THIS IS UNCORRECTED PRE-RELEASE.
CROSSROADS OF TWILIGHT
Book Ten of
The Wheel of Time
ROBERT JORDAN
And it shall come to pass, in the days when the Dark Hunt rides, when the right hand falters and
the left hand strays, that mankind shall come to the Crossroads of Twilight and all that is, all that was,
and all that will be shall balance on the point of a sword, while the winds of the Shadow grow.
- From The Prophecies of the Dragon
translation believed done by Jain
Charin, known as Jain Farstrider,
shortly before his disappearance
Prologue
Glimmers of the Pattern
Rodel Ituralde hated waiting, though he well knew it was the largest part of being a soldier.
Waiting for the next battle, for the enemy to move, to make a mistake. He watched the winter forest and
was as still as the trees. The sun stood halfway to its peak and gave no warmth. His breath misted white
in front of his face, frosting his neatly trimmed mustache and the black fox-fur lining his hood. He was
glad that his helmet hung at his pommel. His breastplate held the cold and radiated it through his coat
and all the layers of wool, silk and linen beneath. Even Dart’s saddle felt cold, as though the white
gelding were made of frozen milk. The helmet would have addled his brain.
Winter had come late to Arad Doman very late, but with a vengeance. From summer heat that
lingered unnaturally into fall to winter’s heart in less than a month. The leaves that had survived the long
summer’s drought had been frozen before they could change color, and now they glistened like strange,
ice-covered emeralds in the morning sun. The horses of the twenty-odd armsmen around him
occasionally stamped a hoof in the knee-deep snow. It had been a long ride this far, and they had further
to go whether this day turned out good or ill. Dark clouds roiled the sky to northward. He did not need
his weather-wise there to tell him the temperature would plummet before nightfall. They had to be under
shelter by then.
"Not as rough as winter before last, is it, my Lord" Jaalam said quietly. The tall young officer
had away of reading Ituralde’s mind and his voice was pitched for the others to hear. "Even so, I
suppose some men would be dreaming of mulled wine about now. Not this lot, of course. Remarkably
abstemious. They all drink tea, I believe. Cold tea. If they had a few birch switches, they’d be stripping
down for snow-baths."
‘They’ll have to keep their clothes on for the time being," Ituralde replied dryly, "but they might
get some cold tea tonight, if they’re lucky." That brought a few chuckles. Quiet chuckles. He had chosen
these men with care, and they knew about noise at the wrong time.
He himself could have done with a steaming cup of spiced wine, or even tea. But it was a long
time since merchants had brought tea to Arad Doman. A long time since any outland merchant had
ventured further than the border with Saldaea. By the rime news of the outside world reached him, it was
as stale as last month’s bread, if it was more than rumor to begin. That hardly mattered, though. If the
White Tower truly was divided against itself, or men who could channel really were being called to
Caemlyn, well, the world would have to do without Rodel Ituralde until Arad Doman was whole again.
For the moment, Arad Doman was more than enough for any sane man to go on with. Once again lie
reviewed the orders he had sent, carried by the fastest riders he had, to every noble loyal to the King-
Divided as they were by bad blood and old feuds, they still shared that much. They would gather their
armies and ride when orders came from the Wolf; at least, so long as he held the King’s favor. They
would even hide in the mountains and wait, for his order. Oh, they would chafe, and some would curse
his name, but they would obey. They knew the Wolf won battles. More, they knew he won wars. The
Little Wolf, they called him when they thought he could nor hear, but he did not care whether they drew
attention to his stature-well, not much-so long as they rode when and where he said.
Very soon they would be riding hard, moving to set a trap that would not spring for months. It
was a long chance he was taking. Complex plans had many ways to fall apart, and this plan had layers
inside layers. Everything would be ruined before it began if he failed to provide the bait. Or if someone
ignored his order to evade couriers from the King. They all knew his reasons, though, and even the most
stiff-necked shared them, though few were willing to speak of the matter aloud. He himself had moved
like a wraith racing on a storm since he received Alsalam’s latest command. In his sleeve the folded
paper lay tucked above the pale lace that fell onto his steel-backed gauntlet. They had one last chance,
one very small chance, to save Arad Doman. Perhaps even to save Alsalam from himself before the
Council of Merchants decided to put another man on the throne in his place. He had been a good ruler,
for over twenty years. The Light send that he could be again.
A loud crack to the south sent Ituralde’s hand to die hilt of his longsword. There was a faint
creak of leather and metal as others eased their weapons. For the rest, silence. The forest was as still as a
frozen tomb. Only a limb breaking under the weight of snow. After a moment, he let himself relax as
much as he had relaxed since the tales came north of the Dragon Reborn appearing in the sky at Falme.
Perhaps the man really was the Dragon Reborn, perhaps he really had appeared in the sky, but whatever
the truth, those tales had set Arad Doman on fire.
Ituralde was sure he could have put out that fire, given a freer hand. It was not boasting to think
so. He knew what he could do, with a battle, a campaign, or a war. But ever since the Council had
decided the King would be safer smuggled out of Bandar Eban, Alsalam seemed to have taken into his
head that he was the rebirth of Artur Hawkwing. His signature and seal had marked scores of battle
orders since, heading out from wherever the Council had him hidden. They would not: say where that
was, even to Ituralde himself. Every woman on the Council that he confronted went flat-eyed and
evasive at any mention of the King. He could almost believe they did nor know where Alsalam was. A
ridiculous thought, of course. The Council kept an unblinking eye on the King. Ituralde had always
believed the merchant Houses interfered too much, yet he wished they would interfere now. Why they
remained silent was a mystery, for a king who damaged trade did not remain long on the throne. He was
loyal to his oaths, and Alsalam was a friend, besides, but the orders the King sent could not have been
better written to achieve chaos. Nor could they be ignored. Alsalam was the King. But he had
commanded Ituralde to march north with all possible speed against a great gathering of Dragonsworn
that Alsalam supposedly knew of from secret spies; then ten days later, with no Dragonsworn yet in
sight, an order came to move south again, with all possible speed, against another gathering that never
materialized. He had been commanded to concentrate his forces to defend Bandar Eban when a threepronged
attack might have ended it all and to divide them when a hammer blow could have done the
same, to harry ground he knew the Dragonsworn had abandoned, and to march away from where he
knew they camped. Worse, Alsalam’s orders often had gone directly to the powerful nobles who were
supposed to be following Ituralde, sending Machir in this direction, Teacal in that, Rahman in a third.
Four rimes, pitched battles had resulted from parts of the army blundering into one another in the night
while moving to the King’s express command and expecting none but enemies ahead. And all the while
the Dragonsworn gained numbers, and confidence, Ituralde had had his triumphs-at Solanje and Maseen,
at Lake Somal and Kandelmar, the Lords of Katar had learned nor to sell the products of their mines and
forges to the enemies of Arad Doman-but always, Alsalam’s orders wasted his gains.
This last order was different, though. For one thing, a Gray Man had killed Lady Tuva trying to
stop it from reaching him. Why the Shadow might fear this order more than any other was a mystery, yet
it was all the more reason to move swiftly. Before Alsalam reached him with another. This order opened
many possibilities, and he had considered every last one he could see. But good ones all started here,
today. When small chances of success were all that remained, you had to seize them.
A snowjay’s strident cry rang out in the distance, then a second time, a third. Cupping his hands
around his mouth, Ituralde repeated the three harsh calls. Moments later a shaggy, pale dapple gelding
appeared out of the trees, his rider in a white cloak streaked with black. Man and horse alike would have
been hard to see in the snowy forest had they been standing still. The rider pulled up beside Ituralde. A
stocky man, he wore only a single sword, with a short blade, and there was a cased bow and a quiver
fastened to his saddle.
"Looks like they all came, my Lord," he said in his permanently hoarse voice, pushing his cowl
back from his head. Someone had cried to hang Donjel when he was young, though the reason was lost
in the years. What remained of his short-cropped hair was iron gray. The dark leather parch covering the
socket of his right eye was a remnant of another youthful scrape. One eye or two, though, he was the
best scout Ituralde had ever known. "Most anyways," he went on. "They put two rings of sentries around
the lodge, one inside the other. You can see them a mile of but nobody will get close without them at the
lodge hearing of it in time to get away. By the tracks, they didn’t bring no more men than you said they
could, not enough to count. Course," he added wryly "that still leaves you outnumbered a fair bit."
Ituralde nodded. He had offered the White Ribbon, and the men he was to meet had accepted.
Three days when men pledged under the Light, by their souls and hope of salvation, not to draw a
weapon against another or shed blood. The White Ribbon had not been tested in this war, however, and
these days, some men had strange ideas of where salvation lay. Those who called themselves
Dragonsworn, for instance. He had always been called a gambler, though he was not. The trick was in
knowing what risks you could take. And sometimes, in knowing which ones you had to take.
Pulling a packet sewn into oiled silk from his boottop, he handed it to Donjel. If I don’t reach
Coran Ford in two days, take this to my wife."
The scour tucked the packet somewhere beneath his cloak, touched his forehead, and turned his
horse west. He had carried its like for Ituralde before, usually on the eve of battle. The Light send this
was not the time Tamsin would have to open that packet. She would come after him-she had told him
so-the first incident ever of the living haunting the dead, "Jaalam," Ituralde said, "let us see what waits
at Lady Osana’s hunting lodge." As he heeled Dart forward, the other fell in behind him.
The sun rose to its height and began again to descend as they rode. The dark clouds in the north
moved closer, and the chill bit deeper. There was no sound but the crunch of hooves breaking through
the snowcrust. The forest seemed empty save for themselves. He did not see any of the sentries Donjel
had spoken of. The man’s opinion of what could be seen from a mile differed from that of most. They
would be expecting him, of course. And watching to make sure he was not followed by an army, White
Ribbon or no White Ribbon. A good many of them likely had reasons they felt sufficient to feather
Rodel Ituralde with arrows. A lord might pledge the White Ribbon for his men, but would all of those
feel bound? Sometimes, there were chances you just had to take. About mid-afternoon, Osana’s socalled
hunting lodge loomed suddenly out of the trees, a mass of pale towers and slender, pointed domes
that would have fitted well among the palaces of Bandar Eban itself. Her hunting had always been for
men or power, her trophies numerous and note-worthy despite her relative youth, and the "hunts" that
had taken place here would have raised eyebrows even in the capital. The lodge lay desolate, now.
Broken windows gaped like mouths with jagged teeth. None showed a glimmer of light or movement.
The snow covering the cleared ground around the lodge had been well trampled by horses, however. The
ornate brassbound gates of the main courtyard stood open, and he rode through without slowing,
followed by his men. The horses’ hooves clattered on the paving stones, where the snow had been
beaten to slush. No servants came out to greet him, not that he had expected any. Osana had vanished
early in the troubles that now shook Arad Doman like a dog shaking a rat, and her servants had drifted
quickly to others of her house, taking whatever places they could find. These days, the masterless
starved, or turned bandit. Or Dragonsworn. Dismounting in front of the broad marble stairway at the end
of the courtyard, he handed Dart’s reins to one of his armsmen, and Jaalam ordered the men to take
shelter where they could find it for themselves and the animals. Eyeing the marble balconies and wide
windows that surrounded the courtyard, they moved as if expecting a crossbow bolt between the
shoulder blades. One set of stable doors stood slightly ajar, but in spite of the cold, they divided
themselves between the corners of the courtyard, huddling with the horses where they could keep watch
in every direction. If the worst came, perhaps a few might make it out, removing his gauntlets, he tucked
them behind his belt and checked his lace as he climbed the stairs with Jaalam. Snow that had been
trodden underfoot and frozen again crackled beneath his boots. He refrained from looking anywhere but
straight ahead. He must appear supremely assured, as though there were no possibility events should go
other than he expected. Confidence was one key to victory. The other side believing you were confident
was sometimes almost as good as actually being confident. At the head of the stairs, Jaalam pulled open
one of the tall, carved doors by its gilded ring. Ituralde touched his beauty spot with a finger to make
sure it was in place-his cheeks were too cold to feel the black velvet star clinging-before he stepped
inside. As self-assured as he would have been at a ball.
The cavernous entry hall was as icy as the outside. Their breath made feathered mists. Unlit, the
space seemed already wreathed in twilight. The floor was a colorful mosaic of hunters and animals, the
tiles chipped in places, as though heavy weights had been dragged over them, or perhaps dropped. Aside
from a single toppled plinth that might once have held a large vase or a small statue, the hall was bare.
What the servants had not taken when they fled had long since been looted by bandits. A single man
awaited them, white-haired and more gaunt than when Ituralde had last seen him. His breastplate was
battered, and his earring was just a small gold hoop, but his face was immaculate, and the sparkling red
quarter moon beside his left eye would have gone well at court, in better times. "By the Light, be
welcome under the White Ribbon, Lord Ituralde," he said formally, with a slight bow. "By the Light, I
come under the White Ribbon, Lord Shimron," Ituralde replied, making his courtesy in return. Shimron
had been one of Alsalam’s most trusted advisers. Until he joined the Dragonsworn, at least. Now he
stood high in their councils. "My armsman is Jaalam Nishur, honor-bound to House Ituralde as are all
who came with me." There had been no House Ituralde before Rodel, but Shimron answered Jaalam’s
bow, hand to heart. "Honor be to honor. Will you accompany me, Lord Ituralde" he said as he
straightened.
The great doors to the ballroom were gone from their hinges, though Ituralde could hardly
imagine bandits looting those, for they left a tall pointed arch wide enough for ten men to pass. Within
the windowless oval room, half a hundred lanterns of every size and sort beat at shadows, though the
light barely reached the domed ceiling. Separated by a wide expanse of floor, two groups of men stood
against the painted walls, and if the White Ribbon had induced them to leave off helmets, all two
hundred or more were armored otherwise, and certainly no one had put aside his swords. To one side
were a few Domani lords as powerful as Shimron-Rajabi, Wakeda, Ankaer-each surrounded by his
cluster of lesser lords and sworn commoners, and smaller clusters, as few as two or three, many
containing no nobles at all. The Dragonsworn had councils, but no one commander. Still, each of those
men was a leader in his own right, some counting their followers in scores, a few in thousands. None
appeared happy to be where he was, and one or two shot glares across the floor, to where fifty or sixty
Taraboners stood in one solid mass and scowled back. Dragonsworn they might all be yet there was little
love lost between Domani and Taraboners. Ituralde almost smiled at the sight of the outlanders, though.
He had not dared to count on half so many appearing today.
"Lord Rodel Ituralde comes under the White Ribbon." Shimron’s voice rang through the lantern
shadows. "Let whoever may think of violence search his heart, and consider his soul." And that was the
end of formality.
"Why does Lord Ituralde offer the White Ribbon?" Wakeda demanded, one hand gripping the
hilt of his longsword and the other in a fist at his side. He was not a tall man, though caller than Ituralde
but as haughty as if he held the throne himself. Women had called him beautiful once. Now a slanting
black scarf covered the socket of his missing right eye, and his beauty-spot was a black arrowhead
pointing at the thick scar running from his cheek up onto his forehead. "Does he intend to join us? Or
ask us to surrender? All know the Wolf is bold as well as devious. Is he that bold?" A rumble rose
among the men on his side of the room, part mirth, part anger.
Ituralde clasped his hands behind his back to keep from fingering the ruby in his left ear. That
was widely known as a sign that lie was angry, and sometimes he did it on purpose, but he needed to
present a calm face, now. Even while the man spoke past his ear! No. Calm. Duels were entered into in
anger, but he was here to tight a duel, and that required calm. "Every man here knows we have another
enemy to the south," he said in a steady voice. "The Seanchan have swallowed Tarabon." He ran his
gaze over the Taraboners, and met flat stares. He never had been able to read Taraboners’ faces.
Between those preposterous mustaches-like hairy tusks, worse than a Saldaean’s! -And those ridiculous
veils, they might as well wear masks, and the poor light from the lanterns did not help. But he had seen
them veiled in mail, and he needed them. "They have flooded onto Almoth Plain, and moved ever north.
Their intent is clear. They mean to have Arad Doman, too. They mean to have the whole world, I fear."
"Does Lord Ituralde want to know who we will support if these Seanchan invade us." Wakeda
demanded.
"I have true faith you will fight for Arad Doman, Lord Wakeda," Ituralde said mildly. Wakeda
went purple at having the direct insult flung in his teeth, and his oath-men’s hands went to hilts.
"Refugees have brought word that there are Aiel on the plain, now," Shimron put in quickly, as
though he feared Wakeda might break the White Ribbon. None of Wakeda’s oath-men would draw steel
unless he did, or commanded them to, "They fight for the Dragon Reborn, so say the reports. He must
have sent them, perhaps as an aid to us. No one has ever defeated an Aiel army, not even Artur
Hawkwing. You recall the Blood Snow, Lord Ituralde, when we were younger? I believe you agree with
me that we did not defeat them there, whatever the histories may say and I cannot believe the Seanchan
have the numbers we did then. I myself have heard of Seanchan moving south, away from the border.
No, I suspect the next we hear will be of them retreating from the plain, not advancing on us." He was
not a bad commander in the field, but he had always been pedantic.
Ituralde smiled. Word came more swiftly from the south than from anywhere else, but he had
been afraid he would have to bring up the Aiel, and they might have thought he was trying to trick them.
He could hardly believe it himself, Aiel on Almoth Plain. He did not point out that Aiel sent to help the
Dragonsworn were more likely to have appeared in Arad Doman itself." I’ve questioned refugees, too,
and they speak of Aiel raids, not armies. Whatever the Aiel are doing on the plain may have slowed the
Seanchan, but it hasn’t turned them back. Their flying beasts have begun scouting on our side of the
border. That does not smack of retreat."
Producing the paper from his sleeve with a flourish, he held it up so all could see the Sword and
Hand impressed in green-and-blue wax. As always of late, he had used a hot blade to separate the Royal
Seal on one side while leaving it whole, so he could show it unbroken to doubters. There had been
plenty of those, when they heard some of Alsalam’s orders-"I have orders from King Alsalam to gather
as many men as I can, from wherever I can find them, and strike as hard as I can at the Seanchan." He
took a deep breach. Here, he took another chance-and Alsalam might have his head on die block unless
the dice fell the right way. "I offer a truce-I pledge in the King’s name not to move against you in any
way so long as the Seanchan remain a threat to Arad Doman, if you will all pledge the same and fight
beside me against them until they are beaten back." A stunned silence answered him. Bull-necked
Rajabi appeared poleaxed. Wakeda chewed his lip like a startled girl Then Shimron muttered, "Can they
be beaten back, Lord Ituralde? I faced their . . . their chained Aes Sedai on Almoth Plain, as did you."
Boots scraped the floor as men shifted their feet and faces darkened in bleak anger. No man liked to
think he was helpless before an enemy, but enough had been there in the early days, with Ituralde and
Shimron, for all to know what this enemy was like.
"They can be defeated. Lord Shimron," Ituralde replied, "even with their . . . little surprises." A
strange thing to call the earth erupting under your feet, and scouts that rode what looked like
Shadowspawn, but he had to sound assured as well as look it. Besides, when you knew what the enemy
could, do, you adapted. That had been one core of warfare long before the Seanchan appeared. Darkness
cut the Seanchan advantages, and so did storms, and a weather-wise could always tell yon when a storm
was coming. "A wise man stops chewing when he reaches bone," he continued, "but so far, the
Seanchan have had their meat sliced thin before they reached for it. I intend to give them a tough roast to
gnaw. More, I have a plan to make them snap so hard they’ll break their teeth on bone before they have
a mouthful of meat. Now. I have pledged. Will you?"
It was hard nor to hold his breath. Each man seemed to be looking inward. He could all butsee
them mulling it over. The Wolf had a plan. The Seanchan had chained Aes Sedai and flying beasts and
the Light alone knew what else. But the Wolf had a plan. The Seanchan. The Wolf. "If any man can
defeat them," Shimron said finally "you can, Lord Ituralde. I will so pledge."
"I do so pledge!" Rajabi shouted. "We’ll chase them back across the ocean where they came
from!" He had a bull’s temperament as well as its neck.
Surprisingly Wakeda thundered his agreement with equal enthusiasm, and then a storm of voices
broke, calling that they would match the King’s pledge, that they would smash the Seanchan, even some
that would follow the Wolf into the Pit of Doom. All very gratifying but not all Ituralde had come for.
"If you ask us to fight for Arad Doman," one voice shouted above the rest, "then ask us!" The
men who had been calling their pledges fell to angry mutters and half-heard curses.
Hiding his pleasure behind a bland expression, Ituralde turned to face the speaker, on the other
side of the room, The Taraboner was a lean man, with a sharp nose that made a tent of his veil. His eyes
were hard, though, and keen. Some of the other Taraboners frowned as if displeased he had spoken, so it
appeared they had no one leader any more than the Domani, but he had spoken, Ituralde had hoped for
the pledges he had received, but they were nor necessary to his plan. The Taraboners were. At least, they
would make it a hundred times more likely to work. He addressed the man courteously, with a bow.
"I offer you the chance to fight for Tarabon, my good Lord. The Aiel are making some confusion
on the plain; the refugees speak of it. Tell me, could a small company of your men-a hundred, perhaps
two-cross the plain in that disorder and enter Tarabon, if their armor was marked with stripes, as those
who ride for the Seanchan."
It seemed impossible the Taraboners face could grow any tighter, yet it did, and it was the turn of
the men on his side of the room to mutter angrily and curse. Enough word had come north for them to
know of a King and Panarch put on their thrones by the Seanchan and swearing fealty to an Empress on
the other side of the Aryth Ocean. They could not like reminders of how many of their countrymen now
rode for this Empress. Most of the "Seanchan" on Almoth Plain were Taraboners.
"What good could one small company do?" the lean man growled, contemptuous.
"Little good," Ituralde replied. "But if there were fifty such companies? A hundred?" These
Taraboners might have that many men behind them, all told. "If they all struck on the same day, all
across Tarabon? I myself would ride with them, and as many of my men as can be outfitted in Taraboner
armor. Just so you will know this is not simply a stratagem to get rid of you."
Behind him, the Domani began protesting loudly. Wakeda the loudest of all, if it could be
believed! The Wolf’s plan was all very well, but they wanted the Wolf himself at their head. Most of the
Taraboners began arguing among themselves, over whether so many men could cross the plain without
being discovered, even in such small bands, over what good, if any, they could do in Tarabon in small
companies, over whether they were willing to wear armor marked with Seanchan stripes. Taraboners
argued as easily as Saldaeans, and as hotly. Not the sharp-nosed man. He met Ituralde’s glare steadily.
Then gave a slight nod. It was hard to tell, behind those thick mustaches, but Ituralde thought he smiled.
The last tension faded from Ituralde’s shoulders. The fellow would not have agreed while the
others argued if he were not more of a leader among them than he seemed. The others would come too,
he was certain. They would ride south with him into the heart of what the Seanchan considered their
own, and slap them hard and full across the face. The Taraboners would want to stay afterwards, of
course, and continue the fight in their own homeland. He could not expect anything more. Which would
leave him and the two thousand men he could take with him to be hounded back north again, all the long
way across Almoth Plain. If the Light shone on him, hounded with fury. He returned the Taraboners
smile, if smile it was. With any luck, furious generals would not see where he was leading them, until it
was too late. And if they did... Well he had a second plan.
Eamon Valda held his cloak tight around himself as lie tramped through the snow among the trees. Cold
and steady, the wind sighed through the snow-laden branches, a deceptively quiet sound in the damp
gray light. It sliced through the thick white wool as through gauze, chilling him to the bone. The camp
sprawling around him through the forest was too quiet. Movement provided a little warmth, but in this,
men huddled together unless driven to move.
Abruptly he stopped in his tracks, wrinkling his nose at a sudden stench, a gagging foulness like
twenty midden heaps crawling with maggots. He did not gag; instead, he scowled. The camp lacked the
precision he preferred. The tents were clustered haphazardly wherever the limbs overhead grew thickest,
the horses tethered close by rather than properly picketed. It was the sort of slackness that led to filth.
Unwatched, the men would bury horse-dung under a few shovels of dirt to be done with it quicker, and
dig latrines where they would not have to walk far in the cold. Any officer of his who allowed that
would cease to be an officer, and learn firsthand how to use a shovel.
He was scanning the camp for the source of the smell, when suddenly there was no smell. The
wind did not change; the stink just vanished. He was startled for only a moment. Walking on, he
scowled all the harder. The stench had come from somewhere. He would find whoever thought
discipline had slackened, and make examples of them. Discipline had to be tight, now; tighter than ever.
At the edge of abroad clearing, he paused again. The snow in the clearing was smooth and
unmarked despite the camp hidden all around if. Staging back among the trees, lie scanned the sky.
Scudding gray clouds hid the noonday sun. A flicker of motion made his breath catch before he realized
it was just a bird, some small brown thing wary of hawks and staying low. He barked .a laugh that was
more than touched with bitterness. Little more than a month since the Light-cursed Seanchan had
swallowed Amador and the Fortress of Light in one unbelievable gulp, but he had learned new instincts.
Wise men learned, while fools ... Ailron had been a fool puffed up with old tales of glory brightened by
age and new hope of winning real power to go with his crown. He refused to see the reality in front of
his eyes, and Ailron’s Disaster had been the result. Valda had heard it named the Battle of Jeramel, but
only by some of the bare handful of Amadician nobles who escaped, dazed as poleaxed steers yet still
trying mechanically to put the best face on events. He wondered what Ailron had called it when the
Seanchan’s tame witches began tearing his orderly ranks to bloody rags. He could still see that in his
head, the earth turning to fountains of fire. He saw it in his dreams-Well, Ailron was dead, cut down
trying to flee the field and his head displaced on a Taraboner’s lance. A suitable death for a fool. He, on
the other hand, had over nine thousand of the Children gathered around him. A man who saw clearly
could make much out of that in times like these.
On the far side of the clearing, just inside the treeline, was a rude house that had once belonged
to a charcoal burner, a single room with winter-brawn weeds thick in the gaps between the stones. By all
appearances, the man had abandoned the place some time ago; parts of the thatch roof sagged
dangerously, and whatever had once filled the narrow windows was long since gone, replaced now by
dark blankets. Two guards stood beside the ill-fitting wooden door-big men with the scarlet shepherd’s
crook behind the golden sunflare on their cloaks. They had their arms wrapped around themselves and
were stamping their boots against the cold. Neither could have reached his sword in time to do any good,
had Valda been an enemy. Questioners liked to work indoors.
Their faces might have been carved stone as they watched him approach. Neither offered more
than a halfhearted salute. Not for a man without the shepherd’s crook, even if he was Lord-Captain
Commander of the Children. One opened his mouth as if to question Valda’s purpose, but Valda walked
by them and pushed open the rough door. At least they did not try to stop him. He would have killed
them both, if they had.
At his entrance, Asunawa looked up from the crooked table where he was perusing a small book,
one bony hand cupped around a steaming pewter cup that gave off the odor of spices. His ladder-backed
chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room, appeared rickety, but someone had strengthened it
with rawhide lashings. Valda tightened his mouth to stop a sneer. The High Inquisitor of the Hand of the
Light demanded a real roof, not a tent, even if it was thatch sorely in need of patching, and mulled wine
when no one else had tasted, wine of any sort in a week. A small fire burned on the stone hearth, too,
giving a meager warmth. Even cook fires had been banned since before the Disaster, to prevent smoke
from giving them away. Still, although most Children despised the Questioners, they held Asunawa in a
strange esteem, as if his gray hair and gaunt martyr’s face graced him with all the ideals of the Children
of the Light. That had been a surprise, when Valda first learned of it; he was unsure whether Asunawa
himself knew. In any case, there were enough Questioners to make trouble. Nothing he could not handle,
but it was best to avoid that sort of trouble. For now.
"It is almost time," he said, shutting the door behind him. "Are you ready?"
Asunawa made no move to rise or reach for the white cloak folded across the table beside him.
There was no sun-flare on that, just the scarlet crook. Instead, he folded his hands over the book, hiding
the pages. Valda thought it was Mantelar’s The Way of the Light. Odd reading for the High Inquisitor.
More suited to new recruits; those who could not read when they swore were taught so that could study
Mantelar’s words. "I have reports of an Andoran army in Murandy, my son," Asunawa said. "Deep in
Murandy, perhaps."
"Murandy is a long way from here," Valda said as though he did not recognize an old argument
starting anew. An argument that Asunawa often seemed to forget he had already lost. But what were
Andorans doing in Murandy? If the reports were true; so many were travelers fantasies wrapped in lies.
Andor. The very name rankled in Valda’s memory. Morgase was dead, or else a servant to some
Seanchan. They had little respect for titles other than their own. Dead or a servant, she was lost to him,
and more importantly by far, his plans for Andor were lost. Galadedrid had gone from a useful lever to
just another young officer, and one who was too popular with the common soldiers. Good officers were
never popular. But Valda was a pragmatic man. The past was the past. New plans had replaced Andor.
