Forge trudged through the suffocating heat looking for a place to rest, a 12-foot tall mountain of calm in the middle of a hectic river of mankind’s energy.

 

Dust puffed up with each footfall, like tiny smoke signals sending a message begging for rain. A dismal grey-brown cloud of dust hung over Four Kings, draping the mis-named village like a cloak of despair.

 

The town was a central hub of trade through the region. Its four roads led from the dingy stop-over to the distant great cities, but they also led back to here, which wasn’t any place special at all. Four Kings was nothing but a loud and dirty wagon stop and sleepover for the vast merchant trains that traversed the ancient highways. Merchant trade was the life blood of civilization and the roads were the arteries. Of course, that didn’t mean that real blood wasn’t spilled. Conflict was always rampant in this village that offered more brothels and taverns than any other type of business. Four Kings had the habit of witnessing red rain gush forth from many an unfortunate traveler without regard for the bone dry heavens above.

 

Forge had no problem making his way through the traffic, though. He towered over everyone except the wagon drivers perched on the top of some of the high-wheeled ore wagons down from Baerlon, which were made special to cross the innumerable swift mountain streams pouring down from the Mountains of Mist. Even the giant, slow-moving but powerful oxen were smaller than the Ogier.

 

He was large even for his kind, and Ogier were all big. The two wicked-looking axes that hung from loops on his travel pack earned many a fearful look and countless whispers, as well. Most likely, none of the crowd had ever heard of an Ogier with an axe before. But Forge had heard it enough times that he paid them no attention. They were a distant buzzing in the background that meant less to him than they could imagine.

 

Normally, he would have visited with any friendly faces and maybe given a child or two a ride on his shoulders. The human children seemed to love that for some reason, no matter how fearful the adults tended to be around him. But today he was tired and just a little bit cranky.

 

All he wanted was a quiet place to sit down and relax for a bit and maybe grab a cool drink and some food. The clamoring ruckus caused by the vast numbers of merchants’ wagons and their crews meant that a quiet place was out of the question, so he’d have to settle for a place to sit and refresh himself. Maybe part of his ill temper was the heat. The sun beat down brazenly from a cloudless sky and sweat streamed off him in rivulets of muddy grit. But certainly part of it was that it was past noon and he still hadn’t broken his fast. At the thought, his stomach growled loud enough to wake the dead. Or so it felt.

 

Spying a likely looking inn, the Shade Tree, he slipped one shoulder out of his pack’s harness and gently pushed open the bat wing doors with the free hand. Momentarily, his body blotted out the light from outside, and a hush fell over the customers inside as he eased through the too-small opening. After a moment’s glance about the common room, he walked toward the back, his head brushing the rafters, and dropped his pack and oaken quarterstaff (and the axes that were still getting lots of uneasy looks from the patrons) near the wall and asked if a seat was available.

 

He must have looked strange, because the nearby humans scurried out of his way like mice when a cat arrives. Plopping down on the floor, (the table’s bench was much too small for him to sit on, of course) he put his elbow on the table and respectfully asked a barmaid to bring him a large mug of ale and something to eat.

 

Maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to relax for a bit.

I see the sun, I see the moon;

I see the earth, I see the sky,

The sudden streaks of gold too soon,

Fly through the world in soaring sighs.

 

- Laron Kendar Tavenar, Dream Researcher at Collan Daan

Four roads intersect, the junction was where the traffic crammed. Ants burnt crisped by the sun projected through the glasses of non-human perception inched toward the slope, where it was cooler than the boiling plains where the less fortunate struggled. Up here, above the direct glare of the sun, whose cruelty might have been tolerable if there could be beauty incorporated by the power, but here, up here, the sun has only power to be cruel. Hills the size of white siamese cats blazed, and those were kicked aside by a mighty hoof, followed by another three, then the dust settled, a swirl on the parched voiceless.

