back to the White Tower, for inside it was a bath with his name on it.
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