"Nor so far if we move east, across Altara my son, across the north of Altara. The Seanchan
cannot have moved far from Ebon Dar yet.
Spreading his hands to catch the hearthfire’s small warmth, Valda sighed. They had advanced
like a plague in Tarabon, and here in Amadicia. Why did the man think Altara was different? Are you
forgetting the witches in Altara? With an army of their own, need I remind you? Unless they’re into
Murandy by now." Those reports he believed, of the witches on the move. In spite of himself, his voice
rose. "Maybe this so-called Andoran army you’ve heard about is the witches, and their army! They gave
Caemlyn to al’Thor, remember! And Illian, and half the east. Do you really believe the witches are
divided? Do you!" Slowly he drew a deep breath, calming himself. Trying to. Every tale out of the east
was worse than the last. A gust of wind down the chimney blew sparks into the room, and he stepped
back with a curse. Bloody peasant hovel! Even the chimney was ill-made!
Asunawa snapped the small book shut between his palms. His hands were folded as in prayer,
but his deep-set eyes suddenly seemed hotter than the fire. "I believe the witches must be destroyed!
That is what I believe!"
"I’d settle for knowing how the Seanchan tame them." With enough fame witches, he could
drive al’Thor out of Andor, out of Illian and everywhere else he had settled like the Shadow itself. He
could better Hawkwing himself!
"They must be destroyed" Asunawa asserted stubbornly.
"And us with them?" Valda demanded.
A knock came at the door, and at Asunawa’s curt summons one of the guards from outside
appeared in the door-way, standing rigidly erect, arm snapping across his chest in a crisp salute. "My
Lord High Inquisitor," he said respect-fully, "the Council of the Anointed is here."
Valda waited. Would the old fool continue to be stubborn with all ten surviving Lords Captain
outside, mounted and ready to ride? What was done, was done. What had to be done.
"If it brings down the White Tower," Asunawa said finally, "I can be content. For now. I will
come to this meeting."
Valda smiled thinly. "Then I am content. We will see the witches fail together." Certainly, he
would see them fall, "I suggest you have your horse readied. We have a long way to ride by nightfall."
Whether Asunawa would see it with him was another matter.
Gabrelle enjoyed her rides through the wintry woods with Logain and Toveine. He always let Toveine
and her follow at their own pace in a semblance of privacy, so long as they did not lag too far behind.
The two Aes Sedai seldom spoke more than absolutely necessary though, even when they truly were
private. They were far from friends. In fact, Gabrelle often wished Toveine would ask to stay behind
when Logain offered these outings. It would have been very pleasant to be really alone.
Holding her reins in one green-gloved hand and keeping her fox-lined cloak shut with the other,
she let herself feel the cold, just a little, first for the refreshing vigor of it. The snow was not deep, but
the morning air was crisp. Dark gray clouds promised more snow, soon. High overhead flew a longwinded
bird of some sort. An eagle, perhaps; birds were not her strong point. Plants and minerals stayed
in one place while you studied them, and so did books and manuscripts, though those might crumble
under her fingers, if they were old enough. She could barely make the bird out at that height, in any case,
but an eagle fit the landscape-Woodland surrounded them, small dense thickets dotted among more
widely spaced trees. Great oaks and towering pines and firs had killed of most of the undergrowth,
though here and there the thick brown remains of a hardy vine, waiting for a still distant spring, clung to
a boulder or a low gray ledge of stone. She carefully held that landscape in her mind like a novice
exercise, chill and empty. With no one in sight except her two companions, she could almost imagine
she was somewhere other than the Black Tower. That horrid name came all too easily to mind, now. A
thing as real as the White Tower, and no longer "so-called" for anyone who laid eyes on the great stone
barracks, buildings that held hundreds of men in training, and the village that had grown up around
them. She had lived in that village for nearly two weeks, and there were parts of the Black Tower she
still had not seen. Its grounds covered miles, surrounded by the beginnings of a wall of black stone. Still,
she could almost forget, here in the woods.
Almost, except for the bundle of sensation and emotion, the essence of Logain Ablar, that always
rode in the back of her mind, a constant feel of controlled wariness, of muscles always on the edge of
tensing. A hunting wolf might feel that way, or perhaps a lion. The man’s head moved constantly; even
here he watched his surroundings as though expecting attack.
She had never had a Warder-they were needless flamboyance for Browns: a hired servant could
do all she needed-and it felt peculiar to be not only part of a bond, but at the wrong end of it, so to speak.
Worse than simply the wrong end; this bond required her to obey, and she was hedged about with
prohibitions. So it was not the same as a Warder bond, really. Sisters did not force their Warders to
obedience. Well, not very often. And sisters had not bonded men against their will for centuries. Still, it
did provide a fascinating study. She had worked at interpreting what she sensed. At times, she could
almost read his mind. Other times, it was like fumbling through a mineshaft with no lamp. She supposed
she would try to study if her neck were stretched on the headsman’s block. Which, in a very real way, it
was. He could sense her as well as she could him.
She must always remember that. Some of the Asha’man might believe the Aes Sedai were
resigned to their captivity, but only a fool could think fifty-one sisters who had been forcibly bonded
would all embrace resignation, and Logain was no fool. Besides, he knew they had been sent to destroy
the Black Tower. Yet if he suspected that they were still trying to find a way to end the threat of
hundreds of men who could channel. Light, constrained as they were, one order could halt them in their
tracks! You will do no thing to harm the Black Tower. She could not understand why that command had
not been given as a simple precaution. They must succeed. Fail, and the world was doomed, Logain
turned in his saddle, an imposing, broad-shouldered figure in a well-fitting coat dark as pitch, without a
touch of color save for the silver Sword and the red-and-gold Dragon on his high collar. His black cloak
was thrown back, as though he were refusing to let the cold touch him. He might be; these men seemed
to believe they had to fight everything, all the time. He smiled at her-reassuringly and she blinked. Had
she let too much anxiety slip into her end of the bond? It was such a delicate dance, trying to control her
emotions, to present just the right responses. It was almost like taking the test for the shawl, where every
weave had to be made exactly so, without the slightest falter, despite every manner of distraction, only
this test went on and on and on.
He turned his attention on Toveine, and Gabrelle exhaled softly. Just a smile, then. A
companionable gesture. He was often congenial. He might have been likable if he were anything but
what he was.
Toveine beamed back at him, and Gabrelle had to stop herself from shaking her head in
wonderment, not for the first time. Pulling her hood a little forward as though against the cold, so it
sheltered her face while giving her an edge to peek around, she studied the Red sister surreptitiously.
Everything she knew of the other woman said she buried her hates in shallow graves, if at all,
and Toveine loathed men who could channel as deeply as any Red Gabrelle had ever met. Any Red must
despise Logain Ablar, after the claims he had made, that the Red Ajah itself had set him up to become a
false Dragon. He might he holding his silence now, but the damage was done. There were sisters captive
with them who looked at Reds as though thinking they, at least were caught in a trap of their making.
Yet Toveine all but simpered at him.
Gabrelle bit her underlip in perplexed thought. True, Desandre and Lemai had ordered everyone
to achieve cordial relations with the Asha’man who held their bonds-the men must be lulled before the
sisters could do anything useful-but Toveine bristled openly at every command from either sister. She
had detested yielding to them, and might have refused if Lemai were not also Red, no matter that she
had admitted it must be so. Or that no one had recognized her authority once she led them into captivity.
She hated that, too. Yet that was when she had begun smiling at Logain.
For that matter, how could Logain sit at the other end of her bond and take that smile as anything
but fraud? Gabrelle had picked at that knot before, too, without coming close to untying it. He knew too
much about Toveine. Knowing her Ajah should have been enough. Yet Gabrelle felt as little suspicion in
him when he looked at the Red sister as when he looked at her. He was hardly free of suspicion; the man
was distrustful of everyone, it seemed. But less of any sister than of some Asha’man. That made no
sense, either.
He’s no fool, she reminded herself. So, why? And why for Toveine, as well? What is she
scheming at?
Abruptly, Toveine flashed that seemingly warm smile at her, and spoke as if she had voiced at
least one of her questions aloud. "With you near," she murmured in a mist of breath, "he’s barely aware
of me. You’ve made him your captive, sister."
Caught by surprise, Gabrelle flushed in spite of herself. Toveine never made conversation, and to
say she disapproved of Gabrelle’s situation with Logain was to understate drastically. Seducing him had
seemed such an obvious way to get close enough to learn his plans, his weaknesses. After all, even if he
was an Asha’man, she had been Aes Sedai long before he was born, and she was hardly a total innocent
when it came to men. He had been so surprised when he realized what she was doing that she almost
thought of him as the innocent. More fool she. Playing the Domani turned out to hide many surprises,
and a few pitfalls. Worst of all, a trap she could never reveal to anyone. Something she very much feared
that Toveine knew, though, at least in part. But then, any sister who had followed her lead must know,
too, and she thought several had. None had spoken of the problem, and none was likely to, of course.
Logain could mask the bond, in a crude way she believed would still allow her to find him however well
it hid his emotions, but sometimes when they shared a pillow, he let the masking slip. To say the least,
the results were ... devastating. There was no calm restraint, then, no cool study. Not much of reason at
all.
Hurriedly she summoned the image of the snowy landscape and fixed it in her mind. Trees and
boulders and smooth, white snow. Smooth, cold snow.
Logain did nor look back at her, or give any outward sign, but the bond told her that he was
aware of her momentary loss of control. The man brimmed with smugness! And satisfaction! It was all
she could do nor to seethe. But he would expect her to seethe, burn him! He had to know what she felt
from him. Letting her anger rise, though, only filled the fellow with amusement! And he was not even
attempting to hide it!
Toveine was wearing a small, satisfied smile, Gabrelle noticed, but she had only a moment to
wonder why.
They had the morning to themselves, but now another rider appeared through the trees, a
cloakless man in black who angled his horse in their direction when he saw them, and dug his bootheels
into his animal’s flanks for speed despite the snow. Logain reined in to wait, the image of calm, and
Gabrelle stiffened as she halted her mount beside him. The feelings carried by the bond had shifted.
Now they were the tension of a wolf waiting to spring. She expected to see his gauntleted hands on his
sword hilt rather than resting at ease on the tall pommel of his saddle.
The newcomer was almost as tall as Logain, with waves of golden hair to his wide shoulders and
a winning smile. She suspected he knew it was a winning smile. He was too pretty not to know, much
more beautiful than Logain. Life’s forges had hardened Logain’s face, and left edges. This young man
was smooth, yet. Still, the Sword and the Dragon decorated his coat collar. He studied the two sisters
with bright blue eyes. "Are you bedding both of them, Logain?" he said in a deep voice. "The plump one
looks cold-eyed, to me, but the other appears warm enough," Toveine hissed angrily and Gabrelle’s jaw
clenched. She had made no real secret of what she did-she was no Cairhienin, to cloak in privacy what
she was ashamed of in public-but that did not mean she expected to have it bantered about-Worse, the
man spoke as though they were tavern lightskirts!
"Don’t ever let me hear that again, Mishraile," Logain said quietly, and she realized the bond had
changed again. It was cold, now; cold to make the snow seem warm. Cold to make a grave seem warm.
She had heard that name before, Aral Mishraile, and felt distrust in Logain when he spoke it-certainly
more than he felt for her or Toveine-but this was the feel of killing. It was almost laughable. The man
held her prisoner, yet he was ready to do violence to defend her reputation? Part of her did want to
laugh, but she tucked the information away. Any scrap might be useful. The younger fellow gave no
sign of hearing a threat. His smile never faltered. "The M’Hael says you can go, if you want. Can’t see
why you’d want to take on recruiting."
"Someone has to," Logain replied in a level tone.
Gabrelle exchanged puzzled glances with Toveine. Why would Logain want to go recruiting?
They had seen parties of Asha’man return from that, and they were always tired from Traveling long
distances, and usually dirty and snappish besides. Men bearing the drum for the Dragon Reborn did not
always get the warmest welcome; it seemed even before anyone learned what they were really after.
And why were she and Toveine just hearing of it. She would have sworn he told her everything when
they were lying together.
Mishraile shrugged. "Plenty of Dedicated and Soldiers to do that sort of work. Of course, I
suppose it bores you looking after training all the time. Teaching fools to sneak around in the woods and
climb cliffs as if they couldn’t channel a whisker. Even a flyspeck village might look better." His smile
slid into a smirk, disdainful and not at ail winning. "Maybe if" you ask the M’Hael he’ll let you join his
classes at the palace. You wouldn’t be bored then."
Logain’s face never changed, but Gabrelle felt one sharp bolt of fury through the bond. She had
overheard tidbits about Mazrim Taim and his private classes, but all any of the sisters really knew was
that Logain and his cronies did not trust Taim or any who attended his lessons, and Taim appeared not to
trust Logain. Unfortunately, what the sisters could learn of the classes was limited; no one was bonded
to a man of Taim’s faction. Some thought the mistrust was because both men had claimed to be the
Dragon Reborn or even a sign of the madness that channeling brought to men. She had not detected any
evidence of insanity in Logain, and she watched for it as hard as she watched for signs he was about to
channel. If she were still bound to him when he went mad, it might seize her mind, too. Whatever
caused a crack in the Asha’man’s ranks must be exploited though.
Mishraile’s smile faded as Logain merely looked at him.
"Enjoy your flyspecks," he said finally pulling his horse around-A thud of his heel made the
animal spring away as he called over his shoulder, "Glory waits for some of us, Logain."
"He may nor enjoy his Dragon long," Logain murmured, watching the other man gallop off-
"He’s too free with his tongue." She did not think he meant the comment about her and Toveine, but she
could not fathom what else he could mean. And why was he suddenly worried? Hiding it very well,
especially considering the bond, but still, he was worried. Light, sometimes it seemed that knowing what
was in a man’s head made the confusion worse!
Abruptly he turned his gaze on her and Toveine, studying. A new thread of concern slipped
through the bond. About them? Or-an odd thought-for them?
"I fear we must cut short our ride," he said after a moment. "I have preparations to make."
He did not break into a gallop, but he still set a quicker pace back toward the village of the men
in training than he had coming out. He was concentrating on something, now; thinking hard, Gabrelle
suspected. The bond practically hummed with it. He must have been riding by instinct.
Before they had gone very far, Toveine moved her horse close to Gabrelle’s. Leaning in her
saddle, she tried to fix Gabrelle with an intent stare while darting quick glances at Logain as if afraid he
might look back and see them talking. She never seemed to pay attention to what the bond cold her. The
divided effort made her bob about like a puppet, in danger of falling.
"We must go with him" the Red whispered. "Whatever it takes, you must see to it." Gabrelle
raised her eyebrows, and Toveine had the grace to color, but she lost nothing of her insistence, "We
cannot afford to be left behind" she breathed hurriedly. "The man didn’t abandon his ambitions when he
came here. Whatever vileness he plans, we can do nothing if we aren’t right there when he tries."
"I can see what’s in front of my nose," Gabrelle said sharply, and felt relief when Toveine
simply nodded and fell silent. It was all Gabrelle could do to control the fear that was rising in her. Did
Toveine never think about what she must sense through the bond? Something that had always been there
in the connection with Logain-determination-now lay hard and sharp as a knife. She thought she knew
what it meant, this time, and knowing made her mouth dry. Against whom, she could not say but she
was sure that Logain Ablar was riding to war.
Slowly descending one of the wide hallways that spiraled gently through the White Tower, Yukiri felt
prickly as a starved cat. She could barely make herself listen to what the sister gliding beside her was
saying. The morning was still dim, first light darkened by the snow falling heavily on Tar Valon and the
middle levels of the Tower were as icy as a Borderland winter. Well, perhaps not so cold as that, she
allowed after a moment. She had not been that far north in a number of years, and memory expanded
what it did not shrink. That was the reason written records were so important. Except when you did not
dare write down anything, at least. Still, it was chill enough. For all the ancient builders’ cleverness and
skill, heat from the great furnaces in the basement never reached this high. Drafts made the flames dance
on the gilded standlamps, and some were strong enough to stir the heavy tapestries spaced along the
white walls, spring flowers and woodlands and exotic animals and birds alternating with scenes of
Tower triumphs that would never be displayed in the public areas below. Her own rooms, with their
warm fireplaces would once have been much more comfortable.
News from the outside world churned through her head despite her efforts to avoid it. Or rather,
more often, the lack of solid news. What eyes-and-ears reported from Altara and Arad Doman was all
confusion, and the few reports beginning to seep out of Tarabon again were frightening. Rumor put the
Borderland rulers everywhere from the Blight to Andor to Amadicia to the Aiel Waste; the only
confirmed fact was that none were where they were supposed to be, guarding the Blightborder. The Aiel
were everywhere and finally out of al’Thor’s control, it appeared, if they had ever been in it. The latest
news from Murandy made her want to grind her teeth and weep at the same time, while Cairhien...!
Sisters all over the Sun Palace, some suspected of being rebels and none known to be loyal, and still no
word of Coiren and her embassy since they departed the city, though they should have been back in Tar
Valon long since. And as if that were nor enough, al’Thor himself had vanished like a soap bubble yet
again. Could the tales that he had half-destroyed the Sun Palace be true? Light, the man could not go
mad yet! Or had Elaida’s witless offer of "protection" frightened him into hiding? Did anything frighten
him? He frightened her. He frightened the rest of the Hall, too, let them put whatever face on it they
wanted.
The only thing truly certain was that none of that mattered a spit in a rainstorm. Knowing so did
not help her mood in the slightest. Worry over being caught in a tangle of roses, even if the thorns might
kill you eventually, was a luxury when you had a knife point pressed to your ribs.
"Every time she’s left the Tower in the last ten years, it has been on her own affairs, so there are
no recent records to check," her companion murmured. "It’s difficult to learn exactly when she has been
out of the Tower and remain ... discreet." Her dark golden hair held back by ivory combs, Meidani was
tall, and slender enough to look over-balanced by her bosom, an effect emphasized by both the fit of her
dark silver embroidered bodice and the way she walked in a stoop to put her mouth more on the level of
Yukiri’s ear. Her shawl was caught on her wrists, the long gray fringe dragging on the floortiles.
"Straighten your backbone," Yukiri growled quietly. "My ears aren’t clogged with dirt."
The other woman jerked herself upright, faint splashes of color in her cheeks. Pulling her shawl
higher on her arms. Meidani half glanced over her shoulder coward her Warder Leonin, who was
following at a discreet distance. If they could barely hear the faint tinkle of the silver bells in the lean
man’s black braids, though, he could hear nothing said in a moderate tone. The man knew no more than
necessary-precious little, in fact, except that his Aes Sedai wanted certain things of him: that was enough
for any good Warder-and he might cause problems if he learned too much, but there was no need for
whispering. People who saw whispering wanted to know what the secret was.
The other Gray was no more the source of her irritation than the outside world, however, even if
the woman was a jackdaw in swan’s feathers. Not the main source, anyway. A disgusting thing, a rebel
pretending loyalty, yet Yukiri was actually glad that Saerin and Pevara had convinced her that they
should not yet turn Meidani and her sister jackdaws over to Tower Law. Their wings were clipped, now,
and they were useful. They might even gain a measure of clemency, for when they did face justice. Of
course, when the oath that had clipped Meidani’s wings came out; Yukiri might easily rind herself
wishing for clemency. Rebels or not, what she and the others had done with Meidani and her
confederates was as far outside the law as murder. Or treason. An oath of personal obedience-sworn on
the Oath Rod itself; sworn under duress-was all too close to Compulsion, which was clearly prohibited if
not really defined. Still, sometimes you had to smudge the plaster to smoke out hornets, and the Black
Ajah were hornets with venomous stings. The law would have its course in due time-without the law
there was nothing-but she needed to be more concerned with whether she would survive the smoking out
than with what penalties the law would exact. Corpses had no need to worry about punishment.
She motioned curtly for Meidani to go on, but no sooner had the other woman opened her mouth
than three Browns rounded a corner from another hallway right in front of them, flaunting their shawls
like Greens. Yukiri knew Marris Thornhill and Doraise Mesianes slightly, in the manner Sitters knew
sisters from other Ajahs who spent long periods in the Tower, which was to say enough to attach names
to faces and not much more. Mild and absorbed in their studies was how she would have described
them, if pressed. Elin Warrel was so newly raised to the shawl, she still should have been bobbing
curtsies on instinct. Instead of offering courtesies to a Sitter, though, all three stared at Yukiri and
Meidani the way cats stared at strange dogs. Or maybe dogs at strange cats. No mildness, there.
"May I ask about a point of Arafellan law Sitter?" Meidani said, as smoothly as if that was what
she had been intending to say all along.
Yukiri nodded, and Meidani began rambling about fishing rights on rivers versus lakes, hardly an
inspired choice. A magistrate might ask an Aes Sedai to listen to a case of fishing rights, but only to
bolster her own opinion if powerful people were involved and she was worried about an appeal to the
throne.
A single Warder trailed the Browns-Yukiri could not recall whether he belonged to Marris or
Doraise-a heavy-set fellow with a hard round face and a dark top-knot who eyed Leonin and the swords
on his back with a distrust surely picked up from his sister. That pair stalked by up the slowly spiraling
corridor with plump chins high, the skinny newling leaping anxiously to keep up. The Warder strode
after them radiating the air of a man in hostile country.
Hostility was all too usual, nowadays. The invisible walls between the Ajahs, once barely thick
enough to hide each Ajah’s own mysteries, had become hard stone ramparts with moats. No, not moats;
chasms, deep and wide. Sisters never left their own Ajah’s quarters alone, often took their Warders even
to the library and the dining rooms, and always wore their shawls, as though someone might mistake
their Ajah, otherwise. Yukiri herself was wearing her best, embroidered in silver and thread-of-gold,
with the long silk fringe that hung to her ankles. So she supposed she was flaunting her Ajah a bit, too.
And lately, she had been considering that a dozen years was long enough to go without a Warder. A
horrible thought, once she sifted out the source. No sister should have need of a Warder inside the White
Tower.
Not for the first time, the thought hit her hard that someone had to mediate among the Ajahs, and
soon, or the rebels would dance in through the front door, bold as thieves, and empty the house while the
rest of them squabbled over who got great-aunt Sumi’s pewter. But the only end of the thread she could
see to begin working out the snarl was to have Meidani and tier friends publicly admit that they had
been sent to the Tower by the rebels to spread rumors-tales they still insisted were true! -That the Red
Ajah had created Logain as a false Dragon. Could it be true. Without Pevara knowing? Impossible to
think that a Sitter, especially Pevara, could have been fooled. In any case, that bit of the tangle had been
overlaid with so many others by now that it scarcely could make any difference by itself. Besides, it
would throw away the aid of ten out of the fourteen women she could be sure were not Black Ajah, not
to mention likely exposing what the rest of them were doing, before the storm over it blew out.
She shivered, and it had nothing to do with drafts in the corridor. She and every other woman
who might reveal the truth would die before that storm ended, by so-called accident or in bed. Or she
might just vanish, apparently gone out of the Tower never to be seen again. She had no doubt of that.
Any evidence would be buried, so deep; an army with shovels could never dig it up. Even rumors would
be plastered over. It had happened before. The world and most sisters still believed Tamra Ospenya had
died in her bed. She had believed it. They had to have the Black Ajah wrapped up and tied as near as
possible, before they dared risk going public.
Meidani took up her report again once the Browns were safely past, but fell silent only moments
later when, just ahead of them, a big hairy hand suddenly thrust aside a tapestry from behind. An icy
draft swept out of the doorway that had been hidden by the tapestry’s brightly colored birds from the
Drowned Lands, and a heavy fellow in a thick brown work coat backed into the corridor, pulling a handcart
stacked high with split hickory that another serving man in a rough coat was pushing from behind.
Common laborers; neither had the white Flame on his chest.
At sight of two Aes Sedai the men hastily let the tapestry fall back into place and wrestled their
cart out of the way against the wall while trying to make their bows, almost toppling the load, which set
them grabbing at the sliding fire-wood frantically. No doubt they had expected to finish their work
without encountering any sisters. Yukiri always felt sympathy for the people who had to haul wood and
water and everything else up the servants’ ramps all the way from the ground, but she strode past them
with a scowl. Talk while walking was never overheard, and the hallways in the common areas had
seemed a good place to be private with Meidani. Much better than her own apartments, where any ward
against eavesdropping would only announce to everyone in the Gray quarter that she was discussing
secrets, and far worse, with whom. There were only two hundred or so sisters in the Tower at the
moment, a number the White Tower could swallow and seem vacant, and with everyone keeping to
themselves, the common areas should have been empty. So she had thought.
She had taken into account the livened servants rushing about to check lampwicks and oil levels
and a dozen other things, and the plain-clad workers carrying wicker baskets of the Light knew what on
their backs. They were always about in the early hours, readying the Tower for the day, but they made
hasty bows and curtsies and scurried to get out of a sister’s way. Out of hearing. Tower servants knew
how to be tactful, especially since anyone eavesdropping on a sister would be shown the door. Given the
present mood in the Tower, the servants were particularly quick to avoid so much as a chance of
overhearing things they should not.
What she had failed to reckon on was how many sisters would choose to walk outside the
quarters, by twos and threes, despite the hour and the cold, Reds trying to stare down anyone they
encountered except other Reds. Greens and Yellows competing for the crown of haughty and Browns
doing their best to outdo both. A few Whites, all but one Warderless, attempted to maintain a facade of
cool reason while jumping at their own footfalls. One little group was not out of sight for more than
minutes; it seemed, before another appeared, so Meidani spent nearly as much time chattering about
points of law as she did giving her report.
Worst of all, twice Grays smiled in what looked like relief on seeing others of their Ajah, and
would have joined them had Yukiri nor shaken her head. Which infuriated her no end because it let all
who saw know she had special reason to be alone with Meidani. Even if the Black Ajah took no notice,
and the Light send there was no reason they should, too many sisters spied on other Ajahs these days,
and in spite of the Three Oaths, the tales they carried somehow grew in the carrying. With Elaida
apparently dying to force the Ajahs into line by brute force, those tales too often resulted in penances,
and the best to be hoped for was that you could pretend to have chosen to rake it on for reasons of your
own. Yukiri had already suffered through one such, and she had no desire to waste days scrubbing floors
again, especially now that she had more on her plate than she knew what to do with. And taking the
alternative, a private visit to Silviana, was no better, even if it did save time! Elaida seemed fiercer than
ever since she summoned Silviana for her own supposedly private penance. The whole Tower was still
buzzing with that.
As much as Yukiri hated admitting it all that made her careful how she looked at the other sisters
she saw. Look too long, and you might seem to be spying yourself. Shift your gaze away too fast, and
you looked furtive, with the same result. Even so, she could barely keep her eyes from lingering on one
pair of Yellows who glided along a crossing corridor like queens in their own palace.
The dark stocky Warder following just far enough behind to give them privacy must have
belonged to Pritalle Nerbaijan, a green-eyed woman who had largely escaped the Saldaean nose,
because Atuan Larisett had no Warder. Yukiri knew little about Pritalle, but she would learn more after
seeing her in close conversation with Atuan. In high-necked gray slashed with yellow and a silk-fringed
shawl, the Taraboner was striking. Her dark hair, in thin, brightly beaded braids that hung to her waist,
framed a face that somehow seemed perfect as it was without being beautiful. She was even fairly
modest, at least as Yellows went. But she was the woman Meidani and the others were trying to study
without being caught out. The woman whose name they were afraid to speak aloud except behind strong
wards, Atuan Larisett was one of only three Black sisters Talene knew. That was how they organized
themselves; three women who knew each other, with each knowing one more the other two did not.
Atuan had been Talene’s "one more," so there was some hope she could be followed to two others.
Just before the pair passed out of view beyond the corner, Atuan glanced up the spiral hallway.
Her gaze only brushed by Yukiri, yet that was enough to make Yukiri’s heart leap into her throat. She
kept walking, holding her face calm with an effort, and risked a quick glance of her own when she
reached the corner. Atuan and Pritalle were already well along the corridor, heading toward the outer
ring. The Warder was in the way, but neither was looking back. Pritalle was shaking her head-To
something Atuan was saying? They were too far for Yukiri to hear any sound other than the faint click
of the dark Warder’s bootheels on the floor-tiles. It had just been a glance. Of course, it had. She
quickened her step to take her beyond sight if one of them did look over a shoulder, and let out a long
breath she had not realized she was holding. Meidani echoed her faintly her shoulders sagging.