 

Sand grained underneath Asleah as he slowed. His mistress patted his head before shifting off his back to walk him between the trees, cutting crosscountry veering from the agglutination of sun, earth, and wind as human and non-human scents merged; there the forest began, there the courier observed, was one ugly frieze.

 

Well, she justified as she walked up to a man she planned to question, it was better to be safe than sorry. Men usually notice women, even if they're old hags. Meep was careful about the men she chose to ask directions or any other information, noting that they are neither very smug nor confident, should they show more interest than was deemed appropriate. She was aware of her great age, but it sometimes had less effect on the opposite gender more she hoped.

 

The merchant pointed west, but advised her to stick with the road, for it would be safer. However, she knew that safety would be less of a concern than speed. If no message was to be found, she would move on to another town, then another if need be. She refused to be frustrated, give up and return to her house. Un-heeding the retirement's notes, the courier had not thought of her old home as home for a long time after she took to the cause; home was where the Aes Sedai were, where her heart's convictions dwelt. She wondered if the Sisters had known of her loyalty.

 

As Meep led her beloved chestnut across the plains, she felt that something was different, this time. Judging by the forms they manifested, the trees on the old North Road had a fecund imagination that she did not believe with her eyes. Meep had to hobble up to their gnarled majesties, and touched the stubbles on the limbs. Naturally, the courier did not fancy groping into the hollows (there could be hornets, for love), but there was a message curled deep in this one, and hornets or not she had to retrieve it before a random squirrel or 'coon made away with her precious.

 

Sweating profusely despite the shade she wished she tested true to be Aes Sedai. Sometimes the courier wondered if she had that spark what her life would be like. More settled, perhaps. She might have been Red, or Blue. Meep Sedai might even live several decades longer.

 

It was only when a person was becoming old that the child within would either come knocking at speculations, or be lost forever to the physical mortality in all life. The need to settle down had occasioned her thoughts with alarming frequency as the days of her life with Asleah continued to be played. There was that charm of a brew in the twilight, the chores of dicing vegetables, or feeding the chickens, the tedium Meep despised at the beginning now repeated itself like a tune weaving through her mind, ensnarling her thoughts so she focused less on her actual work, dwelling instead upon hypothetical work around the hearth.

 

She truly began to consider retirement as something more than just a wistful melody. It was an option, an assuring realistic one for the next chapter of her life. Several seasons ago before the upcoming storm, Meep had attempted to record her life in sections as an autobiography before her deathbed, but she did not seem to be able to express herself with the tightness she wanted. Instead the pages ran on, meaninglessly, incoherently, and she - a courier, resigned all the papers to flames in disgust.

 

Somewhere ago, on the path to the village the she picked up a stout branch that she tied the pack's end to and propped like a walking stick to partially to alleviate some of the more crucial bundles, including the one she dug from the oak's hollow. She had whittled a staff for herself from that branch. It was rudimentary woodwork, observing none of the careful skills she had been instructed with. Though the courier knew that she would never use the staff on somebody, not even in defence. She followed the Way of the Leaf, because she admired the Da'shain Aiel and the Tua'tha'an. Yet the courier did not invite the likely Death if she had attracted attention. Meep proceeded, warily and alert. She was continuously gliding, carefully avoiding the dry leaves and dead stems that could explode like crackers. Meep knew that a careless scout was a dead one. The courier was taught well, the essential tools of outdoor survival.

 

Slanting her staff into the ground, she was reminded of what the history text wrote about Bladebrothers in Sha’je dueling. Deadly until one got to know them, then only rather dangerous. Here was unfriendly native. He smiled a rancid smile which she did not return as she passed. Meep had wandered Four Kings for a week now, searching for a message. She meandered along, clothed in woollens, nondescript and inconspicuous as she was. Her murky eyes faded in with the flora around her and she felt more at home in the mossy wilderness than back in Cairhein or Fal Dara.

 

The chills haunted her as night closed in. Flapping away the stable boy, she bat winged into The Shade Tree. It seemed no sketchier than the others, and was closer to the village centre, the square instead of the greens.

