When he opened his eyes, he was not sure where he was. Or why he was there. In the corner his flambard propped up so he could see it. The falchion was on his belt, which hung from a makeshift iron hook upon the door. Along with his knives, and his buckler. And his mask. Eragos wanted to ask where he was, who he was, but there was no one to ask. Only the silence. Only a square of white light that struck the foot of his bed. It was night, then, the silver glow of glass told him that from where he lay. Farmhouse. Or something else? Wooden construction. It was a solid home, he thought, worthy of whatever person lived here. It was not the city that he called home, or the base of his people, or... Eragos did not know what to properly call it. Castel. It was not the Castel. All this viciousness surrounded him, encompassed him, and he was known to it. A battle had been won. A battle he'd hoped with all of his heart to lose for what it meant to him. Badala was gone from this world now. Her, and her child, and the father of that child. Eragos had killed them all in one way or another.

That face, so perfect, a mirror image of her mother's. Eragos did not want to see at that moment - his eyes were squeezed shut, against the pain of it, against the exhiliration of it. He'd destroyed a family with his will to do right. Badala had asked him once what the point of right was if you were dead, and in return he'd asked her a question. Now with awareness a distant memory he knew. What was the point of being alive, if I've wronged to be there? Eragos would rather suffer those eternal pains than face a god knowing he'd turned away from the path a second time. This life, and whatever meaning it had, hinged on doing what was right. He'd given his oath twice, committed to the path twice, and he would not stray again. Was it right to throw down his sword against Palam? Cruelly effective in orchestrating her end. She had died, as her mother and father had died, because Eragos had tried to do something right. This farmhouse.

( These healed wounds. )

When they emerged from the front of the spire, they emerged onto a scene of madness. The area immediately around the spire itself had devolved into one giant brawl. There was a battle going on, and they were witnesses, with soldiers and thieves laying about themselves wildly. The injured from the dragon's attack were still trying to sort themselves out, only now they were screaming with blood upon their faces, searching for any safe place. If Palam had any sense she was not in the thick of the fight with her men. Yet he knew that she had none of that sense. He knew that she was here, somewhere, and it was her they needed to find. The soldiers would arrive to reinforce their comrades in minutes. Doubtless they were going to arrest anyone on the scene. Eragos peered into the near darkness with a steady gaze. In search of something.

( Or someone. )

Gashes on his face. Eragos worked to correct his jarred mask as they moved, descending one set of stairs after another, shouldering past a growing crowd drenched in panicked shrieks and madness. This was not the way it was supposed to be. Eragos hefted his sword, and the crowd parted with even more hideous screams. There were soldiers. If they wanted a fight, they made no sign in that direction. Instead they scattered at his hideous presence. Blood on his uniform, ripped and ruined with the combat he'd just endured. Blood running out beneath the chin of his mask. Wounds to the head stopped bleeding slowest. As long as it was not in his eyes. Not yet. Soon, perhaps, but not yet. There was only one thing that could stop him now. Exhaustion, or another dragon. Or perhaps the first dragon that had fled come back to take its vengeance.

( How to make sure that didn't happen. )

At the imposing sight of the spire Eragos could feel his heart thundering in his chest. If she was right, then he'd sheltered himself for the night in the halls of the creature that had captured a White Rider. If he was wrong he was being manipulated, used, but to what end? One person in the presence of the Regent could kill a Regent. But one Regent's death would not stop all of this from happening. No matter what the truth was he could see no motive. Perhaps that perturbed him almost as much as the thought of doing violence here. After their fight with Tungal and Tunri she was understandably shaken. "She" being Eithne. The orcs had been fearsome opponents. The spire itself jutted up into the sky like a screaming deity's curse. And despite the knowledge of its interior he felt a certain anticipation in him. Tall. Impossibly tall; perhaps as tall as some of the structures in Agethlea. Nothing should ever be that tall. Nothing should ever be so far off the ground. His hand was on the hilt of his sword as the gates opened. There was no ceremony this time; the gatekeeper seemed grim as death. Not a good sign. Eragos wanted to tell Eithne to watch her step, but it was pointless.