Strange, how it takes us, Yukiri thought, squaring her own shoulders. When they first learned
Talene was a Darkfriend; Talene had been a shielded prisoner. And she still scared spitless, she admitted
to herself. Well, what they did to make her confess had scared them spitless first, but learning the truth
turned their tongues to dust. Now Talene was tethered tighter than Meidani, closely guarded even if she
did appear to walk free-how to keep a Sitter prisoner without anyone noticing had been beyond even
Saerin-and she was pathetically eager to offer up every scrap she knew or even suspected in hope it
might save her life not that she had any choice. Hardly an object of fear. As for the rest...
Pevara had tried to maintain that Talene must be wrong about Galina Casban, and went into a
rage that lasted a full day when she finally was convinced that her Red sister was really Black. She still
spoke of strangling Galina with her own hands. Yukiri herself had felt a cold detachment when Temaile
Kinderode was named. If there were Darkfriends in the Tower, it stood to reason some had to be Grays,
though perhaps disliking Temaile helped. She remained cool even after she did die sums and realized
that Temaile had left the Tower at the same time that three sisters were murdered. That provided more
names for suspicion, other sisters who had gone then, too, but Galina and Temaile and the rest were out
of the Tower, beyond reach for the moment, and only the two could be proven Darkfriends.
Atuan was right there, Black Ajah without doubt, walking the Tower as she wished, unrestrained
and unbound of the Three Oaths. And until Doesine could arrange for her to be questioned in secret-a
difficult matter, even for a Sitter of Atuan’s Ajah, since it had to be secret from everyone-until then, all
they could do was watch. A distant, carefully circumspect watching. It was like living with a red adder,
never knowing when you would find yourself eye-to-eye with it, never knowing when it might bite. Like
living in a den of red adders, and only being able to see one.
Suddenly, Yukiri realized that the wide, curving corridor was empty ahead as far as she could
see, and a glance back showed only Leonin behind. The Tower might have been empty save of the three
of them. Nothing in sight moved except the flickering flames on the stand lamps. Silence. Meidani gave
a small start. "Forgive me, Sitter. Seeing her so suddenly took me aback. Where was I? Oh, yes. I
understand that Celestin and Annharid are trying to find out her close friends in the Yellow." Celestin
and Annharid were Meidani’s fellow conspirators, both Yellow. There were two from each Ajah-except
the Red and the Blue, of course-which had proven very useful "I fear that won’t be much help. She has a
wide circle of friends, or did before the... current situation rose between the Ajahs." A touch of
satisfaction tinged her voice, however smooth her face; she was still a rebel, in spite of the added oath.
"Investigating all of them will be difficult, if not impossible."
"Forget her for the moment." It took an effort for Yukiri not to crane her neck trying to look
every way at once. A tapestry worked with large white flowers rippled slightly, and she hesitated until
she was sure it was a draft and not another servant coming our of a servant’s ramp. She never could
recollect where they were located. Her new topic was as dangerous as discussing Atuan, in its own way.
"Last night, I remembered you were a novice with Elaida, and close friends as I recall It would be a
good idea for you to renew that friendship.’
"That was some years ago," the taller woman replied stiffly, lifting her shawl to her shoulders
and wrapping it around herself as chough she suddenly felt the cold. "Elaida very properly broke it off
when she was raised Accepted. She might have been accused of favoritism if I were in a class she was
given to teach."
"As well for you that you weren’t a favorite," Yukiri said dryly. Elaida’s current ferocity had its
precedent. Before she went off to Andor years ago, she had pushed those she favored so hard that sisters
had needed to step in more than once. Siuan Sanche had been one of them, strange to remember, though
Siuan had never needed rescuing from standards she could not meet. Strange and sad. "Even so, you will
do everything in your power to renew that friendship."
Meidani walked two dozen paces along the corridor opening and closing her mouth, adjusting
and readjusting her shawl, twitching her shoulders as though trying to shrug off a horsefly, looking
everywhere but at Yukiri. How had the woman ever functioned as a Gray with so little self-control? "I
did try," she said finally, in a breathy tone. She still avoided Yukiri s eye." Several times. The Keeper . .
. Alviarin always put me off. The Amyrlin was busy, she had appointments, she needed rest. There was
always some excuse. I chink Elaida just doesn’t want to take up a friendship she dropped more than
thirty years ago."
So the rebels had remembered that friendship, too. How had they thought to use it? Spying, most
likely. She would have to mid out how Meidani was supposed to pass on what she learned. In any case,
the rebels had provided the tool, and Yukiri would use it. "Alviarin is out of your way. She left the
Tower yesterday, or maybe the day before. No one is quite certain. But the maids say she took spare
clothes, so it’s unlikely she’ll return for a few days at the soonest."
"Where could she have gone in this weather?" Meidani frowned. "It’s been snowing since
yesterday morning, and it was threatening before."
Yukiri stopped and used both hands to turn the other woman to face her. "The only thing that
need concern you, Meidani, is that she’s gone," she said firmly. Where had Alviarin gone in this? "You
have a clear path to Elaida, and you will take it. And you will keep a close watch to see if any-one might
be reading Elaida’s papers, just be sure no one sees you watching." Talene said the Black Ajah knew
every-thing that came out of the Amyrlin’s study before it was announced, and they needed someone
close to Elaida if they were to find out how it was done. Of course, Alviarin saw everything before
Elaida signed, and the woman had taken on more authority than any Keeper in memory, but that was no
reason to accuse her of being a Darkfriend. No reason not to, either. Her past was being investigated,
too. "Watch Alviarin, as well as much as you can, but Elaida’s papers are the important thing."
Meidani sighed and gave a reluctant nod. She might have to obey, but she knew the added
danger she would be in if Alviarin did turn out a Darkfriend. Yet Elaida herself still might be Black,
whatever Saerin and Pevara insisted. A Darkfriend as Amyrlin Seat. Now that was a thought to pickle
your heart.
"Yukiri!" a woman’s voice called from back up the hallway. A Sitter in the Hall of the Tower
did not jump like a startled goat at hearing her own name, but Yukiri did. If she had not been holding
onto Meidani, she might have fallen, and as it was, the pair of them staggered like drunken farmers at a
harvest dance.
Recovering, Yukiri jerked her shawl straight and set her face in a scowl that did not diminish
when she saw who was running toward her. Seaine was supposed to be keeping close to her own rooms,
with as many White sisters around her as she could manage, when she was not with Yukiri or one of the
other Sitters who knew about Talene and the Black Ajah, but here she was scurrying down the hallway
with only Bernaile Gelbarn, a stocky Taraboner and another of Meidani’s jackdaws, for company.
Leonin stepped aside, and gave Seaine a formal bow, fingertips pressed to his heart. Meidani and
Bernaile were foolish enough to exchange smiles. They were friends, but they should know better, when
they could not tell who might see.
Yukiri was in no mood for smiles. "Taking the air, Seaine?" she said sharply. "Saerin won’t be
pleased, when I tell her. Not at all pleased. I’m not pleased, Seaine." Meidani made a small sound in her
throat, and Bernaile’s head twitched, her multitude of narrow beaded braids rattling against one another.
The pair of them took to studying a tapestry that supposedly showed the humbling of Queen Rhiannon,
and for all their smooth faces, clearly they wished they were somewhere else. In their eyes, Sitters were
supposed to be equals. And so they were. Normally. After a fashion. Leonin should not have been able
to hear a word, but he could feel Meidani s mood, of course, and he moved a step further away. While
still keeping watch along the corridor, of course. A good man. A wise man. Seaine had sense enough to
look abashed. Unconsciously, she smoothed her dress, covered with snowy embroidery along the hem
and across the bodice, but almost immediately her hands knotted in her shawl and her eyebrows drew
down stubbornly. Seaine had been strong-willed from the day she first came to the Tower, a furnituremaker’s
daughter from Lugard who had talked her father into buying passage for her and her mother.
Passage for two upriver, but only one down. Strong-willed and confident. And frequently as blind to the
world around her as any Brown. Whites were often like that, all logic and no judgment. "There’s no
need for me to hide from the Black Ajah, Yukiri," she said.
Yukiri winced. Fool woman, naming the Black right out in the open. The corridor was still
empty in both directions as far as the curve allowed sight, but carelessness led to more carelessness. She
could be stubborn herself, when there was need, but at least she showed more brain than a goose about
when and where. She opened her mouth to give Seaine a piece of her mind, a sharp piece, but the other
woman rushed on before she could speak.
"Saerin told me I could find you." Seaine’s mouth tightened and spots of color flared in her
cheeks, at having asked permission or at having to ask. It was understandable for her to resent her
situation, of course. Just witless for her not to accept it. I need to talk to you alone, Yukiri. About the
second mystery."
For a moment, Yukiri was as puzzled as Meidani and Bernaile looked. They could sham not
listening, but that did not shut their ears. Second mystery? What did Seaine mean? Unless . . . Could she
mean the thing that had brought Yukiri into the hunt for the Black Ajah in the first place? Wondering
why the heads of the Ajahs were meeting in secret had lost its urgency compared to finding Darkfriends
among the sisters.
"Very well, Seaine," Yukiri said, more calmly than she felt. "Meidani, take Leonin down the hall
until you can just see Seaine and me around the curve. Keep a sharp eye for anyone coming this way.
Bernaile, do the same up the hall." They were moving before she finished speaking, and as soon as they
were out of earshot, she turned her attention to Seaine. "Well?"
To her surprise, the glow of saidar sprang up around the White Sitter, who wove a ward against
eavesdropping around the pair of them. It was a clear sign of secrets to any one who saw. This had better
be important.
"Think about it logically." Seaine’s voice was calm, but her hands still gripped her shawl in fists.
She stood very straight, towering over Yukiri though she was not much above average height herself.
"It’s more than a month, almost two, since Elaida came to me, and nearly two weeks since you found
Pevara and me. If the Black Ajah knew about me, I would be dead by now. Pevara and I would have
been dead before you and Doesine and Saerin ever walked in on us, Therefore, they don’t know. About
any of us. I admit I was frightened, at first, but I have control of myself, now. There’s no reason for the
rest of you to keep trying to treat me like a novice," a little heat invaded the calmness, "and a brainless
one, at that."
"You’ll have to talk to Saerin," Yukiri said curtly. Saerin had taken charge from the start. After
forty years in the Hall for the Brown, Saerin was very good at taking charge and Yukiri had no intention
of going against her unless she must, not without the Sitter’s privilege she could hardly claim in the
circumstances. As well try to catch a falling boulder. If Saerin could be convinced, Pevara and Doesine
would come around, and she herself would hardly try to stand in the way. "Now, what about this second
secret? You do mean the Ajah heads meeting?"
Seaine’s face took on a muley expression. Yukiri almost expected her ears to lie back. Then she
exhaled. "Did the head of your Ajah have a hand in choosing Andaya for the Hall? More than usual, I
mean?"
"She did," Yukiri replied carefully. Everyone had been sure Andaya would go into the Hall one
day perhaps in another forty or fifty years, yet Serancha had all but anointed her, when the customary
method was discussion until a consensus could he reached on two or three candidates, then a secret
ballot. That was Ajah business, though, as secret as Serancha’s name and title.
"I knew it." Seaine nodded excitedly, not at all her normal manner. "Saerin says that Juilaine was
hand-picked for the Brown, too, apparently not their usual way, and Doesine says the same about Suana,
though she was hesitant about saying anything. I think Suana maybe the head of the Yellow herself. In
any case, she was a Sitter for forty years the first time, and you know it isn’t common to take a chair
after you were a Sitter that long. And Ferane stepped down for the White less than ten years ago; no one
has ever entered the Hall again so soon. To cap it off, Talene says the Greens nominate choices and their
Captain-General chooses one, but Adelorna chose Rina without any nominations."
Yukiri managed to stifle a grimace, but only by a hair. Everyone had their suspicions about who
headed other Ajahs, else no one would ever have noticed the meetings in the first place, yet speaking
those names aloud was rude at best. Anyone but a Sitter might face penance for it. Of course, she and
Seaine both knew when it came to Adelorna. In her attempts to curry favor, Talene poured our all the
secrets of the Green without being asked. It embarrassed all of them, except Talene herself. At least it
explained why the Greens had been in such an outstanding rage when Adelorna was birched. Still,
Captain-General was a ridiculous title, Battle Ajah or no Battle Ajah. At least Head Clerk really
described what Serancha did, in a manner of speaking. Down the corridor, Meidani and her Warder were
standing just in sight on the curve, apparently talking quietly. One or the other always watched further
down around the curve, though. In the opposite direction, Bernaile was just in sight, too. Her head was
swiveling constantly as she tried to watch Yukiri and Seaine while keeping an eye out for anyone
approaching. The way she kept shifting from one foot to the other would attract attention, too, but these
days a sister alone outside her Ajah quarter was asking for trouble, and she knew it. This conversation
had to end soon.
Yukiri raised one finger. "Five Ajahs had to choose new Sitters after women they had in the Hall
joined the rebels.’ Seaine nodded, and Yukiri raised a second finger. "Each of those Ajahs chose a
woman as Sitter who wasn’t the . . . logical... choice." Seaine nodded again. A third ringer joined the
first two. "The Brown had to choose two new Sitters, but you didn’t mention Shevan. Is there
anything..." Yukiri smiled wryly, "odd . . . about her?"
"No; according to Saerin, Shevan would likely have been her replacement: when she decided to
step down, but-"
"Seaine, if you’re actually implying the Ajah heads conspired over who would go into the Halland
I never heard of a more cracked-brained notion! -If that’s what you’re suggesting, why would they
choose five odd women and one who isn’t?’
"Yes, I am suggesting it. With the rest of you keeping me practically under lock and key, I’ve
had more time for thinking than I know what to do with. Juilaine and Rina and Andaya gave me a hint,
and Ferane made me decide to check." What did Seaine mean about Andaya and the other two giving a
hint? Oh. Of course; Rina and Andaya were not really old enough to he in the Hall yet, either. The
custom of not talking about age soon enough became the habit of not thinking about it, either.
"Two might have been coincidence," Seaine went on, "even three, though that strains credulity,
but five makes a pattern. Except for the Blue, the Brown was the only Ajah to have two Sitters join the
rebels. Maybe there’s a reason in that why they chose one odd sister and one not, if I can figure it out.
But there is a pattern, Yukiri-a puzzle-and whether it’s rational or not, something tells me we had better
solve it before the rebels get here. It makes me feel as though some-body’s hand is on my shoulder, but
when I look, there isn’t anyone there."
What strained credulity was the idea of the Ajah heads conspiring in the first place. But then,
Yukiri thought, a conspiracy of Sitters is beyond far-fetched, and I’m in the middle of one. And there
was the simple fact that no one outside an Ajah was supposed to know the Ajah’s head, but the other
Ajah heads against all custom did. "If there’s a puzzle" she said wearily, "you have a long time to solve
it. The rebels can’t leave Murandy before spring, whatever they’ve told people, and the march upriver
will take months, if they hold their army together that long." She did not doubt they would, though, not
any longer. "Go back to your rooms before someone sees us standing here warded, and think on your
puzzle," she said, not unkindly, resting a hand on Seaine’s sleeve. "You’ll have to put up with being
looked after until we’re all sure you are safe."
The expression on Seaine’s face would have been called sullen on anyone but a Sitter. "I’ll speak
to Saerin again," she said, but the light of saidar around her vanished.
Watching her join Bernaile and the two of them glide up the curving hallway toward the Ajah
quarters; both as wary as fawns when wolves were out, Yukiri felt a heavy heart. It was a pity the rebels
could not get there before summer. At least that might make the Ajahs come together again, so sisters
were not forced to slink about the White Tower. As well wish for wings, she thought sadly.
Determined to keep her mood in check, she went to gather up Meidani and Leonin. She had a
Black sister to investigate, and at least investigation was a puzzle she knew how to work.
Gawyn’s eyes popped open in the darkness as a new wave of cold rose into the hayloft. The barn’s thick
stonewalls normally kept out the worst of the nights chill, if only the worst. Voices murmured below; no
one sounded excited. He took his hand away from the sword lying beside him and tugged his gauntlets
tighter. Like all the rest of the Younglings, he slept in every stitch he could put on. Probably it was just
time to wake some of the men around him for their sentry turns, but he was fully awake now himself and
he doubted he would find sleep again soon. In any case, his sleep was always fretful troubled by dark
dreams, haunted by the woman he loved. He did not know where Egwene was, or whether she was alive.
Or whether she could forgive him. He stood up; letting the loose hay he had pulled over himself slide off
his cloak, and buckled on his sword belt.
As he picked his way among the shadowy mounds of men sleeping atop the stacked bales of hay,
the faint scrape of boots on wooden rungs told him someone was climbing the ladder to the loft. A dim
figure appeared at the top of the ladder, then stopped to wait for him.
"Lord Gawyn!" Rajar’s deep voice said softly in a Domani accent unaltered by six years training
in Tar Valon. The First Lieutenant’s rumbling voice was always a surprise, coming from a slight man
who stood barely higher than Gawyn’s shoulder. Even so, had times been different, Rajar surely would
have been a Warder by this time. "I thought I’d have to wake you. A sister just arrived, on foot. A
messenger from the Tower, She wanted the sister in charge here. I told Tomil and his brother to take her
to the Mayor’s house before they turned in for the night."
Gawyn sighed. He should have gone home when he returned to Tar Valon and found the
Younglings expelled from the city, instead of letting himself be caught here by winter. Especially when
he was sure Elaida wanted them all dead. His sister Elayne would come to Caemyln eventually, if she
was nor already there. Certainty any Aes Sedai would see that the Daughter-Heir of Andor reached
Caemlyn in time to claim the throne before someone else could. The White Tower would not give up the
advantage of a queen who would also be Aes Sedai. On the other hand, Elayne could be on her way to
Tar Valon, too, or residing in the White Tower right that minute. He did nor how she had become
entangled with Siuan Sanche, or how deeply-she always dove into a pond without checking the depthbut
Elaida and the Hall of the Tower might want to question her closely, Daughter-Heir or not. Queen or
not. He was sure she could not be held accountable, though. She was still only one of the Accepted. He
had to tell himself that frequently.
The newest problem was that an army lay between him and Tar Valon, now. At least twenty-five
thousand soldiers on this side of the River Erinin and, he had to believe, as many on the west bank. They
had to be supporting the Aes Sedai who Elaida called rebels. Who else would dare besiege Tar Valon
itself? The way that army had appeared, though, seeming to materialize out of nowhere in the middle of
a snowstorm, was enough to raise prickles on his back still. Rumor and alarms always flew ahead of any
large force under arms on the march. Always. This one had arrived like spirits, in silence. The army was
as real as stone, however, so he could neither enter Tar Valon to find whether Elayne was in the Tower,
nor ride south. Any army would take notice of upwards of three hundred men on the move, and the
rebels would have no good will toward the Younglings. Even if he went alone, travel in winter was very
slow, and he could reach Caemlyn as quickly if he waited until spring. There was no hope of finding
passage on a ship, either. The siege would mire river traffic in a hopeless snarl. He was mired in a
hopeless snarl.
And now an Aes Sedai had come in the middle of the night. She would not simplify matters any.
"Let’s find our what news she brought," he said quietly, motioning Rajar down the ladder ahead
of him, Twenty horses and their stacked saddles crowded nearly every inch of the dark barn nor taken by
Mistress Millin’s two dozen or so milk cows in their stalls, so he and Rajar had to thread their way to the
wide doors. The only warmth came from the sleeping animals. The two men guarding the horses were
silent shadows, but Gawyn could feel them watching Rajar and him slip out into the icy night. They
would know about the messenger, and be wondering.
The sky was clear, and the waning moon still gave a fair light. The village of Dorian shone with
snow. Holding their cloaks close, the pair of them trudged knee-deep through the village in silence,
along what had once been the road to Tar Valon from a city that had not existed for hundreds of years.
Nowadays, nobody traveled in this direction from Tar Valon except to come to Dorian, and there was no
reason to come in winter. By tradition, the village supplied cheeses to the White Tower and to no one
else. It was a tiny place, just fifteen slate-roofed, gray stone houses with drifts of snow piled up as high
as the bottoms of the first-floor windows. A little distance behind each house stood its cow barn ail
crowded with men and horses now, as well as cows. Most of Tar Valon might well have forgotten
Dorian existed. Who thought about where cheese came from? It had seemed a very good place for
keeping out of sight. Until now. All the houses but one in the village were dark. Light leaked through the
shutters on several windows of Master Burlow’s dwelling, upstairs and down. Garon Burlow had the
misfortune to own the largest house in Dorian, in addition to being Mayor. Any villager who had shifted
sleeping arrangements to find a bed for an Aes Sedai must be regretting it by now; and Master Burlow
had had two rooms already empty.
Stamping the snow from his boots on the stone step, Gawyn rapped on the Mayor’s stout door
with a gauntleted fist. No one answered, and after a moment he lifted the latch and led Rajar in.
The beam-ceilinged front room was fairly large for a farmhouse, and dominated by several call
open-front cabinets, full of pewter and glazed crockery and a long, polished table lined with high-back
chairs. All of the oil lamps had been lit, an extravagance in winter, when a few tallow candles would do,
but the flames in the fireplace had made little impression on the split logs, yet, or on the temperature of
the room. Even so, the two sisters who had rooms above were barefoot on the rugless wooden floor,
with fur-lined cloaks hung hastily over their linen nightdresses. Katerine Alruddin and Tarna Feir were
watching a small woman in a dark yellow-slashed riding dress and cloak that were snow damp to her
hips. She stood as near the wide hearth as she would, tiredly warming her hands and shivering. Afoot in
the snow, she could not have made the trip from Tar Valon in less than two or three days, and even Aes
Sedai felt the cold eventually. She had to be the sister Rajar had spoken of, yet compared to the others,
the agelessness was hardly noticeable in her. Compared to the other two, she was hardly noticeable at
all.
The absence of the Mayor and his wife put an extra knot in Gawyn’s middle, though he had half
expected it. They would have been there making over the Aes Sedai, offering hot drinks and food, no
matter the hour, unless they had been sent back to their beds to give Katerine and Tarna privacy with the
messenger. Which likely meant he was a fool to want to know the message. But he had known that
before he left the barn.
"... boatman said he would stay where we landed until the siege lifted," the small woman was
saying in weary tones as Gawyn entered., "but he was so frightened, he could be leagues downriver by
now." As the cold from the doorway reached her, she looked around., and some of the fatigue drained
from her square face. "Gawyn Trakand" she said. "I have orders for you from the Amyrlin Seat, Lord
Gawyn."
"Orders?" Gawyn said, drawing oft his gauntlets and tucking them behind his belt to gain time.
Blunt truth might be in order for once, he decided, "Why would Elaida send me orders? Why should I
obey if she did? She disowned me, and the Younglings." Rajar had taken a respectful stance for the
sisters, hands folded behind his back, and he gave Gawyn a quick sidelong glance. He would not speak
out of turn, whatever Gawyn said, but the Younglings did not share Gawyn’s belief. Aes Sedai did what
they did, and no man could know why until a sister told him. The Younglings had cast their lots with the
White Tower whole-heartedly, embracing fate.
"That can wait, Narenwin," Katerine snapped, jerking her cloak tighter. Her black hair spilled
around her shoulders half in tangles, as though she had taken a few hasty swipes with a comb and given
up. There was an intensity about her that reminded Gawyn of a hunting lynx. Or maybe one wary of
traps. She spared half a glance for him and Rajar; no more, "I have pressing business in the Tower. Tell
me how to find this nameless fishing village. Whether or not your boatman is still there, I’ll find
someone to take me across."
"And me," Tarna put in, her strong jaw stubborn and her blue eyes sharp as spears. In contrast to
Katerine, Tarna’s long, pale yellow hair was as neat as if she had had a maid attending her before
coming downstairs. She was every bit as focused, though, just more controlled, "I also have urgent
reason to reach the Tower without any further delay." She gave Gawyn a nod and Rajar a lesser, cool as
the marble she seemed carved from. Yet, more friendly than the face she showed Katerine or got in
return. There was always a stiffness between the two women, though they shared the same Ajah. They
did not like one another, perhaps even disliked each other. With Aes Sedai, it was hard to be sure.
Gawyn would not be sorry to see either leave. Tarna had ridden into Dorian barely a day after the
mysterious army arrived, and however Aes Sedai determined these things, she immediately displaced
Lusonia Cole from her room upstairs and Covarla Bildene from command of the eleven other sisters
already in the village. She might have been a Green from the way she took charge of everything,
questioning the other sisters about the situation, even inspecting the Younglings closely every day as
though searching for possible Warders. Having a Red study them that way made the men start looking
over their shoulders. Worse, Tarna spent long hours out riding, no matter the weather, trying to find
some local who could show her a way into the city past the besiegers. Sooner or later, she would lead
their scouts back to Dorian. Katerine had come only yesterday, in a fury at having her path to Tar Valon
blocked, and straightaway took command from Tarna and her room from Covarla. Not that she used her
authority in the same way. She avoided the other sisters, refusing to tell anyone why she had
disappeared at Dumai’s Wells or where she had been. But she, too, had inspected the Younglings. With
an air of a woman examining an axe she had a mind to use, and not a care how much blood was shed.
He would not have been surprised if she had tried to bully him into cut-ting a way to the bridges into the
city for her. He would be more than happy to see them go, in fact. But then, when they left, he would
have to deal with Narenwin. And with Elaida’s orders.
"It’s hardly a village, Katerine," the shivering sister said, "just three or four squalid little
fisherman’s houses a hill day downriver by land. More than that from here." Plucking at her damp skirts,
she held them nearer the fire. "We may be able to find a way to send messages into the city but you two
are needed here. All that stopped Elaida sending fifty sisters, or more, rather than just me, was the
difficulty of getting even one tiny boat across the river unseen, even in darkness. I must say, I was
surprised to learn there were any sisters this close to Tar Valon. Under the circumstances, every sister
who is outside the city must-"
Tarna cut her off firmly with a raised hand. "Elaida cannot even know I am here." Katerine
closed her mouth and frowned, her chin lifting, but she let the other Red continue. "What were her
orders to you regarding the sisters in Dorian, Narenwin?" Rajar took to studying the floorboards in front
of his boors. He had faced battle without flinching, yet only a fool wanted to be around Aes Sedai who
were arguing.
The short woman fussed with her divided skirts a moment longer. "I was ordered to take charge
of the sisters I found here," she said stuffily, "and do what I could." After a moment, she sighed, and
amended herself reluctantly. "The sisters I found here under Covarla. But, surely-"
This time, Katerine broke in "I was never under Covarla, Narenwin, so those orders cannot apply
to me. In the morning, I will set out to find these three or four fisherman’s huts."
"But-"
"Enough, Narenwin," Katerine said in an icy voice. "You can make your arrangements with
Covarla." The black-haired woman gave her Ajah sister a glance from the corner of her eye. "I suppose
you may accompany me, Tarna. A fishing boat should have room for two." Tarna bent her head the
slightest fraction, possibly in thanks.
Their business concluded, the pair of Reds gathered their cloaks around them and glided toward
the door deeper into the house. Narenwin shot a vexed look at their backs and turned her attention to
Gawyn, her face settling into the semblance of a calm mask.
"Have you any word of my sister?" he asked before she could open her mouth. "Do you know
where she is?" The woman really was tired. She blinked, and he could almost see her forming an answer
that would tell him nothing.
Stopping halfway to the door, Tarna said, "Elayne was with the rebels when I saw her last." Every head
jerked toward her. "But your sister is safe from retribution," she went on calmly "so put that our of your
mind. Accepted can’t choose which sisters to obey. I give you my word; under the law, she can suffer no
lasting harm of it.’ She seemed unaware of Katerine’s frozen stare, or Narenwin’s popping eyes.
"You could have told me before this," Gawyn said roughly. No one spoke roughly to Aes Sedai,
not more then once but he was past caring. Were the other two surprised that Tarna knew the answer, or
surprised that she had given it? "What do you mean by no lasting harm?"
The pale-haired sister barked a laugh. "I can hardly promise she won’t suffer a few welts if she
puts her feet too far wrong. Elayne is one of the Accepted, not Aes Sedai. Yet that protects her from
greater harm if she is led astray by a sister. And you never asked. Besides, she doesn’t need rescuing,
even if you could manage it. She is with Aes Sedai. Now you know as much as I can tell you of her, and
I am going to find a few hours more sleep before daylight. I will leave you to Narenwin."
Katerine watched her go without altering her expression by an eyelash, a woman of ice with the
eyes of a hunting cat, but then she herself strode from the room so quickly that her cloak flared behind
her.
"Tarna is correct," Narenwin said once the door closed behind Katerine. The small woman might
not make a good show of Aes Sedai serenity and mystery alongside the other two, but alone she
managed very well. "Elayne is sealed to the White Tower. So are you, for all your talk of disowning.
The history of Andor seals you to the Tower."