 

In the kitchen for a few extra coppers, she was sat on a stool, spying on the village people carefully as they elaborated rumours in the long hours of the evening. For days she listened as they conversed, so the sprightly courier gathered and pieced together some tensions and suspicions, nuances that were becoming more common everywhere. However Meep had not, from the abundantly supplied talk, a glimpse or intelligence of any trouble from the war up North hereabouts.

 

***

Asleah thundered fleetly through the undergrowth, more speed than caution this time, and soon reached the sparkling waters by midmorning. The waters were clear and cold and brimming with fish, but the courier was not at all sorry to duck under and wash out the grimes of her day's ride from her dark greying hair, which she smoothed back into a braided tail down her back. The plain woollen she laden onto the low-hanging mulberry tree to dry off and hung her possessions on the unripe boughs. She dressed in another non-descript woollen tunic she dug from the bottom of her pack. Still in woollens but at least the colour was a deeper brown, more suitable for the road.

 

It was a happy day since she discovered the designated message and she would have just sat on the lush banks, basking in the warmth of the sun, but it would arch overhead before long, so the courier moved quickly out of the furnace that was the Four Kings at noon.

 

Returning to the inn, she found its customary noise quietened by the arrival of a spectacle. The lass in the kitchen serving had been frantic tears over a trolloc or somesuch. It had been an Ogier who perched on a seat, every perch taken except those on either side of him.

 

“I can take that tray to him, lass.” The courier offered, swiping the heavily laden tray of honey-cakes from unresisting, quivering arms. Meep did not disillusion the youthful imagination. Not all the world was her problem. Let somebody else take care of that later.

 

She was self-conscious that she smelt vaguely, to her anyway, of some earthy unpleasantness despite her bath and wished for a little soap, even the unevenly lumpy ones that she used to make out of the curdled fat. Meep flushed uncomfortably under the Ogier’s steady look, before realising that he had been gazing through her in deep thoughts of his own.

 

Approaching the pensive Ogier with his drink, she asked, directly and without batting an eye, "Honour to the builders, Master. Might I sit here?" His ear twitched.

 

Slipping into the cooled groove beside him, she interpreted the twitch for consent and wedged her staff under the table as she smiled, handing him the ale. “My thanks. The name is Meep, Sallie Meep.” She did not give the Ogier her alias. Alanna was for humans, and as far as she knew no Ogier had ever been corrupted by the Shadow.

 

“Forgive my curiosity - how is it that one of the Alatin is in this wayward village so far from a Stedding?” Using the archaic greeting Meep waited for his response, which she was eager for, even if it turned out to be a rebuke. The first time she dealt with Ogiers, though she read much on them. Biting down on a sticky honey cake, the courier would see for herself if the text compared to life, amounted to anything larger than life. Life winked out too fast, brief as the light, not to take worthwhile risks when one found her inner child at the wick.

Forge was sitting there with his elbow on the table, lost in a daydream while he waited for his food and drink to be brought to him. In his mind he was with Lily again, and they were going fishing. It was a beautiful summer day, and she had stopped to pick some flowers. Her singing was more beautiful than he could believe, as was she. Forge sounded like a frog in a bucket when he sang, so he never did. He did hum along, though.

 

He was shaken from his reverie by a human woman’s voice asking him a question, his ear twitching with embarrassment at the realization he had probably been humming out loud. “Honour to the Builders, master. Might I sit here?” she asked.

 

Before he answered, she plopped down in the open spot on the bench alongside him. Even with him sitting on the stone-slabbed floor, he still looked her straight in the eye. But it didn’t seem to faze her at all as she continued talking.

 

“My thanks. The name is Meep, Sallie Meep. Forgive my curiosity – how is it that one of the Alantin is in this wayward village so far from a Stedding?”