( If she was not on her guard then she was already dead. )

There was one square room after another. Eragos did not attempt to gauge the time that they spent walking. It would have done him no good. Suffice to say he had no idea of the extent of their underground network of tunnels. He doubted very much that the government did, either, or these tunnels would have been savaged long before by the armed soldiers of the order that persisted above. Here there was nothing but chaos. Torches lit the way but did nothing to cast off shadows. Not here in the den of thieves. As they passed, Eragos saw something. A vampire. It was feeding, but the face of its victim was obscured. The thieves took no note of it. Either because they did not wish to do battle with such a creature, or they endorsed its actions. Since his sword was in the hands of a young fellow, along with all of the knives he carried on his person, Eragos did nothing himself. Merely walked amid the crowd of shoulder-thumpers and rib-splitters who prized this above all else, a den where anyone could be anything that they wanted. Though his gloved hands flexed for the anger that he felt, his mouth remained closed.

( On and on they went. )

Although his mask kept out the worst of it he felt certain that the stench would coat his uniform forever. Here in the places where the wealth of the spire did not reach life could be said to exist on two levels. Those who had something, enough to survive, and those who took from the first category. Every man who bumped into you was neither clumsy nor rude. They were pickpockets and cutpurses, shoulder-thumping bandits who made their money on the backs of those who tried for honest work. When you wore the white no one tried such maneuvers on you. That did not mean they didn't want to try, only that such an attempt was apparently banned. Not for their captive comrade. Just for the rest, the others, who all of them would be seeking a deal to secure the return of their fellow White Rider. Eragos was glad of the mask. Some of these faces he knew. Some of them he did not. But among the thieves he would give no name that he did not have to. Not when there were a thousand of them in hearing distance and his name was most likely remembered as a curse.

( Your past was always with you. )

Although the sliding door of the balcony was open and a warm breeze entered the room it was not enough to make the candles waver. There were two of them, and two only, to light the entire room from their position on the round table before him. Not that they were using the entirety of the luxuriant suite that had been provided to them. Eragos was sleeping on the floor. Eithne was taking the goose down mattress. Before all of that he was writing a letter to the Captain, which would hopefully be delivered in haste. There was nothing to suggest that he could count on such a possibility. Whatever messenger he paid would no doubt be politically inclined. That meant for the thieves, or for the monarchy, and in either case they had a vested interest in making sure no news left Illos unless it was their news. He felt certain now that only gold would see his letter safely delivered, but gold was not in the offing, so writing the letter was probably an exercise in futility. He still wrote though, of the charming arches and impressive accommodations. Of the spring showers and the still-pleasant warmth in the air that promised better days to come. It was the most innocent letter that a man could write - and not the sort of letter that anyone would intercept or impede.

( There was a great deal of nothing to write. )

Rain hammered the hills in sheets. Enough that Eragos Feareborne held his cloak around him like a shield, convinced that a mere clasp could not perform the work of two strong hands. For his part Rand took the storm in silence. As though it was the sort of weather that the warhorse expected here in the distant lands to the north. Eragos had crossed these very lands once before. As a child, really, the first time he'd ever known a White Rider. As the rain - falling heavy from the sky like nails, driving down without wind to steer its passage - battered him the White Rider recalled it all too well, that experience. The mystics said nothing of his experiences. When he asked. They knew what the marks on his arms meant, and they had no patience for a man who was cursed. Rain. Rain like a plague. He would have been miserable with humidity thick on his tongue, in his chest. Would have been if not for the mask and the filter which it provided to him. There were other matters to consider besides the rain. Other matters which were heavy on his shoulders. Matters that might, in fact, turn the entire situation on its head. Not the least of which was the brand new White Rider which rode at his side.

( Eithne had never liked horses. )