"The Younglings are all sealed to the Tower by our own choice, Narenwin Sedai," Rajar said,
making a leg formally. Narenwin’s gaze remained on Gawyn. He closed his eyes, and it was all he could
do nor to scrub at them with the heels or his hands. The Younglings were sealed to the White Tower. No
one would ever forger that they had fought, on the very grounds of the Tower, to stop the rescue of a
deposed Amyrlin. For good or ill, the tale would follow them to their graves. He was marked by that, as
well, and by his own secrets. After all that bloodshed, he was the man who had ler Siuan Sanche walk
free. More importantly, though, Elayne bound him to the White Tower, and so did Egwene al’Vere, and
he did not know which tied the tighter knot, the love of his sister or the love of his heart. To abandon
one was to abandon all three, and while he breathed, he could not abandon Elayne or Egwene.
"You have my word that I will do all I can," he said wearily.’ What does Elaida want of me?"
The sky above Caemlyn was clear, the sun a pale golden ball near its noonday peak. It shed a brilliant
light on the blanket of white covering the surrounding countryside, but gave no warmth. Still, the
weather was warmer than Davram Bashere would have expected back home in Saldaea, though he did
not regret the marten-fur lining his new cloak. Cold enough in any case for his breath to have frosted his
thick mustaches with more white than the years had put in them. Standing in ankle-deep snow among
the leafless trees on a rise perhaps a league north of Caemlyn, he held a long, gold-mounted looking
glass to his eye, studying the activity on lower ground about a mile south of him. Quick nosed his
shoulder impatiently from behind, but he ignored the bay. Quick disliked standing still, but sometimes
you had to, whatever you wanted.
A sprawling camp was going up down there among the scattered trees, astride the road to Tar
Valon, soldiers unloading supply wagons, digging latrines, erecting tents and building lean-tos of brush
and tree-limbs scattered in clumps of varying size, each lord and lady keeping their own men close.
They expected to be in place for some time. From the horse-lines and the general extent of the camp, he
estimated close to five thousand men, give or take a few hundred. Fighting men: fletchers, farriers,
armorers, laundresses, wagon drivers and other camp followers as good as doubled that, though as usual
they were making their own camp on the fringes. Most of the camp followers spent more time staring
toward the rise where Bashere stood than they did working. Here and there a soldier paused in his labors
to peer toward the higher ground, too, but bannermen and squadmen quickly drove them back to their
work. The nobles and officers riding about the rising camp never so much as glanced north, that Bashere
saw. A fold of land hid them from the city, though he could see the silver-streaked gray walls from his
rise. The city knew they were there, of course; they had announced themselves that morning with
trumpets and banners in sight of the walls. Well out of bowshot, though-Laying siege to a city with high,
strong walls that stretched more than six leagues in circumference was no easy matter, and complicated
in this instance by Low Caemlyn, the warren of brick and stone houses and shops, windowless
warehouses and long markets, that lay outside Caemlyn’s walls. Seven more like camps were being
made, though, spaced around the city where they could cover every road, every gate that would allow a
sizable, sortie. They already had patrols out, and likely watchers lurked in the now-deserted buildings of
Low Caemlyn. Small parties might get past into the city, maybe a few pack animals by night, but not
near enough to feed one of the world’s great cities. Hunger and disease ended more sieges than swords
or siege-engines ever did. The only question was whether they brought down besieged or besieger first.
The plan seemingly had all been well thought-out by someone, but what confused him were the
banners in the camp below. It was a strong looking glass, crafted by a Cairhienin named Tovere, a gift
from Rand al’Thor, and he could make out most of the banners whenever a breeze straightened them. He
knew enough of Andoran sigils to pick out the Oak and Axe of Dawlin, Armaghn and the five Silver
Stars of Daerilla Raned and several more banners of lesser nobles who supported Naean Arawn’s claim
to the Lion Throne and the Rose Crown of Andor. Yet Jailin Maran’s cross-lurched Red Wall was down
there, coo, and Carlys Ankerin’s paired White Leopards, and Erain Talkend’s golden Winged Hand. By
all reports, they were oath-sworn to Naean’s rival Elenia Sarand. Seeing them with the others was like
seeing wolves and wolfhounds sharing a meal. With a cask of good wine opened in the bargain-Two
other banners, gold-fringed and at least twice the size of any others, were on display as well, though
both were too heavy for the occasional gust to make them more than stir. They shone with the glisten of
thick silk. He had seen the pair clearly enough earlier, however, when the banner-men rode back and
forth atop the rise that hid their camp, the banners spread out above them in the breeze of their gallop.
One was the Lion of Andor, white on red, the same as flew from the tall round towers dotted along the
city wall. In both cases it was a declaration of someone’s right to the throne and crown. The second
large banner below him proclaimed the woman throwing her claim against that of Elayne Trakand. Four
silver moons on a field of twilight blue, the sign of House Marne. All this was in support of Arymilla
Marne? A month ago, she would have been lucky if anyone except her own House or that half-witted
Nasin Caeren gave her a bed for the night!
"They ignore us," Bael growled. I could break them before sunset, and leave not one alive to see
the sun rise again, yet they ignore us."
Bashere looked sideways at the Aielman. Sideways and up. The man towered above him by well
over a foot. Only Bael’s gray eyes and a strip of sun-dark skin were visible above the black veil drawn
across his face. Bashere hoped the man was just shielding his mouth and nose from the cold-He was
carrying his short spears and bull-hide buckler, and he had a cased bow on his back and a quiver at his
hip, but only the veil mattered. This was no time for the Aiel to start killing. Twenty paces down slope
toward the camp, thirty more Aielmen were squatting on their heels, holding their weapons casually.
One in three had his face bare, so maybe it was the cold. With Aiel, you could never be sure, though.
Quickly considering several approaches, Bashere decided on lightness. "Elayne Trakand would not like
that, Bael, and if you’ve forgotten what it’s like being a young man, that means Rand al’Thor won’t like
it."
Bael grunted sourly. "Melaine told me what Elayne Trakand said. We must do nothing on her
part. That is simple-minded. When an enemy comes against you, you make use of whoever will dance
the spears by your side. Do they play at war the way they play at their Game of Houses?" "We are
outlanders, Bael. That counts in Andor."
The huge Aielman grunted again.
There seemed no point trying to explain the politics involved. Outland help could cost Elayne
what she was trying to gain, and her enemies knew it and knew she knew it, so they had no fear of
Bashere or Bael or the Legion of the Dragon, whatever their numbers. In fact, despite the siege, both
sides would go to great effort to avoid pitched battle. It was a war, but of maneuver and skirmishes
unless someone blundered, and the winner would be whoever gained an unassailable position or forced
the other into one that could not be defended. Bael likely would see it as no different from Daes’
Dae’mar. In all truth, Bashere saw a great deal of similarity himself. With the Blight on its doorstep,
Saldaea could not afford contests for the throne-Tyrants could be endured, and the Blight soon killed the
stupid and the greedy, but even this peculiar sort of civil war would allow the Blight to kill Saldaea.
He returned to studying the camp through his looking glass, trying to puzzle out how an utter
fool like Arymilla Marne could have gained the backing of Naean Arawnand and Elenia Sarand. That
pair was greedy and ambitious, each utterly convinced of her own right to the throne, and if he
understood the tangled web Andorans used to decide these matters, each had far better claim than
Arymilla. Wolves and wolfhounds were nor in it. This was wolves deciding to follow a lapdog. Perhaps
Elayne knew the reason, but she would barely even exchange notes with him, brief and uninformative.
Too much chance someone would learn of it and think she was plotting with him. it was very like the
Game of Houses.
"Someone is going to dance the spears, it seems," Bael said, and Bashere lowered the ornate tube
long enough to find where the Aielman was pointing.
There had been a steady stream of people fleeing the city ahead of the siege for days, but
someone had left it too lade. Half a dozen canvas-topped wagons stood halded in the middle of the Tar
Valon road just outside the edge of Low Caemyln, surrounded by fifty horsemen under a blue-and-white
quartered banner that appeared to show a running bear, or maybe some sort of thick-bodied hound, when
it rippled in a sudden wind. Dispirited folk huddled to one side, clutching cloaks around themselves,
men with their heads down, children clinging to women’s skirts. Some of the horsemen had dismounted
to ransack the wagons; chests and boxes and even what looked to be clothes already dotted the snow.
Likely they were searching for coin or drink though any other valuable that turned up would go into
someone’s saddlebags too. Soon enough someone would cut free the wagon teams, or perhaps they
would just take the wagons. Wagons and horses were always useful for an army, and the peculiar rules
of this very peculiar Andoran civil war did not appear to give much protection to those who were in the
wrong place at the wrong time. But the city gates were swinging open, and as soon as the gap was wide
enough, red-coated lancers poured out of the twenty-foot high arch at a gallop, sunlight glittering on
lance-points and breastplates and helmets, thundering down the road between the long, empty markets.
The Queen’s Guards were coming out. Enough of them, anyway. Bashere swung his glass back to the
wagons.
Apparently the officer under the bear, if a bear it was, had done his sums already. Fifty against
two hundred made very poor odds, with only a few wagons at stake. The men who had dismounted were
back in their saddles, and even as Bashere found them, the lot of them galloped away north toward him,
the blue-and-white banner streaming behind its staff-Most of the people huddled beside the road stared
after the departing soldiers, their confusion as clear as if he had been able to make out their faces, but a
few immediately rushed to begin gathering up their scattered belongings out of the snow and piling them
back into the wagons.
The arrival of the Guardsmen, drawing rein around the wagons a few minutes later, put a quick
end to that. Guardsmen quickly began herding people toward the wagons-Some still tried to dart past
them for some prized belonging, and one man began waving his arms in protest at a Guardsman, an
obvious officer with white plumes on his helmet and a red sash across his breastplate, but the officer
leaned from the saddle and backhanded the protester in the face. The fellow went down on his back like
a stone, and after one frozen moment, everyone who was not already scrambling onto the wagons went
scurrying, except a pair of men who paused to pick up the fallen man by his shoulders and heels, and
they hurried as best they could carrying his limp weight, A woman up on the last wagon in line was
already lashing her reins to get her team turned around and headed back toward the city.
Bashere lowered the glass to study the camp, then pressed it back to his eye for a closer look.
Men were still digging away with shovel and mattock, and others wrestling sacks and barrels down from
wagons. Nobles and officers walked their horses about the camp, keeping an eye on the work. All calm
as cattle in pasture. Finally, someone pointed coward the rise between them and the city, then another
and another, and mounted men began to trot, plainly shouting orders. The bear-banner was just coming
into sight of the camp on the height.
Tucking the glass beneath his arm, Bashere frowned. They had no guards on the high ground to
warn them of what might be happening beyond their sight. Even in the certainty no one was going to
offer battle that was stupid. It might also be useful, if the other camps were as careless, and if no one
corrected the mistake. He puffed irritably through his mustaches. If he had been going to fight the
besiegers.
A glance showed him the wagons halfway back to the Tar Valon Gate with their escort of
Guardsmen, the wagon drivers lashing their teams as it pursuit were breathing down their necks. Or
maybe it was just the officer with the sash, who was waving his sword over his head for some reason.
"There’ll be no dancing today," he said.
"Then I have better to do with my day than watch wetlanders dig holes," Bael replied, "May you
always find water and shade, Davram Bashere"
"At the moment, I’d rather have dry feet and a warm fire," Bashere muttered without thinking!
Then wished he had not. Step on a man’s formality and he might try to kill you, and the Aiel were
formal and strange besides.
But Bael threw back his head and laughed. "The wet-lands turn everything on its head Davram
Bashere." A curious gesture of his right hand brought the other Aiel to their feet, and they loped off
eastward in long, easy strides. The snow did not seem to give them any difficulty.
Sliding his looking glass into the leather case hanging from Quick’s saddlebow, Bashere
mounted and turned the bay west. His own escort had been waiting on the reverse slope, and they fell in
behind him with only the faint creak of leather and never a jingle of unsecured metal. They numbered
fewer than Bael’s escort, but they were tough men from his estates at Tyr, and he had led them into the
Blight many times before bringing them south. Every man had his assigned part of the trail to watch,
ahead or behind, left or right, high or low, and their heads swiveled constantly. He hoped they were not
just going through the motions. The forest was sparse here, every branch bare except on oak and
leatherleaf pine and fir, but the snow-covered land rolled so that a hundred mounted men could be fifty
paces away and unseen. Not that he expected any such thing, but then, what killed you was always what
you never expected. Unconsciously, he eased his sword in its scabbard. You just had to expect the
unexpected.
Tumad had command of the escort, as he did most days Bashere did not have something more
important for the young lieutenant to do. He could think clearly and see beyond what was in front of
him; he was destined for higher rank, if he lived long enough. A tall man, if a couple of hands shorter
than Bael, today he wore disgruntlement on his face like a second nose.
"What troubles you, Tumad?"
"The Aielman was right, my Lord." Tumad tugged angrily at his thick black beard with a
gauntleted fist, "These Andorans spit at our feet. I do not like having to ride away while they thumb an
ear at us" Well he was still young.
"You find our situation boring, perhaps?" Bashere laughed. "You need more excitement?
Tenobia is only fifty leagues north of us, and if rumor can be believed, she brought Ethenielle of Kandor
and Paita of Arafel and even that Shienaran Easar with her. All the might of the Borderlands come
looking for us, Tumad. Those Andorans down in Murandy don’t like us being in Andor, either, so I hear,
and if that Aes Sedai army they’re facing doesn’t chop them to pieces, or hasn’t already they may come
looking for us. So may the Aes Sedai, for that matter, sooner or later. We’ve ridden for the Dragon
Reborn, and I can’t see any sister forgetting that. And then there are the Seanchan, Tumad. Do you
really think we’ve seen the last of them? They will come to us, or we will have to go to them; one or the
other is sure. You young men don’t know excitement when it’s crawling in your mustache!"
Quiet chuckles rippled through the men following, men as old as Bashere himself for the most
part, and even Tumad flashed white teeth through his beard in a grin. They had all been on campaign
before, if never one so odd as this. Straightening around, Bashere watched the way through the trees, but
with only half his attention.
In all truth, Tenobia did worry him. The Light only knew why Easar and the others had decided
to leave the Blightborder together, much less strip away as many soldiers as hearsay said they had
brought south. Even hearsay divided by half. Doubtless they had reasons they considered good and
sufficient, and doubtless Tenobia shared them. But he knew her; he had taught her to ride, watched her
grow up, presented her the Broken Crown when she took the throne. She was a good ruler, neither too
heavy-handed nor coo light, intelligent if not always wise, brave without being foolhardy, but impulsive
was a mild description of her. Sometimes "hot-headed" was mild. And he was as sure as he could be that
she had her own goal aside from whatever the others aimed at. The head of Davram Bashere. If that was
so, she was unlikely to settle for another period of exile, after coming this far. The longer Tenobia
worried a bone in her teeth, the harder it was to convince her to give it up. It was a neat problem. She
should be in Saldaea guarding the Blightborder, but so should he. She could convict him of treason
twice over at least for what he had done since coming south, but he still could see no other way to have
gone. Rebellion-Tenobia could define that loosely when she chose-rebellion was horrible to
contemplate, yet he wanted his head firmly attached to his neck a while longer. A neat and thorny
problem.
The encampment containing the eight thousand-odd light cavalry he had left after Illian and the
Seanchan spread wider than the camp back on the Tar Valon Road, but it could not be said to sprawl.
The horselines were uniform rows with a farrier’s forge at either end, stretched between equally straight
rows of large gray or shell-white tents, though those showed a good many patches, now. Every man
could be mounted and ready to ride inside a count of fifty from a trumpet signal, and his sentries were
placed to make sure they had that count and more. Even the camp-followers’ tents and wagons, a
hundred paces south of the rest, were more orderly than the soldiers’ besieging the city as though they
had followed the example of the Saldaeans. Somewhat, at least.
As he rode in with his escort, men moved quickly and grimly among the horselines, almost as if
the signal to mount had been sounded. More than one had his sword drawn. Voices called to him, but at
the sight of a large crowd of men and women, mostly women, gathered in the center of the camp, he felt
a sudden numbness inside. He dug in his heels, and Quick sprang forward at a gallop. He did not know
whether anyone followed him or not. He heard nothing but the blood pounding in his ears, saw no thing
but the crowd in front of his own sharp-peaked tent. The tent he shared with Deira.
He did not rein in on reaching the crowd, just threw himself out of the saddle and hit the ground
running. He heard people speak without taking in what they were saying. They parted in front of him,
opening a path to his tent, or he would have run them over.
Just inside the tentflaps, he halted. The tent, large enough for twenty soldiers to sleep in, was
crowded to the walls with women, wives of nobles and officers, but his eyes quickly found his own
wife, Deira, seated on a folding chair in the middle of the carpets that served as a floor, and the
numbness faded. He knew she would die one day-they both would-but the only thing he feared was
living without her. Then he realized that some of the women were helping her to lower her dress to her
waist. Another was pressing a folded cloth to Deira’s left arm, and the cloth was growing red as blood
ran down her arm in a sheet and dripped from her fingers into a bowl set on the carpet. There was a
considerable amount of dark blood already in the bowl.
She saw him at the same instant, and her eyes flashed in a face that was much too pale. "It
comes from hiring outlanders, husband," she said fiercely, her right hand shaking a long dagger at him.
As tall as most men, inches caller than he, and beautiful, her face framed with raven hair winged with
white, she had a commanding presence that could become imperious when she was angry. Even when
she obviously could barely sit upright. Most women would have been flustered at being bare to the waist
in front of so many, with her husband present. Not Deira. "If you did not always insist on moving like
the wind, we could have good men from our own estates to do whatever was needful."
"A dispute with servants, Deira?" he said, cocking an eyebrow. "I never thought you’d start
taking knives to them." Several of the women gave him cool, sidelong glances. Not every man and wife
dealt together as he and Deira did. Some thought them odd since they seldom shouted.
Deira scowled at him, then grunted a short, involuntary laugh. "I will start at the beginning
Davram. And go slowly, so you can understand, she added with a small smile, pausing to thank the
women who draped a white linen sheet around her bare torso. "I returned from my ride to find two
strange men ransacking our tent. They drew daggers, so naturally, I hit one of them with a chair and
stabbed the other." She directed a grimace at her cut arm. "Not well enough, since he managed to touch
me. Then Zavion and some of the others came in, and the pair fled through a slit they had made in the
rear of the tent."
Several of the women nodded grimly and gripped the hilts of the daggers they all wore. Until
Deira said darkly "I told them to give chase, but they insisted on tending my scratch." Hands dropped
away from hilts, and faces colored, though none looked in the least apologetic for disobeying. They had
been in a ticklish position. Deira was their liege lady as he was their liege lord, but whether or nor she
called it a scratch, she could have bled to death if they had left her to go chasing the thieves. "In any
event," she went on, "I ordered a search. They won’t be hard to find. One has a lump on his head, and
the other is bleeding." She gave a sharp, satisfied nod.
Zavion, the sinewy, red-haired Lady of Gahaur, held up a threaded needle "Unless you have
taken up an interest in embroider my Lord," she said coolly, "may I suggest that you withdraw."
Bashere acquiesced with a small bow of his head. Deira never liked him to watch her being
sewn up. He never liked watching her being sewn up. Outside the tent, he paused to announce in a loud
voice that his lady wife was well and being tended, and that they should all go on about their business.
The men departed with wishes for Deira’s well being, but none of the women stirred a foot. He did not
press them. They would remain until Deira herself appeared, whatever he said, and a wise man tried to
avoid battles he would not only lose, but look foolish losing.
Tumad was waiting on the edge of the crowd, and he fell in beside Bashere, who walked with his
hands clasped tightly behind his back. He had been expecting this, or something like, for a long time, but
he had almost begun to think it would not happen. And he had never expected Deira to nearly die
because of it.
"The two men have been found my Lord," Tumad said. "At least, they apparently meet the
description the Lady Deira gave." Bashere’s head jerked around, murder on his face, and the younger
man quickly added, "They were dead, my Lord, just outside the camp. Each got one thrust with a narrow
blade." He stabbed a ringer at the base of his skull, just behind the ear. "It had to be more than one did it,
unless he was faster than a rock viper."
Bashere nodded. The price of failure often was death. Two to search, and how many to silence
them? How many remained, and how long before they tried again? Worst of all, who was behind it? The
White Tower? The Forsaken? It seemed a decision had been reached for him. No one except: Tumad
was close enough to hear him, but he spoke softly anyway, and chose his words cautiously. Sometimes,
the price of carelessness was death, too. "You know where to find the man who came to me yesterday?
Find him, and tell him I agree, but there will be a few more than we talked about."
The light feathery snow falling on the city of Cairhien dimmed the morning sunlight only a little, just
muting the brightness. From the tall narrow window in the Sun Palace, fitted with a casement of good
glass panes against the cold, Samitsu could see clearly the wooden scaffolding erected around the ruined
section of the palace, broken cubes of dark stone still littered with rubble and stepped towers that
stopped abruptly short of equaling the rest of the palace’s towers. One, the Tower of the Risen Sun, was
simply no longer there. Several of the city’s fabled "topless" towers loomed through the drifting white
flakes, enormous square spires with huge buttresses, much taller by far than any in the palace despite its
location on the highest hill in a city of hills. They were wrapped in their own scaffolds and still not
completely rebuilt twenty years after the Aiel had burned them; another twenty might see them done.
There were no workmen clambering; along the planks on any of the scaffolding, of course, not in this
weather. She found herself wishing the snow could give her a respite, too.
When Cadsuane departed a week past, leaving her in charge, her task had appeared
straightforward. Make sure the Cairhienin pot did not begin to boil again. That had appeared a simple
task at the time, though she had seldom dabbled in politics to speak of only one noble retained sizable
forces under arms, and Dobraine was cooperative, for the most part, seeming to want everything kept
quiet. Of course, he had accepted that fool appointment as ‘Steward of Cairhien for the Dragon Reborn."
The boy had named a "Steward" of Tear, too, a man who had been in rebellion against him a month
gone! If he had done as much in Illian... It seemed all too probable. Those appointments would cause no
end of trouble for sisters to sort out before all was said and done! The boy brought nothing but trouble!
Yet so far Dobraine seemed to be using his new post only to run the city. And to quietly rally support for
Elayne Trakand s claim to the Sun Throne, if she ever made one. Samitsu was satisfied to leave it at that,
not caring one way or another who took the Sun Throne. She did not care much for Cairhien at all.
The falling snow beyond her window swirled in a gust of wind like a white kaleidoscope. So...
tranquil. Had she ever valued tranquility before? She certainly could not recall it, if she had.
Neither the possibility of Elayne Trakand taking the throne nor Dobraine’s new title had brought
nearly as much consternation as the ridiculous, and ridiculously persistent, rumors about the al’Thor boy
going to Tar Valon to submit to Elaida, though she had done nothing to quell those. That tale had
everyone from nobles to stablemen half afraid to breathe which was very well and good for maintaining
the peace. The Game of Houses had ground to a halt; well, compared to how matters normally were in
Cairhien. The Aiel who came into the city from their huge camp a few miles east very likely helped,
however much they were hated by the general run of folk. Everyone knew they followed the Dragon
Reborn, and no one wanted to risk finding themselves on the wrong end of thousands of Aiel spears.
Young al’Thor was much more useful absent than present. Rumors out of the west of Aiel raiding
elsewhere-looting, burning, killing indiscriminately, so merchants’ hearsay claimed-gave people another
reason to step gingerly with those here.
In fact, there seemed to be no burrs to prick Cairhien out of its quiet, aside from the occasional
street brawl between Foregaters and city folk who considered the noisy, brightly clad Foregaters as alien
as the Aiel and a good deal safer to fight. The city was crowded to the attics, with people sleeping
anywhere they could find shelter from the cold, yet food supplies were more than adequate if not
overabundant, and trade was actually better than expected in winter-All in all, she should have felt
content that she was carrying out Cadsuane’s instructions as well as the Green could wish for. Except
that Cadsuane would expect more. She always did.
‘Are you listening to me, Samitsu!"
Sighing, Samitsu turned from the peaceful view through the window, taking pains not to smooth
her yellow-slashed skirts. The Jakanda-made silver bells in her hair tinkled faintly, but today the sound
failed to soothe her. At the best of times she did not feel entirely comfortable in her apartments in the
palace, though a blazing fire in the wide marble fireplace gave a good warmth and the bed in the next
room had the best-quality feather mattresses and goose-down pillows. All three of her rooms were
overly ornate in the severe Cairhienin fashion, the white ceiling plaster worked in interlocking squares,
the wide bar-cornices heavily gilded, and the wooden wall-panels polished to a soft glow yet dark even
so. The furnishings were darker still and massively constructed, edged with thin lines of gold leaf and
inlaid with patterned ivory wedges. The flowered Tairen carpet in this room seemed garishly disordered
compared to every thing else, and emphasized the surrounding stiffness. It all seemed too much like a
cage of late.
What really discomfited her, though, was the woman with her hair in ringlets to her shoulders
standing in the middle of the carpet, fists on her hips, a belligerent set to her chin, and a frown
narrowing her blue eyes. Sashalle wore the Great Serpent ring, of course, on her right hand, but also an
Aiel necklace and bracelet, fat beads of silver and ivory intricately worked and carved, gaudy against her
high-necked dress of brown wool, which was plain if fine and well-cut. Not crude pieces, certainly,
but... flamboyant, and hardly the sort a sister would wear. The oddity of that jewelry might hold the key
to much, if Samitsu could ever find the reason behind it. The Wise Ones, especially Sorilea, looked at
her as if she were a fool for not knowing without asking, and refused to be bothered with answering.
They did that all too often. Most especially Sorilea. Samitsu was unused to being thought a fool, and she
disliked it immensely.
Not for the first time, she found it difficult to meet the other sister’s gaze. Sashalle was the major
reason contentment eluded her, no matter how well everything was going otherwise. Most maddening,
Sashalle was a Red, yet despite her Ajah, she was oathsworn to young al’Thor. How could any Aes
Sedai swear fealty to a man who could channel? Maybe Verin had been right about ta’veren twisting
chance. Samitsu could not begin to think of any other reason for thirty-one sisters, five, of them Red, to
take such an oath.
"The Lady Ailil has been approached by lords and ladies who represent most of House Riatin’s
strength" she replied, much more patiently than she felt. "They want her to take the High Seat of Riatin,
and she wants White Tower approval. Aes Sedai approval, at least." For something to do besides match
stares-and likely lose-she moved to a blackwood table where a gold-worked silver pitcher sitting; on a
silver tray still gave off the faint scent of spices. Filling a cup with mulled wine provided an excuse to
break the fleering eye contact. Needing an excuse made her replace the pitcher on the tray with a sharp
clink. She found herself avoiding looking at Sashalle too often. Even now, she realized she was looking
at the other woman sideways. To her frustration, she could not quite make herself turn completely to
meet her stare.
‘Tell her no, Sashalle. Her brother was still alive when last seen, and rebellion against the
Dragon Reborn is nothing that need concern the Tower; certainly not now it’s done with." The memory
arose of Toram Riatin as last seen, running off into a strange fog that could take on solid form and kill, a
fog that resisted the One Power. The Shadow had walked outside the walls of Cairhien that day.
Samitsu’s voice tightened from the effort to stop it short of trembling. Not with fear, but anger. That had
been the day she failed at Healing young al’Thor. She hated failures, hated remembering them. And she
should not have to explain herself. "Most of Riatin’s strength is no tall. Those still tied to Toram will
oppose her, with force of arms if necessary, and in any case, fostering upheaval inside the Houses
themselves is no way to maintain the peace. There is a precarious balance in Cairhien now, Sashalle, but
it is a balance, and we mustn’t disturb it." She managed to stop short of saying Cadsuane would be
displeased if they did. That would hardly carry weight with Sashalle.
"Upheaval will come whether or not we foster it," the other sister said firmly. Her frown had
faded as soon as Samitsu showed she had been listening, though the set of her jaw remained. Perhaps it
was stubbornness rather than belligerence, yet that hardly mattered. The woman was not arguing or
trying to convince her, just stating her own position. And most galling of all, plainly doing that much as
a courtesy. "The Dragon Reborn is the herald of upheaval and change, Samitsu. The herald foretold.
And if he weren’t, this is Cairhien. Do you think they have really stopped playing at Daes Dae’mar? The
surface of the water may be still, but the fish never stop swimming."
A Red preaching the Dragon Reborn like a street corner demagogue! Light! "And if you are
wrong:" In spite of herself, Samitsu bit off the words. Sashalle-burn her! -maintained a perfect serenity.
"Ailil has forsworn any claim to the Sun Throne in favor of Elayne Trakand which is what the
Dragon Reborn desires, and she is ready to swear fealty to him, if I ask it. Toram led an army against
Rand al’Thor. I say the change is worth making and the chance worth taking, and I will tell her so."