 

The muscular, 12-foot tall Ogier took a few moments before he answered. Sallie Meep smelled of soap and the more comfortable aroma of the road. Was she a traveler as well? While he considered how to respond, she was staring at him intently and chomping on a honey cake with enthusiasm.

 

“I am unworthy, and the work small,” Forge replied formally, his deep bass voice sounding like a giant bull talking. “But I think formalities are wasted here Sallie Meep, especially when I am sitting on the floor and you have honey dribbling down your chin.” The Ogier’s bright smile nearly split his face in two. “And Four Kings is not that far from a stedding, if you know where to look.”

 

He carefully considered his answer to why he happened to be in this particular village, though. He doubted a chance-met stranger, no matter how friendly, wanted to here of his quest to fight the Shadow on the path that leads to Tarmon Gaidon. He pointedly did NOT glance at the two wicked-looking axes slung through loops on his travel pack. Instead, he kept his response cheerful and light-hearted.

 

“I’m just resting here on my way to the horizon, Sallie Meep. I have an itch sometimes that can only be scratched by seeing what the world offers. Unlike so many of my kindred, traveling is a favorite pastime of mine.” And, realizing he had not introduced himself, he did so.

 

“I am Hamar son of Dain son of Maddic, but most people call me Forge.”

Sallie's first impression of the loud voice that was that it bounded toward strangeness. A loud bumbly hummed with tones, cadence and metres - its poetry tempered by the passion, and was she imagining, and humour of Ogiers toward the humans so depicted in the text - her consciousness imbibed with marvellous imagery. It was demanding her full concentration to seek meaning in his words, when they sounded a melody rambling all that was young and cultivated. A Stedding close to the Four Kings - as in Caemlyn? Tucking that information cautiously, she took another heavenly bite.

 

Forge, not a bad name. Thin waffles bathing in molasses, soft to the touch but incredibly crisp in her mouth. Who could act a crotchety old woman when she had such sustainence available to her? She worked her teeth, wiping with her handkerchief at the sticky holy mess that sent her taste buds into pure ecstacy. Unlatching her teeth from the chewy texture, grunted through flying chunks of honeycake. "Formalities can be set aside in presence of friends. You may call me Sallie, Forge." This delivered in a very agreeable manner, supplemented by the offering of a honeycake from the stash, as she pondered about what he told her. "These are phenomenal, best I had in a while" she grinned as thick sausage like fingers nabbed one delicately. Grace was the last thing one was expecting from such long, tall creatures, but in building and protecting they were the paragons who bordered on the ideal templates of the mind.

 

"Any creature who builds is doing good. There are not enough order in the world. Quite lamentable. Why, the other day I heard from a merchant from up north about refugees fleeing en mass via North route, and a vague sort of trouble generally, though mostly in Cairhien." Pausing she let the words pool, "some of the Builders working there are clamouring to quit, yes?"

 

Holding out her handkerchief, she said briskly, "wipe."

Forge chuckled, the deep bass resonating richly from his heavily muscled throat as he licked the last bits of honey off his sausage-like fingers. He cleaned his face with the proffered handkerchief, wiping the crumbs away but only spreading his smile even more. His grin was almost wide enough to split his face in two. Sallie Meep was certainly a cheerful woman.

 

Still, the Ogier wasn’t sure he believed Sallie’s statement about any creature that builds is good. He had seen some of the Thakan’dar-wrought steel forged by the Dark One’s creatures, and he was pretty sure he’d not want to invite the makers over to dinner of an evening.

 

More importantly, though, was her statement regarding the Ogier in Cairhein… he paused from considering whether or not to ask for another helping of honeycakes and probed her for more information. The honeycakes could wait for a few more minutes.

 

“Sallie, what was that about my kindred? Is there some kind of trouble in Cairhein?”

 

His ears flicked forward attentively, and his relaxed posture seated on the inn’s floor transformed into the feeling of a spring waiting to uncoil even though he didn’t move an inch. He didn’t like the thought of threats to other Ogier.