The bells in Samitsu’s hair chimed at an irritated shake of her head, and she barely managed to
stop herself from sighing again. Eighteen of those Dragonsworn sisters remained in Cairhien. Cadsuane
had carried some away with her, then sent Alanna back to takeoff still more-and others of the eighteen
besides Sashalle stood higher than she, but the Aiel Wise Ones kept them out of her way. In principle,
she disapproved of how that was done-Aes Sedai could not be apprentices, not to anyone! It was
outrageous! -but in practice, it did make her job easier. They could not meddle or try to take charge with
Wise Ones running their lives and watching over their every hour. Unfortunately for some reason she
could not learn, the Wise Ones Looked differently on Sashalle and the other two sisters who had been
sailed at Dumai’s Wells. Stilled. She felt a faint shiver at the thought, but only faint! and it would be less
if she ever managed to work out how Damer Flinn had Healed what could not be Healed. At least
someone could Heal stilling, even if it was a man. A man channeling. Light, how the horror of yesterday
became merely the uneasiness of today, once you grew accustomed.
She was sure that Cadsuane would have arranged matters with the Wise Ones before leaving had
she known about the difference with Sashalle and Irgain and Ronaille. At least, she thought she was
sure. This was not the first time she had been pulled into one of the legendary Green’s designs.
Cadsuane could be more devious than a Blue, schemes inside plots wrapped in stratagems and all hidden
behind still others. Some were planned to fail in order to help others succeed, and only Cadsuane knew
which were which, not at all a comforting thought. In any case, those three sisters were free to come and
go, as they desired, do as they desired. And they certainly felt no need to follow the guidance Cadsuane
had left behind or to follow the sister she had named to lead. Only their mad oath to al’Thor guided or
constrained them.
Samitsu had never felt weak or ineffectual in her life except when her Talent failed her, yet she
very much wished that Cadsuane would return and take matters out of her hands. A few words delivered
in Ailil’s ear would quench any desire the lady bad to mount the High Seat, of course, yet it would come
to nothing unless she found some way to deflect Sashalle from her purpose. No matter that Ailil feared
having her silly secrets aired abroad, inconsistency in what Aes Sedai told her could well make her
decide it was better to try vanishing to her country estates rather than risk offending a sister whatever
she did. Cadsuane would be upset over losing Ailil. Samitsu herself would be upset. Ailil was a conduit
into half the plots brewing among the nobles, a gauge to be sure those intrigues were all still petty and
unlikely to bring any major disturbance. The cursed Red knew that. And once Sashalle gave Ailil this
permission, it would be her the woman came running to with her news, not Samitsu Tamagowa.
While Samitsu was floundering in her quandary, the door to the hallway opened to admit a pale,
stern-faced Cairhienin woman, a hand shorter than either Aes Sedai. Her hair was in a thick gray roll on
the nape of her neck, and she wore an unadorned gray dress so dark it was nearly black, the current
livery of a Sun Palace servant. Servants never announced themselves or asked admittance, of course, but
Corgaide Marendevin was hardly just another servant; the heavy silvery ring of long keys at her waist
was a badge of office. Whoever ruled Cairhien, the Holder of the Keys ruled the Sun Palace in simple
fact, and there was nothing submissive in Corgaide’s manner. She made a minimal curtsy carefully
aimed halfway between Samitsu and Sashalle.
"I was asked to report anything unusual," she said to the air, though it had been Samitsu who
asked-Very likely, she had known of the power struggle between them as soon as they did themselves.
Little in the palace escaped her. "I am cold there is an Ogier in the kitchens. He and a young man
supposedly are looking after work, as masons, but I have never heard of Ogier and human masons
working together. And Stedding Tsofu sent word no masons would be available from any stedding for
the foreseeable future, when we inquired after . . . the incident." The pause was barely perceptible, and
her grave expression did not alter, but hall the gossip about the attack on the Sun Palace laid it to
al’Thor’s doing, the other half to Aes Sedai. A few tales mentioned the Forsaken, but only to pair them
with either al’Thor or the Aes Sedai.
Pursing her lips in thought, Samitsu set aside the cursed tangle Cairhienin made of everything
they touched. Denials of Aes Sedai involvement: did little good; the Three Oaths only went so far in a
city where a simple yes or no could give rise to six contradictory rumors. But, Ogier . . . The palace
kitchens scarcely took in stray passersby, yet the cooks very likely would give an Ogier a hot meal just
for the strangeness of seeing him. Ogier were even more uncommon than usual, this last year or so. A
few were still seen now and then, but walking as fast as only an Ogier could, and seldom stopping in one
place more than long enough to sleep. They rarely traveled with humans, however, much less worked
with them. The pairing tickled something in her mind, though. Hoping to tease whatever it was into the
open, she opened her mouth to ask a few questions.
‘Thank you, Corgaide," Sashalle said with a smile. "You’ve been most helpful. But if you will
leave us, now?" Being abrupt with the Holder of the Keys was a good way to find yourself with dirty
bed-linens and poorly spiced meals, un emptied chamberpots and messages that went astray, a thousand
annoyances that could make fire a misery and leave you wading in mud trying to accomplish anything at
all, yet somehow that smile appeared to take the sting out o her words for Corgaide. The gray-haired
woman bowed her head slightly in assent and again made the smallest possible curtsy. This time,
obviously to Sashalle.
No sooner had the door closed behind the gray-haired woman than Samitsu thumped her silver
cup back on the tray hard enough to splash warm wine over her wrist and rounded on the Red sister. She
was on the brink of losing control of Ailil, and now the Sun Palace itself appeared to be slipping through
her fingers! It was as likely Corgaide would sprout wings and fly as keep silent about what she had seen
here, and whatever she said would flash through the palace and infect every servant down to the men
who mucked out the stables-That final curtsy had made it quite clear what she thought. Light, but
Samitsu hated Cairhien! The customs of civility between sisters were deeply ingrained, but Sashalle did
not stand high enough to make her hold her tongue in the face of this disaster, and she intended to
deliver the rough side of it.
Frowning at the other woman, though, she saw Sashalle’s face-really saw it, perhaps for the first
time-and suddenly she knew why it troubled her so, perhaps even why she had found it difficult to look
directly at the Red sister. It was no longer an Aes Sedai face, outside of time and standing apart from
age. Most people were unsure of the look until it was pointed out, but it was unmistakable to another
sister. Perhaps some bits remained, scraps that made Sashalle appear closer to beautiful than she really
was, vet anyone at all would put an age to her, somewhere short of her middle years. The realization
froze Samitsu’s tongue.
What was known about women who had been stilled was little better than rumor. They ran away
and hid from other sisters; eventually, they died. Usually, they died soon rather than late. The loss of
saidar was more than most women could bear for very long. But it was all really tittle-tattle; as far as she
knew, no one in a very long time had had the nerve to try learning more. The rarely acknowledged fear
in the darkest corner of every sister’s head, that the same fate might come to her one day in a careless
moment, kept anyone from wanting to know too much. Even Aes Sedai could hide their eyes when they
did not want to see. There were always those rumors, though, almost never mentioned and so vague you
could never recall where you heard them first, whispers on the edge of hearing, yet forever floating
about. One that Samitsu had only half remembered; till now, said that a woman who was stilled grew
young again, if she lived. It had always seemed ludicrous, till now. Regaining the ability to channel had
not given Sashalle back everything. Once more she would have to work with the Power for years to gain
the face that would proclaim her Aes Sedai to any sister who could see her clearly. Or . . . would she
regain it. It seemed inevitable, yet this was unmapped terrain. And if her face was changed, was
anything else about her changed as well: Samitsu shivered, harder than she had for the thought of
stilling. Perhaps it was as well she had gone slow in trying to puzzle out Darner’s way of Healing.
Fingering her Aiel necklace, Sashalle seemed unaware that Samitsu had any grievance over her
behavior, unaware of Samitsu s scrutiny-"This maybe nothing, or it may warrant looking into," she said,
"but Corgaide was only reporting what she heard. If we want to learn anything, we must go and see for
ourselves." Without another word, she gathered her skirts and started out of the apartments, leaving
Samitsu only a choice between following or remaining behind. It was intolerable! Yet remaining was
unthinkable.
Sashalle was no taller than she, not to speak of, but she had to hurry to keep up as the Red glided
swiftly along wide, square-vaulted corridors. Taking the lead was out of the question, unless she chose
to run. She fumed in silence, though it required gritting her teeth. Arguing with another sister in public
was improper at best. Worse, without any doubt, it would be futile. And that would only dig the hole she
was in deeper. She felt a very great desire to kick something.
Standlamps at regular intervals gave plenty of light even in the darkest stretches of hallway but
there was little color or decoration beyond the occasional tapestry with every-thing in it arranged in
orderly fashion, whether animals being hunted or nobles fighting gallantly in battle. A few niches in the
walls held ornaments of gold or Sea Folk porcelain, and in some corridors the cornices were worked in
friezes, most left unpainted. That was all. Cairhienin hid their opulence out of public view; as they did
with so much. The serving men and women who hurried industriously along the halls like streams of
ants wore livery the color of charcoal, except for those in service to nobles resident in the palace, who
seemed bright beside the rest, with their House badges embroidered on their breasts, and their collars
and sometimes sleeves marked in House colors. One or two even had a coat or dress all in House colors,
and appeared almost an outlander among the others. But they all kept their eyes down and barely paused
long enough to offer quick bows or curtsies to the two sisters as they passed. The Sun Palace required
countless hundreds of servants, and it seemed they were all scurrying about this morning tending their
chores.
Nobles strolled the hallways, too, offering their own cautious courtesies to the Aes Sedai as they
passed, perhaps with a greeting carefully balanced between an illusion of equality and the true state of
affairs, spoken in low voices that did nor carry far. They proved the old saying that strange times make
for strange traveling companions. Old enmities had been put away in the face of new dangers. For the
moment. Here, two or three pale Cairhienin lords in dark silk coats with thin stripes of color across the
front, some with the fronts of their heads shaved and powdered soldier-fashion, promenaded alongside
an equal number of dark Tairens, taller in their bright coats with fat, striped sleeves. There, a Tairen
noblewoman in a snug pearl-sewn cap, colorfully brocaded gown, and pale lace ruff walked arm-in-arm
beside a shorter Cairhienin noble with her hair in an elaborate tower that readied well above her
companion’s head, smoky gray lace under her chin, and narrow stripes of her House colors cascading
down the front of her wide-skirted dark silk. All like bosom-friends and trusted confidants.
Some pairings did look odder than others. A number of women had begun wearing outlandish
clothes of late, apparently never noticing how they drew men’s eyes and made even the servants struggle
not to stare. Tight breeches and a coat barely long enough to cover the hips were not suitable garments
for a woman, no matter how much effort went into rich embroidery or patterning the coat with
gemstones, jeweled necklaces and bracelets and pins with sprays of colorful feathers only pointed up the
oddity. And those brightly dyed boots, with their heels that added as much as a hand to a woman’s
height made them appear in danger of falling down with every swaying step.
"Scandalous." Sashalle muttered, eyeing one such pair of women and twitching her skirts in
displeasure.
"Scandalous," Samitsu murmured before she could stop herself, then snapped her mouth shut so
hard her teeth clicked. She needed to control her tongue. Voicing agreement just because she agreed was
a habit she could ill-afford with Sashalle.
Still she could not help glancing back at the pair in disapproval. And a bit of wonder. A year ago,
Alaine Chuliliandred and Fionnda Annariz would have been at each other’s throats. Or rather have had
their armsmen at one another’s throats. But then, who would have expected to see Bertome Saighan
walking peacefully with Weiramon Saniago, neither man reaching for the dagger at his belt? Strange
times and strange traveling companions. Doubtless they were playing the Game of Houses, maneuvering
for advantage as they always had, yet dividing lines that once were graven in stone now turned out to
have been drawn on water instead. Very strange times.
The kitchens were on the lowest level of the Sun Palace above ground., at the back, a cluster of
stone-walled beam-ceiling rooms centered around a long windowless room full of iron stoves and brick
ovens and dressed-stone fireplaces, and the heat was enough to make anyone forget the snow outside, or
even that it was winter. Normally, sweaty-faced cooks and under-cooks, as darkly clad as any other
palace servants beneath their white aprons, would have been scurrying about getting ready to prepare the
midday meal, kneading loaves on long flour-strewn tables topped with marble, basting the joints and
fowl that were turning on spits in the fireplaces. Now only the trotting spit-dogs were moving, eager to
earn their bits from the joints. Baskets of turnips and carrots stood unpeeled and unchopped, and smells
sweet and spicy came from untended pots of sauces. Even the scullions, boys and girls surreptitiously
wiping their faces on their aprons, stood on the fringe of a group of women clustered around one of the
tables. From the door-way, Samitsu could see the back of an Ogier’s head rising above them where he
was seated at the table, taller than most men would have been standing up, and broad with it. Of course,
Cairhienin were short by and large, and that helped. She laid a hand on Sashalle’s arm, and for a
wonder, the woman stopped where they were without protest.
" . . . vanished without leaving a clue where he was going?" the Ogier was asking in a deep
rumble like the earth shifting. His long, tufted ears, sticking up through dark hair that hung to his high
collar, flicked back and forth uneasily.
"Oh, do stop talking about him, Master Ledar," a woman’s voice answered in a quaver that
seemed well practiced. "Wicked, he was. Tore half the palace apart with the One Power, he did. He
could turn your blood to ice just looking at you, and kill you as soon as look. Thousands have died by
his own hand. Tens of thousands! Oh I never like talking about him."
"For someone as never likes talking about something, Eldrid Methin another woman said sharply
"you surely talk of little else." Stout and quite tall for a Cairhienin, nearly as tall as Samitsu herself with
a few strands of gray hair escaping her white plain-lace cap, she must have been the chief cook on duty
because everyone Samitsu could see quickly nodded agreement and twittered with laughter and said,
"Oh, right you are, Mistress Beldair," in a particularly sycophantic way. Servants had their own
hierarchies, as rigidly maintained as the Tower itself.
"But that sort of thing really is not for us to be gossiping over, Master Ledar," the stout woman
went on Aes Sedai business, that is, and not for the likes of you and me. Tell us more about the
Borderlands. Have you really seen Trollocs?"
"Aes Sedai," a man muttered. Hidden by the crowd around the table, he had to be Ledar’s
companion. Samitsu could see no grown men among the kitchen-folk this morning. "Tell me, do you
really think they bonded those men you were talking about, those Asha’man? As Warders? And what
about the one who died? You never said how."
"Why, it was the Dragon Reborn as killed him," Eldrid piped up. "And what else would Aes
Sedai bond a man as? Oh, terrible, they was, them Asha’man. Turn you to stone with a look, they could.
You can tell one just by looking at him, you know. Frightful glowing eyes, they have."
"Be quiet, Eldrid," Mistress Beldair said firmly. "Maybe they was Asha’man and maybe not,
Master Underhill. Maybe they was bonded and maybe not. All I or anyone else can say is they was with
him," the emphasis in her voice made plain who she was talking about; Eldrid might consider Rand
al’Thor fearful but this woman did not want to so much as name him, "and soon after he left, suddenly
the Aes Sedai was telling them what to do and they was doing it. Of course any fool knows to do as an
Aes Sedai says. Anyway those fellows are all gone off, now. Why are you so interested in them Master
Underhill? Is that an Andoran name?"
Ledar threw back his head and laughed, a booming sound that filled the room. His ears twitched
violently. "Oh, we want to know everything about the places we visit, Mistress Beldair. The
borderlands, you say? You might think its cold here, but we’ve seen trees crack open like nuts on the
fire from the cold in the borderlands. You have blocks of ice on the river, floating down from upstream,
but we’ve seen rivers as wide as the Alguenya frozen so merchants can drive loaded trains of wagons
across them, and men fishing through holes cut in ice nearly a span thick. At night, there are sheets of
light in the sky that seem to crackle, bright enough to dim the stars, and …"
Even Mistress Beldair was leaning towards the Ogier caught up, but one of the young scullions,
too short to see past the adults, glanced behind him, and his eyes went wide when they lit on Samitsu
and Sashalle. His gaze stayed fixed on them as if trapped, but he fumbled with one hand till he could tug
at Mistress Beldair’s sleeve. The first time she shook him off without looking around. At a second tug,
she her head with a scowl that vanished in a blink when she, too, saw the Aes Sedai.
"Grace favor you, Aes Sedai," she said, hastily tucking stray hair back under her cap as she
bobbed her curtsy. "How may I serve you?" Ledar broke off short in mid-sentence, and his ears stiffened
for a moment. He did not look toward the doorway.
"We wish to speak with your visitors" Sashalle said, moving into the kitchen. "We won’t disrupt
your kitchen for long."
"Of course, Aes Sedai." If the stout woman felt any surprise at two sisters wanting to talk to
kitchen visitors, she showed none. Head swinging from side to side to take in everyone, she clapped her
plump hands and began spouting orders. "Eldrid, those turnips will never peel themselves. Who was
watching the fig sauce? Dried figs are hard to come by! Where is your basting spoon, Kasi? Andil, run
fetch some...’ Cooks and scullions scattered in every direction, and a clatter of pots and spoons quickly
filled the kitchen, though everyone was plainly making an effort to be as quiet as possible so as not to
disturb the Aes Sedai. They were plainly making an effort not to even look in their direction, though that
involved some contortion.
The Ogier rose to his feet smoothly his head coming near the thick ceiling beams. His clothing
was what Samitsu remembered from meeting Ogier before, a long dark coat that flared over turneddown
boots. Stains on his coat said he had been traveling hard; Ogier were a fastidious people. He only
half turned to face her and Sashalle even as lie made a bow, and lie rubbed at his wide nose as if it
itched. Partially hiding his broad face, but he appeared young, for an Ogier. "Forgive us, Aes Sedai," he
murmured, "but we really must be moving on." Bending to gather a huge leather scrip that had a large
rolled blanker tied across the top and showed the impressions of several square shapes packed around
whatever else was stuffed inside, he hoisted the broad strap over one shoulder. His capacious coat
pockets bulged with angular shapes, too. "We have a long way to go before nightfall." His companion
remained seated, though, his hands spread on the tabletop, a pale-haired young man with a week’s
growth of beard who seemed to have slept more than one night in his rumpled brown coat. He watched
the Aes Sedai warily, with dark eyes that belonged on a cornered fox.
"Where are you going that you can reach by nightfall?" Sashalle did not stop until she was
standing in front of the young Ogier, close enough to need to crane her neck to look up at him, though
she made it seem graceful rather than awkward, as it should have been. "Are you on your way to the
meeting we’ve heard about, in Sledding Shangtai Master . . . Ledar, is it?" His tall ears twitched
violently, then were still, and his teacup-sized eyes narrowed almost as warily as the young man’s, till
the dangling ends of his eyebrows trailed onto his cheeks-"Ledar, son of Shandin son of Koimal, Aes
Sedai," he said reluctantly. "But I’m certainly not going to the Grand Stump. Why, the Elders wouldn’t
let me close enough to hear what was being said." He gave a deep bass chuckle that sounded forced.
"We can’t get where we’re going tonight, Aes Sedai, but every league behind us is a league we don’t
have to walk tomorrow. We need to be on our way." The unshaven young man stood up, running a hand
nervously along the long hilt of the sword buckled at his waist, yet he made no move to pick up the scrip
and blanket-roll at his feet and follow as the Ogier started toward the door that led to the street, even
when the Ogier said over his shoulder, "We need to go now, Karldin."
Sashalle glided fluidly into the Ogier’s path, though she had to take three strides to his one, "You
were asking after work as a mason, Master Ledar," she said in tones brooking no nonsense, "but your
hands are not as callused as any mason’s I’ve ever seen. It would be best for you to answer my
questions."
Suppressing a triumphant smile, Samitsu moved up beside the Red sister. So Sashalle thought
she could simply push her aside and ferret out what was going on, did she? The woman was in for a
surprise. "You really must stay a while longer," she said to the Ogier in a low voice; the noise in the
kitchen should keep anyone from overhearing, yet there was no need to take chances. "When I came to
the Sun Palace, I had already heard of a young Ogier, a friend of Rand al’Thor. He left Cairhien some
months past, in company with a young man named Karldin, Isn’t that right, Loial?’ The Ogier’s ears
wilted.
The young man bit off a coarse curse he should have known better than to mouth in front of
sisters. "I leave when I want to leave, Aes Sedai," he said harshly", but in a low voice. For the most part,
lie divided his gaze between her and Sashalle, yet he was watchful for any of the kitchen workers who
might come near. He did nor wish to be overheard, either. "Before I do, I want some answers. What
happened to ... my friends? And him. Did he go mad?" Loial sighed heavily, and made a pacifying
gesture with one huge hand, "Be easy. Karldin," be murmured, "Rand wouldn’t like you starting trouble
with Aes Sedai. Be easy." Karldin’s scowl only deepened.
Abruptly it occurred to Samitsu that she could have handled this better. Those were nor the eyes
of a cornered fox, but a wolf. She bad grown too accustomed to Damer and Jahar and Eben, safely
bonded and tamed. That might be an overstatement, though Merise was making an effort with Jahar-that
was Merise’s way-yet it seemed the horror of yesterday could become the complacency of today after
long enough exposure. Karldin Manfor was an Asha’man, too, and neither bonded nor tame. Was he
embracing the male half of the Power? She almost laughed. Did birds fly?
Sashalle was watching the young man with a studying frown, her hands much too still on her
skirts, but Samitsu was glad not to see the light of saidar around her. Asha’man could feel when a
woman held the Power, and that might make him act . . . precipitately. Certainly she and Samitsu
together could handle him-could they, if he already held the Power? Of course, they could-Of course! -
but it would be much better if they did not have to.
Sashalle certainly was making no move to take charge, now, so Samitsu laid a hand lightly on his
left arm. Through his coat sleeve, it felt like a bar of iron. So he was as uneasy as she. As uneasy as she?
Light, but Damer and those other two had spoiled all her instincts!
"He seemed sane as most men when I last saw him," she said softly, with just a slight emphasis.
None of the kitchen-folk were nearby, but a few had begun sneaking peeks toward the table. Loial
exhaled heavily in relief a sound like wind rushing across the mouth of a cave, but she kept her attention
on Karldin. "I don’t know where he is, but he was alive as of a few days ago." Alanna had been closemouthed
as a mussel beyond that, and over-bearing, too, with Cadsuane’s note in her fist. "Fedwin Morr
died of poison, I fear, but I have no idea who gave it to him." To her surprise, Karldin merely shook his
head, with a rueful grimace, and muttered something incomprehensible about wine. "As for the others,
they became Warders of their own free will." As much as any man did any thing of his free will. Her
Roshan certainly had not wanted to be a Warder, until she decided she wanted him for one. Even a
woman who was not Aes Sedai could usually make a man decide the way she wanted. ‘They’ thought it
a better choice, safer, than returning to ... the others like you. You see, the damage here was done with
saidin. You understand who must have been behind it? It was an attempt to kill the one whose sanity you
fear for."
That did not seem to surprise him, either. What sort of men were these Asha’man? Was their socalled
Black Tower a murder-pit? The tightness went out of his arm, though, and suddenly he was just a
road-weary young man who needed a shave. "Light!" he breathed. "What do we do now, Loial? Where
do we go?"
"I ... don’t know" Loial replied, his shoulders sagging tiredly and his long ears drooping. "I …
We have to find him, Karldin. Somehow. We can’: give up now. We have to ler him know we did what
he asked. As much as we could."
And what was it al’Thor had asked, Samitsu wondered. With a little luck, she could learn a great
deal from these two. A tired man, or Ogier, feeling lost and alone, was ripe for answering questions.
Karldin gave a small jump, his hand tightening on his swordhilt, and she bit back a curse of her
own as a palace serving woman came running into the room with her skirts gathered almost to her knees.
"Lord Dobraine’s been murdered!" the serving woman squealed. "We will all be killed in our beds! My
eyes have seen the dead walking, old Maringil himself, and my Mam says spirits will kill you if there
has been a murder done! They-!" Her mouth froze open when she caught the presence of Aes Sedai, and
she skidded to a halt still clutching her skirts. The kitchen folk seemed frozen, too, all watching the Aes
Sedai from the corners of their eyes to see what they would do.
"Not Dobraine," Loial moaned, ears lying flat against his head. "Not him." He looked as much
angry as saddened, his face stony. Samitsu did not think she had ever seen an Ogier angry.
"What is your name?" Sashalle demanded of the serving woman before Samitsu could even part
her lips. "How do you know he was murdered? How do you know he’s dead?" The woman swallowed,
her eyes held by Sashalle’s cool gaze. "Cera, Aes Sedai?" she said hesitantly, bending her knees in a
curtsy and only then realizing that she still had her skirts gathered up. Hastily smoothing them down
only seemed to fluster her more. "Cera Dofnal? They say . . . Everybody says Lord Dobraine is... I
mean, he was ... I mean . . ." She swallowed again, hard. "They all say his rooms are covered with
blood. He was found lying in a great pool of it. With his head cur off, they say."
"They say a great many things," Sashalle said grimly, "and usually they’re wrong. Samitsu, you
will come with me. If Lord Dobraine has been injured, you may be able to do something for him. Loial,
Karldin, you come, too, I don’t want you out of my sight before I have a chance to ask a few questions."
"Burn your questions!" the young Asha’man growled, shouldering his belongings. "I’m
leaving!" "No, Karldin," Loial said gently, laying a huge hand on his companion’s shoulder. "We can’t
go before we know about Dobraine. He’s a friend, Rand’s friend, and mine. We cant. Anyway, where
are we hurrying to?" Karldin looked away.
He had no answer,
Samitsu squeezed her eyes shut, and took a deep breath, but there was no help for it. She found
herself following Sashalle out of the kitchens, once more hurrying to keep up with the other woman’s
quick, gliding stride. In fact she found herself half-running; Sashalle set an even more rapid pace than
before.
The babbling of voices rose behind them as soon as they were out the door. The kitchen folk
probably all were pressing the serving woman for particulars, details she very likely would invent where
her knowledge failed. Ten different versions of events would find their way out of that kitchen, if not as
many as there were kitchen folk. Worst of all, ten different versions of events in the kitchen would find
their way out, every one adding to the rumors Corgaide, doubtless was already starting. She could hardly
recall a day that had gone so badly for her, so suddenly like slipping on one patch of ice only to find
another under her feet, then another. Cadsuane would have her hide to make gloves after this!
At least Loial and Karldin trailed after Sashalle as well. Whatever she learned from them might
still be put to advantage, a way to salvage something. Scurrying along at Sashalle’s side, she studied
them in brief glances over her shoulder. Taking short strides to keep from over-running the Aes Sedai,
the Ogier was frowning in worry. Over Dobraine, very likely but also perhaps over only completing his
mysterious task "as well as he could? That was a mystery she intended to solve. The young Asha’man
had no difficulty keeping up though he wore an expression of stubborn reluctance and his hand caressed
his swordhilt. The danger in him did not lie in steel. He stared suspiciously at the backs of the Aes Sedai
ahead, once meeting Samitsu’s glance with a dark glower. He had the sense to keep his mouth shut,
though. She would have to find a way to pry it open later for more than snarling.
Sashalle never glanced behind to make sure the pair were following, but then, she had to hear the
thud of the Ogier’s boots on the floor tiles. Her face was thoughtful and Samitsu would have given a
great deal to know what she was thinking. Sashalle might be oathsworn to Rand al’Thor, but what
protection did that give to an Asha’man? She was Red, after all. That had not changed with her face.
Light, this could be the worst patch of ice of all!
It was a long arduous climb from the kitchens to Lord Dobraine’s apartments in the Tower of the
Full Moon, which was usually set aside for visiting nobility of high rank, and all along the way, Samitsu
saw the evidence that Cera had been far from the first to hear what the ever-anonymous they had to say.
Rather than endless streams of servants Bowing along die corridors, small excited knots stood
whispering anxiously. At sight of the Aes Sedai, they sprang apart and scurried away. A handful did
gape at seeing an Ogier striding through the palace, yet for the most part, they all but fled. The nobles
that had been about before had all vanished, doubtless back to their own rooms to mull over what
opportunities and hazards Dobraine’s death afforded them. Whatever Sashalle thought, Samitsu no
longer doubted. If Dobraine had been alive, his own servants would have put paid to the rumor already,
For further confirmation, the hallways outside Dobraine’s rooms were crowded with ashen-faced
servants, their sleeves ringed to the elbows in the blue-and-white of House Taborwin. Some wept, and
others looked lost, their foundation stone pulled out from under them. At a word from Sashalle, they
stood aside for the Aes Sedai, moving drunkenly or mechanically. Dazed eyes swept by the Ogier
without actually registering what they saw. Few remembered to make even halfhearted courtesies.
Inside, the anteroom was almost as full of Dobraine’s servants, most staring as if poleaxed.
Dobraine himself lay motionless on a litter in the middle of the large room, his head still attached to his
body but his eyes closed and a drying sheet of blood, from a long cut in his scalp, spread across his still
features. A dark trickle had leaked from his slack mouth. Two serving men with tears streaming down
their cheeks paused in the act of laying a white cloth over his face at the entrance of the Aes Sedai.
Dobraine did not appear to be breathing, and there were bloodstained gashes in the chest of his coat,
with its thin stripes of color that marched down to his knees. Beside the litter, a dark blot larger than a
man’s body marred the green-and-yellow Tairen maze of the fringed carpet. Anyone who lost that much
blood had to be dead. Two other men lay sprawled on the floor, one with death-glazed eyes glaring at
the ceiling, the other on his side, an ivory knife hilt sticking up from his ribs where the blade had surely
reached his heart. Short, pale-skinned Cairhienin, both wore the Livery of palace servants, but a servant
never carried the long, wooden-handled dagger that lay beside each corpse. A House Taborwin man, his
foot drawn back to kick one of the corpses, hesitated on seeing the two sisters, then planted his boot hard
in the dead man’s ribs anyway. Clearly, proper decorum lay far from anyone’s mind at the moment.
"Move that cloth out of the way," Sashalle told the men by the litter. "Samitsu, see whether you
can still help Lord Dobraine."
Whatever she believed, instinct had moved Samitsu toward Dobraine, but that command-it was
deafly a command! -put a stutter in her step. Gritting her teeth, she kept moving, and knelt carefully
beside the litter, on the side away from the still damp blot, to put her hands on Dobraine’s blood-soaked
head. She never minded getting blood on her hands, but bloodstains were impossible to get out of silk
unless you channeled, and she still felt a pang of guilt at the waste when she used the Power for
something so mundane.
The necessary weaves were second nature to her, so much so that she embraced the Source and
delved the Cairhienin lord without a thought. And blinked in surprise. Instinct had made her go ahead,
though she had been certain there were three corpses in the room, yet life still flickered in Dobraine. A
tiny guttering flame that the shock of Healing might well extinguish. The shock of the Healing she
knew. Her eyes searched out the pale-haired Asha’man. He was crouched beside one of the dead
servants, calmly searching the man, oblivious to the shocked stares of the living servants. One of the
women suddenly noticed Loial, standing just inside the door, and goggled as if he had leapt out of thin
air. With his arms folded across his chest and a grim expression on his broad face, the Ogier looked as
though he were standing guard.
"Karldin, do you know the kind of Healing that Damer Flinn used," Samitsu asked. "The kind
that uses all of the Five Powers?"
He paused for a moment, frowning at her. "Flinn! I don’t even know what you’re talking about, I
don’t have much Talent for Healing anyway." Eyeing Dobraine, he added, "He looks dead to me, but I
hope you can save him. He was at the Wells." And he bent back to rummaging through the dead
servant’s coat.
Samitsu licked her lips. The thrill of being filled with Saidar always seemed diminished to her, in
situations like this. Situations when all of her possible choices were bad. Carefully, she gathered flows
of Air, Spirit and Water, weaving them just so, the basic weave of Healing that every sister knew. No
one in living memory had the Talent for Healing as strongly as she, and most sisters were limited in
what they could Heal, some to little more than bruises. By herself, she could Heal almost as well as a
linked circle. Most sisters could not regulate the weave to any degree at all; most did not even try to
learn. She had been able to from the start. Oh, she could not Heal one particular thing and leave
everything else as it was, the way Damer could; what she did would affect everything from the stab
wounds to the stuffed nose Dobraine was also suffering from. Delving had told her everything that ailed
him. But she could wash away the worst injuries as if they had never been, or Heal so whoever she
Healed appeared to have spent days recovering on her own, or anything in between. Each took no less of
her strength, but they did require less from the patient. The smaller the amount of change in the body,
the smaller the amount of the body’s strength it drained. Only, except for the gash in his scalp,
Dobraine’s wounds were all serious, four deep punctures in his lungs, two of them gashing the heart as
well. The strongest Healing would kill him before his wounds finished closing, while the weakest would
revive him long enough to drown in his own blood. She had to choose somewhere in the middle and
hope that she was right.
I am the best that ever has been, she thought grimly. Cadsuane had told her that, I am the best.
Altering the weave slightly, she let it sink into the motionless man, Some of the servants cried out in
alarm as Dobraine’s body convulsed. He half sat up, deep-set eyes opening wide, long enough for what
sounded all too much like a long death rattle to rush out of his mouth. Then his eyes rolled back in his
head, and he slipped from her grasp, thudding back down onto the litter. Hastily, she readjusted the
weave and delved him again, holding her breath. He lived. By a hair, and so weak he might yet die, but
it would not be those stabs that killed him, except indirectly. Even through die drying blood that matted
his hair, shaven away from his forehead, she could see the puckered pink line of a fresh, render scar
across his scalp. He would have the same beneath his coat, and he might be troubled by shortness of
breath when he exerted himself, if he pulled through, yet for the moment, he did live, and that was all
that mattered. For the moment. There was still the matter of who had wanted him dead, and why.
Releasing the Power, she stood unsteadily. Saidar draining out of her always made her feel tired.
One of the serving men, gaping, hesitantly handed her the cloth he had been going to lay on his lord’s
face, and she used it to wipe her hands. "Take him to his bed "she said. "Get as much mild honey-water
down him as you can. He needs to gain strength quickly. And find a Wise Woman ... a Reader, Yes, a
Reader. He will need her, too." He was out of her hands, now, and herbs might help. At least, they were
unlikely to harm, coming from a Reader, and at worst the woman would make sure they gave him
enough honey-water and not too much.
With much bowing and many murmurs of thanks, four of the serving men took up the litter and
carried Dobraine deeper into the apartments. Most of the other servants followed hurriedly, wearing
expressions of relief, and the rest dashed out into the corridor. An instant later, glad shouts and cheers
broke out, and she heard her name nearly as often as Dobraine’s. Very gratifying. It would have been
more satisfying if Sashalle had not smiled and given her an approving nod. Approving! And why not a
pat on the head, while she was about it?
Karldin had paid no mind at all to die Healing, insofar as Samitsu had noticed. Finishing his
search of the second corpse, he rose and crossed the room to Loial, attempting to show the Ogier
something, shielded by his body, without letting the Aes Sedai notice. Loial plucked it-a sheet of creamcolored
paper, creased from folding-out of the Asha’man’s hand and held it up in front of his face
opened out in his thick ringers, ignoring Karldin’s scowl
"But this makes no sense," the Ogier muttered, frowning as he read. "No sense at all. Unless-!"
He cut off abruptly, long ears flickering, and exchanged a tense look with the pale-haired fellow, who
gave a curt nod. "Oh, this is very bad," Loial, said. "If there were more than two, Karldin, if they found-
!" He choked off his words again at a frantic headshake from the young man.
"I will see that, please," Sashalle said, holding out her hand, and please or no please, it was not a
request. Karldin attempted to snatch the paper from Loial s hand-but the Ogier calmly handed it to
Sashalle who inspected it without any change of expression, then handed it to Samitsu. It was thick
paper, smooth and expensive, and new looking. Samitsu had to control her eyebrows’ desire to climb as
she read.
At my command, the bearers of this are to remove certain items, which they will know,
from my apartments and take them out of the Sun Palace-Make them private of my rooms,
give them whatever aid they require and keep silent on this matter, in the name of the
Dragon Reborn and on pain of his displeasure.
Dobraine Taborwin
She had seen Dobraine’s writing often enough to recognize the rounded hand as his. "Obviously
someone employs a very good forger," she said, earning a quick, contemptuous glance from Sashalle.
"It did seem unlikely he wrote it himself and was stabbed by his own men in mistake," the Red
said in cutting tones. Her gaze swung to Loial and the Asha’man. "What is it they might have found:"
she demanded. "What is it you are afraid they found?" Karldin stared back at her blandly.
"I just meant whatever they were looking for," Loial answered. "They had to be here to steal
something." But his tufted ears twitched so hard they almost vibrated before he could master them. Most
Ogier made very poor liars, at least while young.
Sashalle’s ringlets swung as she shook her head deliberately. "What you know is important. The
pair of you are not leaving until I know it, too."
‘And how are you going to stop us?" The very quietness of Karldin’s words made them more
dangerous. He met Sashalle’s gaze levelly, as it he had not a worry in the world. Oh, yes, very much a
wolf, not a fox.
"I thought I’d never find you," Rosara Medrano announced, marching into that moment of
perilous silence still wearing her red gloves and fur-lined cloak, with the hood thrown back to reveal the
carved ivory combs in her black hair. There were damp patches on the shoulders of the cloak from
melted snow. A tall woman, as brown as a sun-dark Aiel, she had gone out at first light to try finding
spices for some sort of fish stew from her native Tear. She spared only the briefest glance for Loial and
Karldin, and did not waste a moment inquiring after Dobraine. "A party of sisters has entered the city,
Samitsu. I rode like a madwoman to get here ahead of them, but they could be riding in at this moment.
There are Asha’man with them, and one of the Asha’man is Logain!"
Karldin barked a rough laugh. and suddenly Samitsu wondered whether she was going to live
long enough for Cadsuane to have her hide.
CHAPTER 1
Time to Be Gone
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend.
Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In
one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the
Rhiannon Hills. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning
of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
Born among the groves and vineyards that covered much of the rugged hills, the olive trees in
evergreen rows, the ordered vines leafless till spring, the cold wind blew west and north across the
prosperous farms dotting the land between the hills and the great harbor of Ebou Dar. The land lay
winter fallow still, but men and women were already oiling plowshares and tending harness, preparing
for the planting to come. They paid little mind to the trains of heavily laden wagons moving east along
the dirt roads carrying people who wore odd clothes and spoke with odd accents. Many of the strangers
seemed to be farmers themselves, familiar implements lashed to their wagon boxes, and in their wagons
unfamiliar saplings with roots balled in rough cloth, but they were heading on toward more distant land.
Nothing to do with life here and now. The Seanchan hand lay lightly on those who did not contest
Seanchan rule, and the farmers of the Rhiannon Hills had seen no changes in their lives. For them, rain
or the lack of it had always been the true ruler.
West and north the wind blew, across the broad blue-green expanse of the harbor, where
hundreds of huge ships sat rocking at anchor on choppy swells, some bluff-bowed and rigged with
ribbed sails, others long and sharp-prowed, with men laboring to match their sails and rigging to those of
the wider vessels. Not nearly so many ships still floated there as had only a few days before, though.
Many now lay in the shallows, charred wrecks heeled over on their sides, and burned frames settling in
the deep gray mud like blackened skeletons. Smaller craft skittered about the harbor, slanting under
triangular sails or crawling on oars like many-legged waterbugs, most carrying workers and supplies to
the ships that still floated. Other small vessels and barges rode tethered to what appeared to be treetrunks
shorn of branches, rising out of the blue-green water, and from those men dove holding stones to carry
them down swiftly to sunken ships below, where they tied ropes to whatever could be hauled up for
salvage. Six nights ago death had walked across the water here, the One Power killing men and women
and ships in darkness split by silver lightnings and hurtling balls of fires. Now, the rough rolling harbor,
filled with furious activity, seemed at peace by comparison, the chop giving up spray to the wind that
blew north and west across the mouth of the River Eldar, where it widened into the harbor, north and
west and inland.
Sitting cross-legged atop a boulder covered with brown moss, on the reed-fringed bank of the
river, Mat hunched his shoulders against the wind and cursed silently. There was no gold to be found
here, no women or dancing, no fun. Plenty of discomfort, though. In short, it was the last sort of place he
would choose, normally. The sun stood barely its own height above the horizon, the sky overhead was
pale slate gray, and thick purple clouds moving in from the sea threatened rain. Winter hardly seemed
winter without snow – he had yet to see a single flake in Ebou Dar – but a cold damp morning wind off
the water could serve as well as snow to chill a man to the bone. Four nights since he had ridden out of
the city in a storm, yet his throbbing hip seemed to think he was still soaked to the skin and clinging to a
saddle. This was no weather or time of day for a man to be out by his own choice. He wished he had
thought to bring a cloak. He wished he had stayed in bed.
Ripples in the land hid Ebou Dar, just over a mile to the south, and hid him from the city, as
well, but there was not a tree or anything more than scrub brush in sight. Being in the open this way
made him feel as though ants were crawling under his skin. He should be safe, though. His plain brown
woolen coat and cap were nothing like the clothes he was known by in the city. Instead of black silk, a
drab woolen scarf hid the scar around his neck, and the collar of his coat was turned up to hide that, as
well. Not a bit of lace or a thread of embroidery. Dull enough for a farmer milking cows. No one he
needed to avoid would know him to recognize if they saw him. Not unless they were close. Just the
same, he tugged the cap a bit lower.
"You intend to stay out here much longer, Mat?" Noal’s tattered dark blue coat had seen better
days, but then so had he. Stooped and white-haired, the broken-nosed old fellow was squatting on his
heels below the boulder, fishing off the riverbank with a bamboo pole. Most of his teeth were missing,
and sometimes he felt at a gap with his tongue as though surprised to find the empty space. "It’s cold, in
case you haven’t noticed. Everybody always thinks it’s warm in Ebou Dar, but winter is cold
everywhere, even places that make Ebou Dar feel like Shienar. My bones crave a fire. Or a blanket,
anyway. A man can be snug with a blanket, if he’s out of the wind. Are you going to do anything but
stare downriver?"
When Mat only glanced at him, Noal shrugged and went back to peering at the tarred wooden
float bobbing among the sparse reeds. Now and then he worked one gnarled hand as though his crooked
fingers felt the chill particularly, but if so, it was his own fault. The old fool had gone wading in the
shallows to scoop up minnows for bait with a basket that now sat half-submerged and anchored by a
smooth stone at the edge of the water. Despite his complaints about the weather, Noal had come along to
the river without urging or invitation. From things he had said, everyone he cared about was long years
dead, and the truth of it was, he seemed almost desperate for any sort of company. Desperate, indeed, to
choose Mat’s company when he could be five days from Ebou Dar by now. A man could cover a lot of
ground in five days if he had reason to and a good horse. Mat had thought on that very subject often
enough himself.
On the far side of the Eldar, half-hidden by one of the marshy islands that dotted the river, a
broad-beamed rowboat backed oars, and one of the crew stood up and fished in the reeds with a long
boathook. Another oarsman helped him heave what he had caught into the boat. At this distance, it
looked like a large sack. Mat winced and shifted his eyes downriver. They were still finding bodies, and
he was responsible. The innocent died along with the guilty. And if you did nothing, then only the
innocent died. Or as bad as died. Maybe worse than, depending on how you looked at it.
He scowled irritably. Blood and ashes, he was turning into a bloody philosopher! Taking
responsibility drained all the joy out of life and dried a man to dust. What he wanted right then was a
great deal of mulled wine in a snug common room full of music, and a plump, pretty serving maid on his
knee, somewhere far from Ebou Dar. Very far. What he had were obligations he could not walk away
from and a future he did not fancy. There seemed no help at all in being ta’veren, not if this was how the
Pattern shaped itself to you. He still had his luck, anyway. At least, he was alive and not chained in a
cell. Under the circumstances, that counted as luck.
From his perch, he had a fairly clear view down past the last low marshy river islands. Windcaught
spray drifted up the harbor like banks of fine mist, but not enough to hide what he needed to see.
He was attempting to do sums in his head, counting ships afloat, trying to count wrecks. He kept losing
his place, though, thinking he had counted vessels twice and starting over. The Sea Folk who had been
recaptured intruded on his thoughts, too. He had heard that gibbets in the Rahad, across the harbor,
displayed more than a hundred corpses, with placards listing ‘murder’ and ‘rebellion’ as their crimes.
Normally, the Seanchan used the headsman’s axe and the impaling stake, while the Blood got the
strangling cord, but property had to settle for being hanged.
Burn me, I did what I could, he thought sourly. There was no use feeling guilty that that was all
he could do. Not a bit of use. None! He had to concentrate on the people who escaped.
The Atha’an Miere who got away had taken ships in the harbor for their flight, and while they
might have seized some smaller craft, anything they could board and overwhelm in the night, they had
intended to carry off as many of their people as possible. With thousands of them laboring as prisoners
in the Rahad, that would have meant big ships, by choice, and that meant Seanchan greatships. Many of
the Sea Folk’s own vessels were large enough, for certain, but they all had been stripped of their sails
and rigging by that time, to be fitted out in the Seanchan fashion. If he could calculate how many
greatships remained, he might have some notion of how many Atha’an Miere had actually reached
freedom. Freeing the Sea Folk Windfinders had been the right thing to do, the only thing he could do,
but aside from the hangings, hundreds and hundreds of bodies had been fished out of the harbor in the
last five days, and the Light only knew how many had washed out to sea with the tides. The
gravediggers labored from sunup to sundown, and the graveyards were filled with weeping women and
children. Men, too. More than a few of those dead had been Atha’an Miere, with no one to weep while
they were dumped into mass graves, and he wanted some idea of the number he had saved to balance his
bleak suspicions of the number he had killed.
Estimating how many ships had made it out into the Sea of Storms was difficult, though, quite
apart from losing the count. Unlike Aes Sedai, Windfinders had no strictures against using the Power as
a weapon, not when the safety of their people was at stake, and they would have wanted to halt pursuit
before it began. No one gave chase in a burning ship. The Seanchan, with their damane, had even less
compunction against fighting back. Lightning bolts lacing through the rain as numerous as blades of
grass and balls of fire streaking across the sky, some the size of horses, and the harbor seemed aflame
from one side to the other, till even in a storm the night made any Illuminator’s show look stark.
Without turning his head he could count a dozen places where the charred ribs of a greatship stuck up
out of shallow water or a huge bluff-bowed hull lay on its side with the harbor waves licking against the
tilted deck, and twice as many where the lines of blackened timbers were finer, the remains of Sea Folk
rakers. Apparently they had disliked leaving their own vessels to people who had put them in chains.
Three dozen right in front of him, and that without adding in the sunken wrecks that had salvage boats
working over them. Perhaps a seafarer could tell greatship from raker by the tops of masts sticking out
of the water, but the task was beyond him.
Suddenly an old memory tugged at him, of lading ships for an attack from the sea, and how
many men could be crowded into how much space for how long. It was not his memory, really, from an
ancient war between Fergansea and Moreina, yet it seemed his. Realizing that he had not actually lived
one of those ancient bits of other men’s lives that were stuck in his head always took him a little by
surprise now, so maybe they were his, in a way. They were certainly sharper than some stretches of his
own life. The vessels he recalled had been smaller than most in the harbor, yet the principles were the
same.
"They don’t have enough ships," he muttered. The Seanchan had even more in Tanchico than
had come here, but the losses here were sufficient to make the difference.
"Enough ships for what?" Noal said. "I never saw so many in one place before." That was quite a
statement, coming from him. To hear Noal tell it, he had seen everything, and nearly always bigger or
grander than what was in front of his nose. Back home, they would have said he kept tight purse-strings
on the truth.
Mat shook his head. "They don’t have enough ships left to take them all back home."
"We don’t have to go home," a woman drawled behind him. "We’ve come home."
He did not quite jump at the slurred Seanchan accent, but it was a near thing before he
recognized who was speaking.
Egeanin was scowling, her eyes like blue daggers, but not for him. At least, he thought not. She
was tall and lean, with a hard face that was pale skinned despite a life at sea. Her green dress was bright
enough for a Tinker, or close to it, and embroidered with a mass of tiny yellow and white blossoms on
the high neck and down the sleeves. A flowered scarf tied tightly under her chin held a long black wig
on her head, spilling halfway down her back and over her shoulders. She hated the scarf and the dress,
which did not quite fit, but her hands checked every other minute to make sure the wig was straight.
That concerned her more than her clothes, though concern was not nearly a strong enough word.
She had only sighed over cutting her long fingernails short, but she almost had a fit, red-faced
and pop-eyed, when he told her she must shave her head completely. The way her hair had been cut
before, shaved above her ears with only a bowl-like cap and a wide shoulder-length tail in the back
remaining, shouted that she was of the Seanchan Blood, a lesser noble. Even someone who had never
laid eyes on a Seanchan would have remembered seeing her. She had agreed, reluctantly, but afterwards
she was close to hysterical until she was able to cover her scalp. Not for the reasons most women would
have gone over the moon, though. No, among the Seanchan, only the Imperial family shaved their
heads. Men who went bald began wearing wigs as soon as their hair started falling out to any noticeable
degree. Egeanin would have died before letting anyone think she was pretending to belong to the
Imperial family, even people who would never have had the thought in their lives. Well, that sort of
pretense did carry a death penalty among the Seanchan, but he would never have believed she would go
on about it so. What was one more death penalty when your neck was already being stretched for the
axe? The strangling cord, in her case. The noose would be for him.
Slipping the half-drawn knife back up his left sleeve, he slid down from the boulder. He landed
poorly and almost fell, barely hiding a wince at the stabbing jar to his hip. He did hide it, though. She
was a noblewoman and a ship captain, and she made enough tries at taking charge without him showing
any more weakness to give her an opening than he had to. She had come to him for help, not the other
way round, but that buttered no bread with her. Leaning against the boulder with his arms folded, he
pretended he was lounging, idly kicking at tufts of dead grass to work the pain out. That was sharp
enough to put sweat on his forehead despite the cold wind. Fleeing in that storm had cost him ground
with his hip, and he had not made it up yet.
"Are you sure about the Sea Folk?" he asked her. No point in mentioning the lack of ships again.
Too many Seanchan settlers had spread out from Ebou Dar anyway, and apparently even more from
Tanchico. However many ships they had, no power on earth would ever root all the Seanchan out, now.
Reaching toward the wig again, she hesitated, frowning at her short fingernails, and instead
tucked her hands under her arms. "What about them?" She knew he had been behind the Windfinders’
break for freedom, but neither of them had mentioned it specifically. She always tried to avoid talking
about the Atha’an Miere. Quite aside from all the sunken ships and dead, freeing damane was another
death penalty charge, and disgusting besides, in the Seanchan view, as bad as rape or molesting children.
Of course, she had helped free some damane herself, though to her way of looking, that was among the
least of her crimes. Still, she avoided that topic, too. There were quite a few subjects she held silent on.
"Are you certain about the Windfinders who were caught? I’ve heard talk about cutting off
hands, or feet." Mat swallowed a sour taste. He had seen men die, had killed men with his own hands.
The Light send him mercy, he had killed a woman, once! Not even the darkest of those other men’s
memories burned so hot as that, and a few of those were dark enough to need drowning in wine when
they floated to the surface. But the thought of deliberately cutting off somebody’s hands curdled his
stomach.
Egeanin’s head jerked, and for a moment he thought she would ignore his question. "Talk from
Renna, I’ll wager," she said, with a dismissive gesture. "Some sul’dam talk about that nonsense to
frighten recalcitrant damane when they’re new-leashed, but nobody’s done it in, oh, six or seven
hundred years. Not many, anyway, and people who can’t control their property without...mutilation...are
sei’mosiev to start." Her mouth twisted in loathing, though whether for mutilation or sei’mosiev was
unclear.
"Shamed or not, they do it," he snapped. Sei’mosiev went beyond being shamed, to a Seanchan,
but he doubted that anyone who deliberately cut off a woman’s hand could be humiliated enough to kill
themselves. "Is Suroth one of that ‘not many?’"
The Seanchan woman glared to match his and planted her fists on her hips, leaning forward with
her feet astride as though she were on the deck of a ship and about to berate a fumble-witted sailor. "The
High Lady Suroth doesn’t own these damane, you lump-brained farmer! They’re property of the
Empress, may she live forever. Suroth might as well slit her own wrists straightaway as order something
like that for Imperial damane. That’s even if she would; I’ve never heard of her mistreating her own. I’ll
try to put this in terms you can understand. If your dog runs away, you don’t maim it. You switch the
dog so it knows not to do that again, and you put it back in the kennel. Besides, damane are just too –"
"Too valuable," Mat finished for her drily. He had heard that till he was sick of it.
She disregarded his sarcasm, or maybe did not notice. In his experience, if a woman did not want
to hear something, she could ignore it till you yourself started to doubt you had spoken. "You’re finally
beginning to understand," she drawled, nodding. "Those damane you’re so worried about probably don’t
even have welts left by this time." Her gaze went to the ships in the harbor, and slowly took on a look of
loss, made deeper by the hardness of her face. Her thumbs ran across her fingertips. "You wouldn’t
believe what my damane cost me," she said in a quiet voice, "her and hiring the sul’dam for her. Worth
every throne I paid, of course. Her name’s Serrisa. Well-trained, responsive. She’ll gorge herself on
honeyed nuts, if you let her, but she never gets seasick or the sulks, the way some do. A pity I had to
leave her in Cantorin. I suppose I’ll never see her again." She sighed regretfully.
"I’m sure she misses you as much as you miss her," Noal said, flashing a gap-toothed smile, and
for all the world, he sounded sincere. Maybe he was. He contended that he had seen worse than damane
and da’covale, for what that was worth.
Egeanin’s back stiffened, and she frowned as if she did not believe his sympathy. Or else she had
just realized how she was staring at the ships in the harbor. Certainly, she turned away from the water
very deliberately. "I gave orders that no one was to leave the wagons," she said firmly. Likely, crewmen
on her ships had jumped at that tone. She jerked her head away from the river as though she expected
Mat and Noal to jump where she indicated, too.
"Did you, now?" Mat grinned, showing her teeth. He could manage an insolent grin that sent
most puffed-up fools into apoplexy. Egeanin was far from a fool, most times, but puffed-up she was.
Ship captain and noblewoman. He did not know which was worse. Bah for both! "Well, I was about
ready to head that way. Unless you’re not done fishing, Noal. We can wait here a while, if you’re not."
But the old man was already emptying the remaining silver-gray minnows out of his basket into
the water. His hands had been broken badly, maybe more than once by their lumpy appearance, yet they
were deft in winding his line around the bamboo pole. In the short time he had been fishing, he had
caught nearly a dozen fish, the largest less than a foot long, strung through the gills on a looped reed,
and he moved those to the basket before picking it up. He claimed that if he could find the right peppers,
he was going to make a fish stew – from Shara, of all places! As well say from the moon! – a stew that
would make Mat forget all about his hip. The way Noal went on about the peppers, Mat suspected any
forgetting would be because he was focused on finding enough ale to cool his tongue.
Egeanin, waiting impatiently, was paying no attention to Mat’s grin, either, so he slipped an arm
around her. If they were heading back, they might as well get started. She knocked his hand away from
her shoulder. The woman made some maiden aunts he had known look like tavern girls.
"We’re supposed to be lovers, you and I," he reminded her.
"There’s nobody here to see," she growled.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Leilwin?" That was the name she was using. She
claimed it was Taraboner. At any rate, it did not sound Seanchan. "If we don’t even hold hands unless
we see somebody watching, we’re going to look a pretty strange pair of lovers to anybody we don’t
see."
She snorted in derision, yet she let him put his arm back around her, and slipped hers around
him. But she gave him a warning stare at the same time.
Mat shook his head. She was crazy as a spring hare if she thought he enjoyed this. Most women
had a little padding over their muscles, at least the women he liked, but hugging Egeanin was like
hugging a fence post. Almost as hard, and definitely as stiff. He could not puzzle out what Domon saw
in her. Maybe she had not given the Illianer any choice. She had bought the man, after all, same as
buying a horse. Burn me, I’ll never understand these Seanchan, he thought. Not that he wanted to. The
only thing was, he had to.
As they were turning away, he took one last glance back at the harbor, and almost wished he had
not. Two small sailing craft broke through a wide wall of mist that was drifting slowly down the harbor.
Drifting against the wind. Time to be gone and past time.
It was better than two miles from the river to the Great North Road, across rolling countryside
covered in winter-brown grasses and weeds and dotted with clumps of vine-tangled bushes too thick to
push through even with most of the leaves gone. The rises hardly deserved the name of hill, not for
anyone who had climbed in the Sand Hills and the Mountains of Mist as a boy – there were gaps in his
own memories, but Mat could remember some of that – yet before long, he was glad he had an arm
around somebody. He had sat motionless on that bloody rock for too long. The throb in his hip had
faded to a dull ache, but it still made him limp, and without some sort of support, he would have been
staggering on the slopes. Not that he leaned on Egeanin, of course, but holding on helped steady him.
The woman frowned at him as though she thought he were trying to take advantage.
"If you did as you were told," she growled, "I wouldn’t need to carry you."
He showed his teeth again, this time not trying to disguise it as a smile. The way Noal scampered
along beside them easily, never missing a step despite balancing his basket of fish on his hip with one
hand and carrying his fishing pole in the other, was embarrassing. For all he looked hard-worn, the old
man was spry enough. Too spry by half, at times.
Their route slanted north of the Circuit of Heaven, with its long, open-ended tiers of polished
stone seats where, in warmer weather, wealthy patrons sat on cushions beneath colorful canvas awnings
to watch their horses race. Now, the awnings and poles were stowed away, the horses all in their country
stables, those the Seanchan had not taken, and the seats were empty save for a handful of small boys
darting up and down the tiers in a game of keep-away. Mat was fond of horses, and racing, but his eyes
slid past the Circuit toward Ebou Dar. Whenever he topped a rise, the city’s massive white ramparts
were visible, deep enough that they supported a road encircling the city on top, and looking gave him an
excuse to pause a moment. Fool woman! A scrap of a limp did not mean she was carrying him! He
managed to keep a good temper, take the rough with the smooth and no complaining. Why could she
not?
Inside the city white roofs and walls, white domes and spires, ringed in thin bands of color,
gleamed in the gray morning light, a picture of serenity. He could not make out the gaps where buildings
had burned to the ground. A long line of farmers’ high-wheeled ox-carts was trundling through the wide
arched gateway that opened on the Great North Road, men and women on their way to the city markets
with whatever they had left to sell this late in winter, and in their midst a merchant’s train of big, canvastopped
wagons behind six and eight-horse teams, carrying goods from the Light knew where. Seven
more trains, ranging from four wagons to ten, stood in line at the side of the road to wait for the
gateguards to finish their inspections. Trade never stopped entirely while the sun shone, no matter who
ruled a city, unless there was actual fighting. Sometimes it did not stop completely then. The stream of
people flowing the other way was mostly Seanchan, soldiers in ordered ranks with their segmented
armor painted in stripes and helmets that looked like the heads of huge insects, some marching and some
mounted, nobles who were always mounted, wearing ornate cloaks, pleated riding dresses and lace veils,
or voluminous trousers and long coats. Seanchan settlers were still departing the city, too, wagon upon
wagon filled with farmers and craftsmen and the tools of their trades. The settlers had begun leaving as
soon as they came off the ships, but it would be weeks before they were all gone. It was a peaceful
scene, workaday and ordinary if you ignored what lay behind it, yet every time they reached a place
where he could see the gates, his mind flashed back to six nights ago, and he was there again, at those
same gates.
The storm had grown worse as they crossed the city from the Tarasin Palace. Rain fell by
buckets, pounding the darkened city and slicking the paving stones under the horses’ hooves, and wind
howled off the Sea of Storms, driving the rain like stones from slings and jerking at cloaks so that
keeping at all dry was a lost cause. Clouds hid the moon, and the deluge seemed to soak up the light of
the pole-lanterns carried by Blaeric and Fen, on foot ahead of the rest. Then they entered the long
passageway through the city wall, and gained a bit of shelter, at least from the rain. The wind made the
high-ceilinged tunnel keen like a flute. The gate guards were waiting just inside the far end of the
passage, four of them also bearing pole-lanterns. A dozen more, half of them Seanchan, carried halberds
that could strike at a man in the saddle or pull him out of it. Two Seanchan with their helmets off were
peering from the lighted doorway of the guardhouse built into the white-plastered wall, and shifting
shadows behind them told of others inside. Too many to fight past quietly, maybe too many to fight past
at all. Not without everything going off like an Illuminator’s firework bursting in his hand.
The guards were not the danger, anyway, not the main danger. A tall, plump-faced woman in
dark blue, her divided ankle-length skirts bearing red panels worked with silver lightning bolts, stepped
past the men in the guardhouse door. A long silvery metal leash was coiled in the sul’dam’s left hand,
the free end connecting her to the graying woman in a dark gray dress who followed her out with an
eager grin. Mat had known they would be there. The Seanchan had sul’dam and damane at all the gates,
now. There could even be another pair inside, or two. They did not mean to let one woman who could
channel escape their nets. The silver foxhead medallion beneath his shirt lay cold against his chest; not
the cold that signaled someone embracing the Source nearby, just the accumulated chill of the night and
his flesh too icy to warm it, but he could not stop waiting for the other. Light, he was juggling fireworks
tonight, with the fuses lit!
The guards might have been puzzled by a noblewoman leaving Ebou Dar in the middle of the
night and that weather, with over a dozen servants and strings of packhorses indicating a journey of
some distance, but Egeanin was of the Blood, her cloak embroidered in an eagle with spread black-andwhite
wings, and long fingers on her red riding gloves to accommodate her fingernails. Ordinary
soldiers did not question what the Blood chose to do, even the low Blood. Which did not mean there
were no formalities. Anyone was free to leave the city when they wished, but the Seanchan recorded the
movement of damane, and three rode in the entourage, heads down and faces covered by the hoods of
their gray cloaks, each linked to a mounted sul’dam by the silvery length of an a’dam.
The plump-faced sul’dam walked by them with barely a glance, strolling down the tunnel. Her
damane peered intently at every woman they passed, though, sensing whether she could channel, and
Mat held his breath when she paused beside the last mounted damane with a slight frown. Even with his
luck, he would not bet against the Seanchan recognizing an Aes Sedai’s ageless face if they looked
inside that hood. There were Aes Sedai held as damane, but what were the odds that all three of
Egeanin’s would be? Light, what were the odds one of the low Blood would own three?
The plump-faced woman made a clicking sound, as you might to a pet dog, and twitched the
a’dam, and the damane followed her on. They were looking for marath’damane trying to escape the
leash, not damane. Mat still thought he might choke. The sound of dice rolling had started up again in
his head, loud enough to rival the occasional rumble of distant thunder. Something was going to go
wrong; he knew it.
The officer of the guards, a burly Seanchan with tilted eyes like a Saldaean but a pale honeybrown
skin, bowed courteously and invited Egeanin into the guardhouse, to have a cup of spiced wine
while a clerk wrote down the information about the damane. Every guardhouse Mat had ever seen was a
stark place, yet the lamplight glowing in the arrowslits made this one seem almost inviting. A
pitcherplant probably looked inviting to a fly, too. He had been glad of the rain dripping from the hood
of his cloak and running down his face. It disguised the sweat of nerves. He held one of his throwing
knives, resting flat atop the long bundle draped in front of his saddle. Lying flat like that, none of the
soldiers should notice. He could feel the woman inside the cloth breathing under his hands, and his
shoulders were knotted from waiting for her to cry out for help. Selucia kept her mount close to him,
peering at him from the shelter of her hood with her golden braid tucked out of sight, never even
glancing away when the sul’dam and damane walked by. A shout from Selucia would have put the
weasel in the chicken run as much as one from Tuon. He thought the threat of the knife had held both
women silent – they had to believe he was desperate enough or crazy enough to use it – but he still could
not be sure. There was so much about night he could not be sure of, so much off-balance and askew.
He remembered holding his breath, wondering when someone would notice that the bundle he
carried was richly embroidered and question why he was letting it get soaked with rain, wondering and
cursing himself for grabbing a wallhanging because it had been close to hand. In memory, everything
slowed. Egeanin stepped down, tossing her reins to Domon, who took them with a bow from his saddle.
Domon’s hood was pushed back just enough to show that his head was shaved on one side and his
remaining hair gathered in a braid that hung to his shoulder. Raindrops dripped from the stocky
Illianer’s short beard, yet he managed the proper stiff-necked arrogance of a so’jhin, hereditary upper
servant to one of the Blood and thus almost equal to the Blood. Definitely higher than any common
soldier. Egeanin glanced back toward Mat and his burden, her face a frozen mask that could pass for
hauteur if you did not know she was horrified by what they were doing. The tall sul’dam and her
damane turned briskly back up the tunnel, finished with their inspection. Vanin, just behind Mat leading
one of the strings of packhorses and as always sitting his horse like a sack of suet, leaned from his
saddle and spat. Mat did not know why that hung in his memory, but it did. Vanin spat, and trumpets
sounded, thin and sharp in the distance far behind them. From south of the city, where men had been
planning to fire Seanchan supplies stored along the Bay Road.
The officer of the guard hesitated at the sound of the trumpets, but suddenly a bell pealed loudly
in the city itself, then another, and then it seemed hundreds were clanging alarm in the night as the black
sky split with more lightning than any storm had ever birthed, silver-blue streaks stabbing down inside
the walls. They bathed the tunnel in flickering light. That was when the shouting started, amid the
explosions back in the city, and the screaming.
For a moment, Mat had cursed the Windfinders for moving sooner than he had been promised.
But the dice in his head had stopped, he realized. Why? It made him want to curse all over again, but
there was no time for even that. In the next instant the officer was hurriedly urging Egeanin back into
her saddle and on her way, hurriedly shouting orders to the men boiling out of the guardhouse, directing
one into the city at a run to see what the alarm was while he arrayed the rest against any threat from
inside or out. The plump-faced woman ran to place herself and her damane with the soldiers, along with
another pair of women linked by an a’dam, who came running from the guardhouse. And Mat and the
others galloped out into the storm, carrying with them three Aes Sedai, two of them escaped damane,
and the kidnaped heir to the Seanchan Crystal Throne, while behind them a far worse storm broke over
Ebou Dar. Lightning bolts more numerous than blades of grass....
With a shiver, Mat pulled himself back to the present. Egeanin scowled at him, and gave him an
exaggerated pull. "Lovers arm-in-arm don’t hurry," he muttered. "They...stroll." She sneered. Domon
had to be blinded by love. That, or he had taken too many thumps on the head.
The worst was over and done, in any case. Mat hoped that getting out of the city had been the
worst. He had not felt the dice since. They were always a bad sign. His backtrail was as muddled as he
could manage, and he was sure it would take someone as lucky as he to separate the gold from the dross.
The Seekers had been on Egeanin’s scent before that night, and she would be wanted on charges of
stealing damane now, as well, but the authorities would expect her to be riding as hard as she could and
already leagues from Ebou Dar, not sitting just outside the city. Nothing except a coincidence of timing
connected her to Tuon. Or to Mat, and that was important. Tylin certainly would have leveled her own
charges against him – no woman was going to forgive a man tying her up and shoving her under a bed,
even when she had suggested it – yet with any luck, he was beneath suspicion for anything else that had
happened that night. With any luck, no one except Tylin had a thought for him at all. Trussing a queen
like a pig for market would be enough to get a man dead usually, but it had to count for moldy onions
alongside the Daughter of the Nine Moons disappearing, and what could Tylin’s Toy have to do with
that? It still irritated him that he had been seen as a hanger-on – worse, a pet! – but there were
advantages.
He thought he was safe – from the Seanchan, anyway – yet one point worried him like a thorn
buried in his heel. Well, several did, most growing out of Tuon herself, but this one had a particularly
long point. Tuon’s disappearance should have been as shocking as the sun vanishing at noon, but no
alarm had been raised. None! No announcements of rewards or offers of ransom, no hot-eyed soldiers
searching every wagon and cart within miles, galloping through the countryside to root out every
cubbyhole and niche where a woman might be hidden. Those old memories told him something of
hunting for kidnapped royalty, yet except for the hangings and the burned ships in the harbor, from the
outside Ebou Dar seemed unchanged from the day before the kidnaping. Egeanin alleged that the search
would be in utter secrecy, that many of the Seanchan themselves might still not know Tuon was missing.
Her explanation involved the shock to the Empire and ill omens for the Return and the loss of sei’taer,
and she sounded as if she believed every word, but Mat refused to buy a penny’s worth. The Seanchan
were strange folk, but no one could be that strange. The silence of Ebou Dar made his skin prickle. He
felt a trap in that silence. When they reached the Great North Road, he was grateful that the city was
hidden behind the low hills.
The road was a broad highway, a major avenue of trade, wide enough for five or six wagons
abreast uncrowded, with a surface of dirt and clay that hundreds of years of use had packed nearly as
hard as the occasional ancient paving stone that stuck an edge or corner inches into the air. Mat and
Egeanin hurried across to the verge on the other side with Noal dogging their heels, between a
merchant’s train rumbling toward the city, guarded by a scar-faced woman and ten hard-eyed men in
leather vests covered with metal discs, and a string of the settlers’ oddly shaped wagons, rising to peaks
at the ends, that were heading north, some pulled by horses or mules, others by oxen. Clustered between
the wagons, barefoot boys used switches to herd four-horned goats with long black hair and big,
dewlapped white cows. One man at the rear of the wagons, in baggy blue breeches and a round red cap,
was leading a massive hump-backed bull by a thick cord tied to a ring in its nose. Except for his clothes,
he could have been from the Two Rivers. He eyed Mat and the others, walking in the same direction, as
if he might speak, then shook his head and plodded on without looking at them again. Contending with
Mat’s limp, they were not moving fast, and the settlers forged ahead slowly but steadily.
Hunch-shouldered and clutching the scarf beneath her chin with her free hand, Egeanin let out a
breath and loosened fingers that had begun to grip Mat’s side almost painfully. After a moment, she
straightened and glared at the farmer’s departing back as though she were ready to chase after him and
box his ears and his bull’s. If that were not bad enough, once the farmer was twenty or so paces away,
she shifted her scowl to a company of Seanchan soldiers marching down the middle of the road at a pace
that would soon overtake the settlers, perhaps two hundred men in a column four abreast followed by a
motley collection of mule-drawn wagons covered with tightly lashed canvas. The middle of the road was
left free for military traffic. Half a dozen well-mounted officers in thin-plumed helmets that hid all but
their eyes rode at the column’s head, looking neither left nor right, red cloaks spread neatly over their
horses’ cruppers. The banner following on the officers’ heels was marked with what looked like a
stylized silver arrowhead, or maybe an anchor, crossed by a long arrow and a jagged lightning bolt in
gold, with script and numerals below that Mat could not make out as gusts swept the banner this way
and that. The men on the supply wagons wore dark blue coats and breeches and square red-and-blue
caps, but the soldiers were even more showy than most Seanchan, their segmented armor striped in blue
banded at the bottom with silvery white and red banded with golden yellow, their helmets painted in all
four colors so they resembled the faces of fearsome spiders. A large badge with the anchor – Mat
thought it must be an anchor – and arrow and lightning was fastened to the front of each helmet, and
every man except the officers carried a double-curve bow at his side, with a bristling quiver at his belt
balancing a short-sword.
"Ship’s archers," Egeanin grumbled, glowering at the soldiers. Her free hand had left her scarf,
but it was still clenched in a fist. "Tavern brawlers. They always cause problems when they’re left
ashore too long."
They had a well-trained look, to Mat. Anyway, he had never heard of soldiers who did not get in
fights, especially when they were drunk or bored, and bored soldiers tended to get drunk. A corner of his
mind wondered how far those bows would carry, but it was an absent thought. He wanted nothing to do
with any Seanchan soldiers. If he had his way, he would have nothing to do with any soldiers ever again.
But his luck never ran that far, it seemed. Fate and luck were different, unfortunately. Two hundred
paces at most, he decided. A good crossbow would outrange them, or any Two Rivers bow.
"We’re not in a tavern," he said through his teeth, "and they’re not brawling now. So let’s not
start one just because you were afraid a farmer would speak to you." Her jaw set, and she shot him a
look hard enough to crack his skull. It was the truth, though. She was fearful of opening her mouth near
anyone who might recognize her accent. A wise precaution, in his book, but everything seemed to grate
at her. "We’ll have a bannerman over here asking questions if you keep glaring at them. Women around
Ebou Dar are famous for being demure," he lied. What could she know of local customs?
She gave him a sidelong frown – maybe she was trying to figure out what demure meant – but
she stopped grimacing at the archers. She just looked ready to bite instead of hit.
"That fellow’s dark as an Atha’an Miere," Noal muttered absently, staring at the passing
soldiers. "Dark as a Sharan. But I’d swear he has blue eyes. I’ve seen the like before, but where?"
Trying to rub his temples, he almost struck himself on the head with the bamboo fishing pole, and he
took a step as though he meant to ask the fellow where he had been born.
With a lurch, Mat caught the old man’s sleeve. "We’re going back to the show, Noal. Now. We
should never have left."
"I told you that," Egeanin said with a sharp nod.
Mat groaned, but there was nothing for it but to keep walking. Oh, it was way past time to be
gone. He only hoped he had not left it too late.
CHAPTER 2
Two Captains
About two miles north of the city a wide blue banner stretched between two tall poles rippled in
the wind, proclaiming Valan Luca’s Grand Traveling Show and Magnificent Display of Marvels and
Wonders in brilliant red letters large enough to be read from the road, perhaps a hundred paces east. For
those unable to read, it at least indicated the location of something out of the ordinary. This was The
Largest Traveling Show in the World, so the banner claimed. Luca claimed a great many things, but Mat
thought he must be telling the truth about that. The show’s canvas wall, ten feet high and tightly pegged
at the bottom, enclosed as much ground as a good-sized village. The people streaming by looked toward
the banner curiously, but the farmers and merchants had their work ahead of them and the settlers their
future, and none turned aside. Thick ropes fastened to posts set in the ground were meant to herd crowds
to the wide, arched entrance just behind the banner, but there was no one waiting to get in, not at this
hour. Of late, few came at any hour.
The fall of Ebou Dar had brought only a slight drop in attendance, once people realized the city
would not be looted and they did not have to flee for their lives, but with the Return, all those ships and
settlers, nearly everyone decided to hold on to their coin against more pressing needs. Two bulky men,
huddling in cloaks that might have come from a ragbag, were on duty beneath the banner to keep out
anyone who wanted to peek around without paying, but even those were in short supply, nowadays. The
pair, one with a crooked nose above a thick mustache and the other missing an eye, were squatting on
the dirt, tossing dice.
Surprisingly, Petra Anhill, the show’s strongman, stood watching the two horse-handlers play,
arms larger than most men’s legs folded across his chest. He was shorter than Mat, but at least twice as
wide, his shoulders straining the heavy blue coat his wife made him wear against the cold. Petra seemed
engrossed in the dicing, but the man did not gamble, not so much as pitching pennies. He and his wife,
Clarine, a dog trainer, saved every coin they could spare, and Petra needed small excuse to talk at length
about the inn they intended to buy one day. Even more surprising, Clarine was at his side, enveloped in a
dark cloak and apparently as absorbed in the gaming as he.
Petra glanced warily over his shoulder into the camp when he saw Mat and Egeanin approaching
arm-in-arm, which made Mat frown. People looking over their shoulders was never good. Clarine’s
plump brown face broke into a warm smile, though. Like most women in the show, she thought he and
Egeanin were romantic. The bent-nosed horse-handler, a heavy-shouldered Tairen named Col, leered as
he scooped up the wager, a few coppers. No one but Domon could see Egeanin as pretty, but to some
fools, nobility bestowed beauty. Or money did, and a noblewoman must be rich. A few thought any
noblewoman who abandoned her husband for the likes of Mat Cauthon might be open to leaving him,
too, and bringing her money with her. That was the story Mat and the others had put around to explain
why they were hiding from the Seanchan: a cruel husband and a lovers’ flight. Everyone had heard that
sort of tale, from gleemen or books if seldom real life, often enough to accept it. Col kept his head down,
though. Egeanin-Leilwin-had already drawn her belt knife on a sword-juggler, a too-handsome
fellow who had been overly suggestive in asking her to share a cup of wine in his wagon, and no one
doubted she would have used the blade if he had pressed his suit an inch further.
As soon as Mat reached the strongman, Petra said quietly, "There are Seanchan soldiers talking
to Luca, about twenty of them. The officer’s talking with him, leastwise." He did not sound frightened,
but worry creased his forehead, and he laid a protective hand on his wife’s shoulder. Clarine’s smile
faded, and she raised one hand to rest atop his. They trusted Lucas judgment, after a fashion, yet they
knew the risk they were running. Or thought they did. The risk they believed in was bad enough. "What
do they want?" Egeanin demanded, pushing free of Mat, before he could crack his teeth. In fact, no one
waited for him. "Hold these for me," Noal said, handing his pole and basket to the one-eyed man, who
gaped up at him. Straightening, Noal slipped a knobbly hand beneath his coat, where he kept two
longbladed knives. "Can we reach our horses?" he asked Petra. The strongman eyed him doubtfully. Mat
was not the only one unsure whether Noal still possessed all his wits.
"They don’t seem interested in searching," Clarine said hastily, making a hint of a curtsy to
Egeanin. Everyone was supposed to pretend Mat and the others were part of the show, but few managed
to carry it off with Egeanin. "The officer’s been in Luca’s wagon for a good half-hour, but the soldiers
have been standing by their horses all that time."
"I don’t think they’re here about you," Petra added respectfully. Again, to Egeanin. Why should he be
different? Probably practicing to welcome nobles to that inn. "We just didn’t want you to be surprised or
worried, seeing them. I’m sure Luca will send them off with no trouble." Despite his tone, the creases
remained in his forehead. Most men became upset if their wives ran off, and a nobleman could make
others bear the brunt of his ire. A traveling show, strangers just passing through, made a particularly
easy target without added complications. "You don’t have to worry about anybody talking out of turn,
my Lady." Glancing at the horse handlers, Petra added, "Does she, Col?" Bent-nose shook his head, his
eyes on the dice he was bouncing on his palm. He was a big man, but not as big as Petra, and the
strongman could straighten horseshoes with his bare hands.
"Everybody likes a chance to spit on a noble’s boots now and then," the one-eyed fellow
mumbled, peering into the basket of fish. He was almost as tall and wide-shouldered as Col, but his face
was all leathery wrinkles, and he had even fewer teeth than Noal. Glancing at Egeanin, he ducked his
head and added, "Begging your pardon, Lady. ‘Sides, this way we all get a little coin, which there ain’t
been much of lately. Right, Col? Anybody talks, them Seanchan’ll take us all up, maybe hang us like
they did them Sea Folk. Or put us to work cleaning them canals the other side of the harbor." Horse
handlers did whatever needed doing around the show, from mucking the horselines and cleaning
animals’ cages to erecting and taking down the canvas wall, but he shuddered as though digging out
silted canals in the Rahad was a worse prospect than hanging.
"Did I say anything about talking?" Col protested, spreading his hands. "I just asked how long
we’re going to sit here, that’s all. I just asked when we’re going to see some of this coin." "We sit here
as long as I say sit." It was remarkable how hard Egeanin could make that drawl sound without raising
her voice, like a blade sliding free of the scabbard. "You see your coin when we reach our destination.
There will be a little something extra for those who serve me faithfully. And a cold grave for anyone
who thinks on betrayal." Col pulled his much-patched cloak tight and widened his eyes trying to look
indignant, or maybe innocent, but he just appeared to be hoping she would come close enough for him to
filch her purse.
Mat ground his teeth. For one thing, that was his gold she was promising with such a free hand.
She had her own, but not near enough for this. More importantly, she was trying to take charge again.
Light, except for him, she would still be in Ebou Dar scheming to avoid the Seekers, if not already being
put to the question.
Except for him, she would never have thought of staying close to Ebou Dar to throw off pursuit, or
found a hiding place with Luca’s show. But why were soldiers there? The Seanchan would have sent a
hundred men, a thousand, for a vague suspicion of Tuon’s presence. If they suspected the Aes Sedai. . . .
No! Petra and Clarine did not know they were helping hide Aes Sedai, but they would have mentioned
sul’dam and damane, and the soldiers would not be hunting sisters without them. He fingered the
foxhead through his coat. He wore that waking and sleeping, and it might give him a little warning.
He never considered trying for the horses, and not just because Col and a dozen more like him
would go running to the Seanchan before he was well out of sight. They had no particular animosity
toward him or Egeanin that he knew-even Rumann, the swordjuggler, seemed to have settled in
happily with a contortionist named Adria-but some folks would not resist the temptation of a little
more gold, either. In any case, no warning dice tumbled in his head. And there were people inside those
canvas walls he could not leave behind.
"If they’re not searching, then we have nothing to worry about," he said confidently. "But thanks
for the warning, Petra. I’ve never liked surprises." The strongman made a small gesture as if to say it
was nothing, but Egeanin and Clarine looked at Mat as though startled to find him there. Even Col and
the one-eyed lout blinked at him. It took an effort to stop short of gritting his teeth again. "I’ll just
wander near Luca’s wagon and see what I can see. Lei 1 win, you and Noal find Olver and stay with
him." They liked the boy, everyone did, and that would keep them out of his hair. He could eavesdrop
better alone. And if they had to run, maybe Egeanin and Noal could help get the boy out, at least. The
Light send it did not come to that. He could see nothing but disaster in it.
"Well, I suppose nobody lives forever," Noal sighed, retrieving his bamboo pole and basket.
Burn him, but the fellow could make a colicky goat seem cheerful! Petra’s frown certainly deepened.
Married men always seemed to be worried, one reason Mat was in no hurry himself. As Noal vanished
around the corner of the canvas wall, the one-eyed man watched the fish go regretfully. He appeared to
be another without a full set of wits. He probably had a wife somewhere.
Mat pulled his cap almost down to his eyes. Still no dice. He tried not to think of how many
times he had nearly had his throat slit or his skull split without any dice. But surely they would have
been there if there was any real danger. Of course they would. He had not taken three steps inside the
entrance before Egeanin caught up to him and slipped her arm around his waist. He stopped in his
tracks, eyeing her balefully. She resisted his orders the way a trout fought the hook, but this went
beyond stubborn. "What do you think you’re doing? What if this Seanchan officer recognizes you?"
That seemed as likely as Tylin herself walking into the show, but anything that might make her leave
was worth grabbing.
"What are the chances this fellow is anyone I know?" she scoffed. "I don’t have . . ." her face
twisted for an instant, "didn’t have . . . many friends this side of the ocean, and none in Ebou Dar." She
touched an end of the black wig over her bosom. "Anyway, in this, my own mother wouldn’t recognize
me." Her voice turned bleak toward the end.
He was going to chip a tooth if he kept on clenching his jaw. Standing there arguing with her
would be worse than useless, but the way she had stared at those Seanchan soldiers was fresh in his
mind. "Don’t glare at anybody," he warned her. "Don’t even look at anybody."
"I’m a demure Ebou Dari woman." She made it sound a challenge.
"You can do all the talking." She made that into a warning. Light! When a woman was not
making everything smooth, she made things very rough indeed, and Egeanin never made anything
smooth. He was definitely in danger of chipping a tooth. Beyond the entrance, the show’s main street
meandered among wagons like those the Tinkers used, little houses on wheels with the wagon shafts
lifted against the drivers’ seats, and walled tents often as large as small houses. Most of the wagons were
brightly painted, every shade of red or green, yellow or blue, and many of the tents were just as colorful,
a few even striped. Here and there wooden platforms, where entertainers could perform, stood beside the
street, their colored bunting beginning to look a bit grubby.
The broad expanse of dirt, near thirty paces wide and beaten flat by thousands of feet, really was
a street, one of several that wound through the show. The wind whipped away faint gray streamers of
smoke rising from the tin chimneys that stuck from up from the roofs of the wagons, and from some
tents. Most of the showfolk were probably at breakfast if not still in bed. They rose late, as a rule-a rule
Mat approved-and no one would want to eat sitting around a cook fire outside in this cold. The only
person he saw was Aludra, the sleeves of her dark green dress pushed up her forearms, grinding
something with a bronze mortar and pestle on a table that folded down from the side of her vivid blue
wagon, just around the corner on one of the narrower side streets. Intent on her work, the slender
Taraboner did not see Egeanin and Mat. He could not help looking at her, though. With her dark hair in
thin, beaded braids that hung to her waist, Aludra was probably the most exotic of Luca’s marvels. He
advertised her as an Illuminator, and unlike many of the other performers and marvels, she really was
what Luca claimed, though Luca probably did not believe it himself. Mat wondered what she was
grinding. And whether it might explode. She had promised to reveal the secret of fireworks if he could
answer a riddle, but he had not found a glimmer, so far. He would, though. One way or another. Egeanin
poked a hard finger into his ribs. "We’re supposed to be lovers, as you keep reminding me," she
growled. "Who’s going to believe it if you stare at that woman as though you’re hungry?" Mat grinned
lasciviously. "I always look at pretty women, haven’t you noticed.-" Adjusting her head scarf with a
little more vigor than usual, she gave a disparaging grunt, and he was satisfied. Her prudish streak came
in handy now and then. Egeanin was on the run for her life, but she was still Seanchan, and she already
knew more about him than he liked. He was not about to trust her with all of his secrets. Even the ones
he did not know yet.
Luca’s wagon sat in the very middle of the show’s camp, the most favored position, as far as
possible from the smells of the animal cages and horselines situated along the canvas walls. The wagon
was garish even compared to the others in the show, a red and blue thing that shone like the finest
lacquerwork, every surface spotted with golden comets and stars. The phases of the moon, in silver, ran
all the way around just below the roofline. Even the tin chimney was painted in red and blue rings. A
Tinker would have blushed. To one side of the wagon two ranks of helmeted Seanchan soldiers stood
stiffly beside their horses, green-tasseled lances slanted at exactly the same angle. One of the men held
the reins of an extra mount, a fine dun gelding with strong haunches and good ankles. The soldiers’
blue-and-green armor appeared drab alongside Luca’s wagon.
Mat was unsurprised to see he was not the only one interested in the Seanchan. A dark stocking
cap covering his shaved head, Bayle Domon was squatting on his heels with his back against one wheel
of the green wagon that belonged to Petra and Clarine, about thirty paces beyond the soldiers. Clarine’s
dogs lay under the wagon, a motley collection of smallish animals sleeping huddled together. The thickbodied
Illianer was pretending to whittle, but all he had produced was a small pile of shavings at his
feet. Mat wished the fellow would grow a mustache to hide his upper lip or else shave off the rest of his
beard. Someone might connect an Illianer to Egeanin. Blaeric Negina, a tall fellow leaning against the
wagon as though keeping Domon company, had not hesitated to remove his Shienaran topknot to avoid
Seanchan notice, though he ran a hand over the black bristle growing on his head about as often as
Egeanin checked her wig. Maybe he should wear a cap. In their dark coats with frayed cuffs and welltraveled
boots, both men could pass for showfolk, maybe horse-handlers, except to other showfolk. They
were watching the Seanchan while trying to seem not to, but Blaeric was the more successful, as might
be expected from a Warder. His full attention appeared to be on Domon, except for an occasional glance
at the soldiers, as casual as could be. Domon scowled at the Seanchan when he was not glaring at the
lump of wood in his hand, as though ordering it to turn into a neat carving. The man had taken being
so’jbin entirely too much to heart.
Mat was trying to figure out how to sneak close to Luca’s wagon and eavesdrop unseen by the
soldiers when the door at the back of the wagon opened and a pale-haired Seanchan marched down the
steps, planting a helmet with a thin blue plume on his head as his boot touched the ground. Luca
appeared behind him, resplendent in scarlet embroidered with golden sunbursts, bowing with elaborate
flourishes as he followed the officer. Luca owned at least two dozen coats, most red and each gaudier
than the last. It was a good thing his wagon was the largest in the show, or he would not have had room
for them all.
Ignoring Luca, the Seanchan officer stepped up onto his gelding, adjusted his sword, and barked
orders that sent his men flowing into their saddles and forming a column of twos that moved off at a
slow walk toward the entrance. Luca stood watching them leave with a fixed smile on his face, poised
for another bow if any looked back.
Mat stayed well to the side of the street and let his mouth hang open, affecting to gape in wonder
as the soldiers rode by. Not that any of them so much as glanced his way-the officer stared straight
ahead and so did the soldiers behind him-but no one ever paid any mind to a country yokel, or
remembered one. To his surprise, Egeanin studied the ground in front of her toes, clutching the scarf
knotted beneath her chin, until the last horseman passed. Lifting her head to look after them, she pursed
her lips for a moment. "It seems I do know that boy," she drawled softly. "I carried him to Palme on
Fearless. His servant died, midvoyage, and he thought he could use one of my crew. I had to put him
straight. You’d have though he was of the Blood, the fuss he put up."
"Blood and bloody ashes," Mat breathed. How many other people had she gotten crosswise,
fixing her face in their minds? Egeanin being Egeanin, probably hundreds. And he had been letting her
walk around with just a wig and a change of clothes for disguise! Hundreds? Thousands, more likely.
She could irritate a brick.
In any case, the officer was gone now. Mat exhaled slowly. His luck really was still with him. At
times he thought that was all that kept him from bawling like a baby. He headed for Luca to find out
what the soldiers had wanted.
Domon and Blaeric reached Luca as quickly as he and Egeanin did, and the scowl on Domon’s
round face deepened as he stared at Mat’s arm around Egeanin’s shoulder. The Illianer understood the
necessity for the pretense, or said he did, yet he seemed to believe they could carry it off without so
much as touching hands. Mat removed his arm from her-there was nothing to carry off here;
Luca knew the truth; of everything-and Egeanin started to release him, too, yet after a look at Domon,
she tightened her grip on Mat’s waist instead, all without the slightest change of expression. Domon
continued to scowl, but at the ground, now. Mat decided he would understand the Seanchan long
before he understood women. Or Illianers, for that matter.
"Horses," Luca growled almost before Mat stopped walking. His frown took in all of them, but
he focused most of his anger on Mat. A little the taller, Luca stretched to stare down at Mat. "That’s
what he wanted. I showed him the warrant exempting me from the horse lottery, signed by the High
Lady Suroth herself, but was he impressed? It didn’t matter to him that I rescued a highranking
Seanchan." The woman had not been high-ranking, and he had not so much rescued her as given her a
way to travel as a hired performer, but Luca always exaggerated to his own advantage. "I don’t know
how long that exemption is really good for, anyway. The Seanchan are desperate for horses. They might
take it back any day!" His face was turning almost as red as his coat, and he jabbed a finger at Mat
repeatedly. "You’re going to get my horses taken! How do I move my show with no horses? Answer me
that, if you can. I was ready to leave as soon as I saw that madness in the harbor, until you twisted my
arm. You’re going to get my head cut off! I could be a hundred miles from here, if not for you, riding in
out of the night and snaring me in your crazy schemes! I’m not earning a penny here! There haven’t
been enough patrons the last three days to pay for feeding the animals one day! Half a day! I should
have left a month ago! More! I should have!" Mat almost laughed as Luca ran down into splutters.
Horses. That was all; just horses. Besides, the notion that the show’s heavyladen wagons could cover a
hundred miles in five days was as ludicrous as Luca’s wagon. The man could have gone a month ago,
two months, except for wanting to eke every copper he could out of Ebou Dar and its Seanchan
conquerors. And as for talking him into staying, six nights past, that had been as easy as falling out of
bed. Instead of laughing, Mat put a hand on Luca’s shoulder. The fellow was vain as a peacock, and
greedy besides, but there was no point making him angrier than he already was. "If you’d left that night,
Luca, you think nobody would have gotten suspicious? You would have had Seanchan tearing your
wagons apart before you made two leagues. You could say I saved you from that." Luca glowered.
Some people just could not see beyond their own noses. "Anyway, you can stop worrying. As soon as
Thom returns from the city, we can put as many miles behind us as you want." Luca leaped so suddenly
that Mat stepped back in alarm, but all the man did was caper in a little circle laughing. Domon goggled
at him, and even Blaeric stared. Sometimes, Luca seemed a flat bull-goose fool.
Luca had barely begun his dance when Egeanin shoved Mat away from her. "As soon as Merrilin
returns? I gave orders no one was to leave!" Her glare swung between him and Luca in cold fury, a cold
that burned. "I expect my orders to be obeyed!" Luca stopped cavorting abruptly and eyed her sideways,
then suddenly made her a bow with so many flourishes you could practically see the cloak. You could
almost see the embroidery on the cloak! He thought he had a way with a women, Luca did. "You
command, my sweet Lady, and I leap to obey." Coming upright, he shrugged apologetically. "But
Master Cauthon has gold, and I fear gold commands my first obedience." Mat’s chest full of gold coins
in this very wagon had been all the arm-twisting needed to convince him. Maybe Mat being ta’veren had
helped, but for enough gold, Valan Luca would help kidnap the Dark One. Egeanin drew a deep breath,
ready to berate Luca further, but the man turned his back and went scampering up the steps into his
wagon shouting, "Latelle! Latelle! We must roust everybody out immediately! We’re leaving at last, the
minute Merrilin returns! The Light be praised!"
A moment later, he was back again, dashing back down the short stair followed by his wife
drawing a black velvet cloak, sewn with glittering spangles, around herself. A stern-faced woman, she
wrinkled her nose at Mat as though he had a bad smell and gave Egeanin a look that likely made her
trained bears climb trees. Latelle disliked the idea of a woman running away from her husband even
when she knew it was a lie. Luckily, she seemed to worship Luca for some reason, and she liked gold
nearly as well as he did. Luca ran to the nearest wagon and began pounding on the door, and Latelle did
the same at the next.
Not waiting around to watch, Mat hurried off down one of the side streets. More of an alley
compared to the main street, it wound among the same sort of wagons and tents, all shut up tight against
the cold, with smoke streaming from the metal chimneys. There were no platforms for performers here,
but lines for drying laundry hung between some of the wagons, and here and there wooden toys lay
scattered on the ground. This street was for living only, the narrowness meant to discourage outsiders.
He moved quickly despite his hip-he had walked most of the ache out-but he had not gone ten
steps before Egeanin and Domon caught up to him. Blaeric had vanished, probably gone to tell the
sisters they were still safe and could finally leave. The Aes Sedai, masquerading as servants sick with
worry that their mistress’s husband would catch them, were fed up with being confined to their wagon,
not to mention fed up with sharing with the sul’-dam. Mat had made them share, so the Aes Sedai could
watch the ml’dam while the sul’dam kept the Aes Sedai out of his hair. Still Mat was glad Blaeric had
taken away the necessity for him to visit that wagon again. One or another of the sisters had summoned
him four or five times a day since their escape from the city, and he went when he could not avoid it, but
it was never a pleasant experience. Egeanin did not put her arm around him this time. She strode at his
side staring straight ahead, not bothering to check her wig, for once. Domon lumbered behind like a
bear, muttering under his breath in his heavy Illianer accent. The stocking cap exposed the fact that his
dark beard stopped abruptly at the middle of each ear, with only stubble above. It made him look . . .
unfinished. "Two captains on one ship make sure course for disaster," Egeanin drawled with overdone
patience. Her understanding smile looked as if it hurt her face.
"We aren’t on a ship," Mat replied.
"The principle’s the same, Cauthon! You are a farmer. I know you’re a good man in a tight
spot." Egeanin shot a dark look over her shoulder at Domon. He was the one who had brought her and
Mat together, back when she thought she was getting a hired man. "But this situation needs judgment
and experience. We’re in dangerous waters, and you have no knowledge of command."
"More than you might think," he told her dryly. He could have
spun out a list of the battles he remembered commanding, but only an historian would recognize most of
them, and maybe not even an historian. No one would believe it, anyway. He certainly would not if
someone else had made that claim. "Shouldn’t you and Domon be getting ready? You wouldn’t want to
leave anything behind." Everything she owned was already stowed away in the wagon she and Mat
shared with Domon-not a comfortable arrangement, that-but he quickened his step, hoping she would
take the hint. Besides, he saw his destination ahead. The bright blue wall-tent, crowded between a
virulent yellow wagon and an emerald green one, was barely large enough to hold three cots, but
providing shelter for everyone he brought out of Ebou Dar had required bribes to make people move and
more bribes to make others let them in. What he had been able to hire was what the owners were willing
to let him have. At rates suitable for a good inn. Juilin, a dark compact man with short black hair, was
sitting crosslegged on the ground in front of the tent with Olver, a thin little boy, if not so skinny as
when Mat first saw him, and short for ten, the age he claimed. Both coatless despite the wind, they were
playing Snakes and Foxes on a board the boy’s dead father had drawn for him on a piece of red cloth.
Tossing the dice, Olver counted the pips carefully and considered his move along the spiderweb of black
lines and arrows. The Tairen thief-catcher was paying less attention to the game. He sat up straight at the
sight of Mat.
Abruptly, Noal darted around from the rear of the tent, breathing hard as if he had been running.
Juilin glanced up in surprise at the old man, and Mat frowned. He had told Noal to come straight here.
Where had he gone instead? Noal looked at him expectantly, not with any guilt or embarrassment, just
eager to hear what Mat had to say.
"You know about the Seanchan?" Juilin asked, turning his attention to Mat, too.
A shadow moved inside the tent’s entry flaps, and a dark-haired woman, seated on the end of one
of the cots with an old gray cloak wrapped around her, leaned forward to rest a hand on Juilin’s arm.
And to give Mat a wary look. Thera was pretty, if you liked a mouth that always seemed to be pouting,
and it seemed that Juilin did, from the way he smiled at her reassuringly and patted her hand. She was
also Amathera Aelfdene Casmir Lounault, Panarch of Tarabon and the next thing to a queen. At least,
she had been, once. Juilin had known that, and so had Thom, yet no one thought to tell Mat until they
reached the show. He supposed it hardly mattered, alongside everything else. She answered faster to
Thera than to Amathera, she made no demands, except on Juilin’s time, and there seemed little chance
anyone would recognize her here. In any case, Mat hoped she felt more than gratitude for being rescued,
because Juilin certainly felt more for her. Who was to say a dethroned panarch could not fall in love
with a thief-catcher? Stranger things had happened. Though he was not sure he could name one,
offhand. "They just wanted to see the warrant for Luca’s horses," he said, and Juilin nodded, visibly
relaxing a little.
"As well they didn’t count the horselines." The warrant listed the exact number of horses Luca
was allowed to keep. The Seanchan could be generous with their rewards, but given their need for
mounts and wagon teams, they were not about to hand anyone a license to set up horse trading. "At best,
they would have taken the extra. At worst. . . ." The thief-catcher shrugged. Another cheerful soul.
With a gasp, Thera suddenly pulled her cloak tighter and jerked back into the depths of the tent.
Juilin looked behind Mat, his eyes going hard, and the Tairen could match the Warders when it came to
hard. Egeanin did not seem to catch hints, and she was glaring at the tent. Domon stood beside her with
his arms folded, sucking his teeth in thought or forced patience. "Get your tent packed up, Sandar,"
Egeanin ordered. "The show is leaving as soon as Merrilin returns." Her jaw tightened, and she did not
quite glare at Mat. Not quite. "Make sure your . . . woman . . . doesn’t give any trouble." Most lately,
Thera had been a servant, da’covale, the property of the High Lady Suroth, until Juilin stole her away.
To Egeanin, stealing da’covale was almost as bad as freeing damane.
"Can I ride Wind?" Olver exclaimed, bounding to his feet. "Can I, Mat? Can I, Leilwin?"
Egeanin actually smiled at him. Mat had yet to see her smile at anyone else, even Domon. "Not yet,"
Mat said. Not until they were far enough from Ebou Dar that no one was likely to remember the gray
winning races with a small boy on his back. "In a few days, maybe. Juilin, will you tell the others?
Blaeric already knows, so the sisters are taken care of." Juilin did not waste time, aside from ducking
inside the tent to reassure Thera. She seemed to need reassuring frequently. When he came out, carrying
a dark Tairen coat that was beginning to show wear, he told Olver to put the game away and help Thera
with the packing until he returned, then settled his flat-topped conical red hat on his head and started off,
shrugging into the coat. He never so much as glanced at Egeanin. She considered him a thief, offensive
in itself to a thief-catcher, and the Tairen had no love for her, either. Mat started to ask Noal where he
had been, but the old man darted nimbly after Juilin, calling over his shoulder that he would help let the
others know the show was leaving. Well, two could spread the word faster than one-Vanin and the four
surviving Redarms shared a crowded tent on one side of the show, while Noal himself shared another
with Thom and the two serving men, Lopin and Nerim, on the opposite side-and the question could
wait. Probably, he had just delayed to put his precious fish somewhere safe. In any case, the question
suddenly seemed unimportant. The noise of people shouting for horse handlers to bring their teams, and
others demanding at the top of their lungs to know what was happening, was beginning to fill the camp.
Adria, a slim woman holding a flowered green robe around her, came running up in bare feet and
vanished into the yellow wagon, where the other four contortionists lived. Somebody in the green wagon
bellowed hoarsely that people were trying to sleep. A handful of performers’ children, some performers
themselves, dashed by, and Olver looked up from folding the game. That was his most prized
possession, but if not for that, he plainly would have gone after them. It was going to take some time yet
before the show was ready to travel, but that was not what made Mat groan. He had just heard those
bloody dice start rattling in his head again.
CHAPTER 3
A Fan of Colors
at did not know whether to curse or weep. With the soldiers gone and Ebou Dar about to be left
in his dust, there seemed no reason for the dice, but there never was a bloody reason he could see until it
was too late. Whatever was coming might lie days in the future or only an hour, but he had never been
able to figure it out ahead of time. The only certainties were that something important-or dire-was
going to happen and that he would not be able to avoid it. Sometimes, like that night at the gate, he did
not understand why the dice had been tumbling even after they stopped. All he really knew for sure was
that however much the dice made him twitch like a goat with the itch, once they started, he did not want
them to stop ever. But they did. Sooner or later, they always did.
"Are you all right, Mat?" Olver said. "Those Seanchan can’t catch us." He attempted gruff
conviction, but a hint of question hung in his voice.
Abruptly Mat realized he had been staring at nothing. Egeanin frowned at him while fiddling
absentmindedly with her wig, plainly angry that he was ignoring her. Domon’s eyes had a studious look;
if he was not deciding whether to be upset on Egeanin’s behalf, Mat would eat his cap. Even Thera was
peeking at him past the tent’s entry flap, and she always tried to keep out of Egeanin’s sight. He could
not explain. Only a man with porridge for brains would believe he got warnings from hearing dice no
one could see. Or maybe a man marked by the Power. Or by the Dark One. He was not anxious to have
any of those things suspected about him. And it might be that night at the gate all over again. No, this
was not a secret he cared to reveal. It would do no good, anyway. "They’ll never catch us, Olver, not
you and me." He ruffled the boy’s hair, and Olver gave a wide-mouthed grin, confidence restored as
easy as that. "Not so long as we keep our eyes open and our wits about us. Remember, you can find a
way out of any difficulty if you keep your eyes and wits sharp, but if you don’t, you’ll trip over your
own feet." Olver nodded gravely, but Mat meant the reminder for the others. Or maybe himself. Light,
there was no way any of them could be more alert. Except for Olver, who thought it was all a great
adventure, they had all been jumping out of their skins since before leaving the city. "Go help Thera like
Juilin told you, Olver."
A sharp gust cut through Mat’s coat, making him shiver. "And put your coat on; it’s cold," he
added as the boy ducked past Thera into the tent. Rustles and scraping sounds from inside said that
Olver was setting to work, with or without his coat, but Thera remained crouched at the tent’s entrance,
peering at Mat. For all the care anybody but Mat Cauthon took, the boy could catch his death.
As soon as Olver disappeared, Egeanin stepped closer to Mat, her fists on her hips again, and he
groaned under his breath. "We are going to settle matters now, Cauthon," she said in a hard voice.
"Now! I won’t have our journey wrecked by you countermanding my orders."
"There’s nothing to settle," he told her. "I was never your hired hand, and that’s that." Somehow,
her face managed to grow harder, as good as shouting that she did not see matters like that. The woman
was as tenacious as a snapping turtle, but there had to be some way to pry her jaws from his leg. Burn
him if he wanted to be alone with the dice rolling in his head, yet that was better than having to listen to
them while arguing with her. "I’m going to see Tuon before we leave." The words popped out of his
mouth before they were clear in his head. He realized that they had been lying there for some time,
though, murky and slowly solidifying. The blood drained from Egeanin’s cheeks as soon as Tuon’s
name left his mouth, and he heard a squeak from Thera followed by the snap of the tentflaps being
jerked shut. The onetime panarch had absorbed a great many Seanchan ways while she was Suroth’s
property, and many of their taboos as well. Egeanin was made of harder stuff, however. "Why?" she
demanded. In almost the same breath, she went on, anxious and furious all at once. "You mustn’t call
her that. You must show respect." Harder in some ways. Mat grinned, but she did not seem to see the
joke. Respect? There was precious little respect in stuffing a gag in someone’s mouth and rolling them
up in a wall hanging. Calling Tuon High Lady or anything else was not going to change that. Of course,
Egeanin was more willing to talk about freeing damane than she was about Tuon. If she could have
pretended the kidnapping never happened, she would have, and as it was, she tried. Light, she had tried
to ignore it while it was happening. In her mind, any other crimes she might have committed paled to
nothing beside that. "Because I want to talk with her," he said. And why not? He had to, sooner or later.
People had begun trotting up and down the narrow street, now, half-dressed men with their shirts
hanging out and women with their hair still wrapped in night-kerchiefs, some leading horses and others
just milling about as far as he could make out. A wiry boy a little bigger than Olver went past doing
handsprings wherever the crowd gave him a pace of room, practicing or maybe playing. The sleepy
fellow in the deep green wagon still had not appeared. Luca’s Grand Traveling Show would not be
traveling anywhere for hours yet. There was plenty of time. "You could come with me," he suggested in
his most innocent voice. He should have thought of this before.
The invitation made Egeanin go fence-post stiff for true. It hardly seemed possible her face could
grow any paler, but an extra scrap of color leached out. "You will show her fitting respect," she said
hoarsely, clutching the knotted scarf with both hands as though trying to squeeze the black wig tighter
onto her head. "Come, Bayle. I want to make sure my things are stowed properly."
Domon hesitated as she turned and hurried away into the crowd without looking back, and Mat
watched him warily. He had vague memories of a flight on Demon’s rivership, once, but vague was the
best he could say of them. Thom was friendly with Domon, a point in the Illianer’s favor, yet he was
Egeanin’s man to the knife, ready to back her on anything down to disliking Juilin, and Mat trusted him
no further than he did her. Which was to say, not very far. Egeanin and Domon had their own goals, and
whether Mat Cauthon kept a whole hide did not factor in them. He doubted that the man really trusted
him, for that matter, but then, neither of them had much choice at the moment. "Fortune prick me,"
Domon muttered, scratching the bristles growing above his left ear, "whatever you do be up to, you may
be in over your head. I think she do be tougher than you do suspect." "Egeanin?" Mat said
incredulously. He looked around quickly to see whether anyone in the alley had heard his slip. A few
glanced at him and Domon as they brushed by, but nobody glanced twice. Luca was not the only one
eager to be gone from a city where the flow of patrons for the show had dried up and night lightning
setting the harbor on fire was a fresh memory. They might all have fled that first night, leaving Mat
nowhere to hide, except for Luca arguing them out of it. That promised gold had made Luca very
persuasive. "I know she’s tougher than old boots, Domon, but old boots don’t count with me. This isn’t
a bloody ship, and I’m not letting her take charge and ruin everything."
Domon grimaced as if Mat were goose-brained. "The girl, man. Do you believe you could be so
calm if you did be carried off in the night? Whatever you be playing at, with that wild talk of her being
your wife, have a care or she may shave your head at the shoulders."
"I was just cutting the fool," Mat muttered. "How many times do I have to say it? I was unnerved
for a minute." Oh, he had been that. Learning who Tuon was, while he was wrestling with her, would
have unnerved a bloody Trolloc.
Domon grunted in disbelief. Well, it was hardly the best story Mat had ever come up with. Except for
Domon, everyone who had heard him babbling seemed to accept the tale, though. Mat thought they had,
anyway. Egeanin might get a knot in her tongue at the very thought of Tuon, but she would have said
plenty if she believed he had been serious. Likely she would have put her knife in him.
Peeking in the direction Egeanin had gone, the Illianer shook his head. "Try to keep a grip on
your tongue from now on. Eg-. . . Leilwin . . . do near have a fit whenever she do think about what you
did say. I’ve heard her muttering under her breath, and you can wager the girl herself does take it no
lighter. You ‘cut the fool’ with her, and you may get us all shortened." He slid a finger across his throat
expressively and gave a curt nod before pushing through the crowd after Egeanin.
Watching him go, Mat shook his own head. Tuon, tough? True, she was the Daughter of the
Nine Moons and all of that, and she had been able to get under his skin with a look back in the Tarasin
Palace, when he thought she was just another Seanchan noblewoman with her nose in the air, but that
was just because she kept turning up where he did not expect. No more than that. Tough? She looked
like a doll made of black porcelain. How tough could she be? It was all you could do to keep her from
breaking your nose and maybe more, he reminded himself.
He had been careful not to repeat what Domon called "wild talk," but the truth of it was, he was going to
marry Tuon. The thought made him sigh. He knew it as sure as prophecy, which it was, in a way. He
could not imagine how such a marriage could come about; it seemed impossible, on the face of it, and he
would not weep if that proved to be so. But he knew it would not. Why did he always find himself
bloody lumbered with bloody women who pulled knives on him or tried to kick his head off? It was not
fair.
He intended to go straight to the wagon where Tuon and Selucia were being kept, with Setalle
Anan to watch-the innkeeper could make a stone seem soft; a pampered noblewoman and a lady’s
maid would give her no trouble, especially with a Redarm on duty outside. At least, they had not so far,
or he would have heard-but he found his feet wandering, taking him along the winding streets that ran
through the show. Bustle filled all of them, wide and narrow alike. Men rushed by leading horses that
frisked and shied, too long without exercise. Other people were taking down tents and packing the
storage wagons, or hauling cloth-wrapped bundles and brass-bound chests and casks and canisters of
every size out of the house-like wagons that had been standing here for months, partially unloading so
everything could be repacked for travel even while the teams were being harnessed. The din was
constant: horses whickered, women shouted for children, children cried over lost toys or yelled for the
pure pleasure of noise, men bellowed to know who had been at their harness or who had borrowed some
tool. A troupe of acrobats, slender but muscular women who worked on ropes dangling from tall poles,
had surrounded one of the horse handlers, all of them waving their arms and giving voice at the top of
their lungs and nobody listening. Mat paused a moment trying to figure out what they were arguing
over, but eventually he decided they were not sure themselves. Two fighting coatless men rolled on the
ground, watched closely by the likely cause, a willowy hot-eyed seamstress named Jameine, but Petra
appeared and pulled them apart before Mat could even get a bet down.
He was not afraid of seeing Tuon again. Of course not. He had stayed away, after sticking her
into that wagon, to give her time to settle down and collect herself. That was all. Only. . . . Calm,
Domon had called her, and it was true. Kidnapped in the middle of the night, snatched out into a storm
by people who would as soon have cut her throat as look at her, as far as she knew, and she had been by
far the coolest of them all. Light, she could have planned it herself, that was how upset she was! It had
made him feel as if the point of a knife were tickling between his shoulder blades then, and the knife
was back again just thinking about her. And those dice were rattling away inside his skull.
The woman’s hardly likely to offer to exchange vows here and now, he thought with a chuckle,
but it sounded forced even to him. Yet there was no reason under the sun for him to be afraid. He was
just properly wary, not afraid.
The show might have equaled a fair-sized village for size, but there was only so long a man could
wander about in that much space before he started doubling back on himself. Soon enough, too soon, he
found himself staring at a windowless wagon painted in faded purple, surrounded by canvas-topped
storage wagons and in sight of the southernmost horselines. The dung carts had not gone out this
morning, and the odor was strong. The wind carried a heavy scent from the nearest animal cages, too, a
musky smell of big cats and bears and the Light knew what else. Beyond the storage wagons and
pickets, a section of the canvas wall fell and another began to shake as men loosened the guy ropes
holding the poles. The sun, half-hidden by dark clouds now, had climbed halfway to its noonday peak or
better, but it was still too soon. Harnan and Metwyn, two of the Redarms, had already hitched the first
pair of horses to the shaft of the purple wagon and were almost done with the second pair. Soldiers well
trained in the Band of the Red Hand, they would be ready to take the road while the showfolk were still
figuring out which way the horses were supposed to face. Mat had taught the Band to move fast when
there was need. His own feet dragged as though he were wading in mud. Harnan, with that fool tattoo of
a hawk on his cheek, was the first to see him. Buckling a trace, the heavy-jawed file-leader exchanged
looks with Metwyn, a boyish-faced Cairhienin whose appearance belied his age and his weakness for
tavern brawls. They had no call to look surprised.
"Everything going smoothly? I want to be away in good time." Rubbing his hands together
against the cold, Mat eyed the purple wagon uneasily. He should have brought her a present, jewelry or
flowers. Either worked as well, with most women. "Smooth enough, my Lord," Harnan replied in a
cautious tone. "No shouting, no screaming, no crying." He glanced at the wagon as if he did not credit it
himself.
"Quiet suits me," Metwyn said, stringing one of the reins through a ring on a horse-collar.
"Woman starts crying, the only thing to do is leave, if you value your hide, and we can hardly drop these
off by the side of the road." But he glanced at the wagon, too, and shook his head in disbelief.
There really was nothing for Mat to do except go inside. So he did. It only took two tries, with a
smile fixed on his face, to make himself climb the short flight of painted wooden steps at the back of the
wagon. He was not afraid, but any fool would know enough to be nervous.
Despite the lack of windows, the interior of the wagon was well lighted, with four mirrored
lamps burning, and the lamps held good oil, so there was no rancid smell. But then, with the stink from
outside, it would have been hard to tell. He needed to find a better spot to park his wagon. A small brick
stove with an iron door, and an iron top for cooking, made the space toasty compared with outside. It
was not a large wagon, and every inch of wall that could be spared was covered with cabinets or shelves
or pegs for hanging clothing and towels and the like, but the table that could be let down on ropes was
snug against the ceiling, and the three women inside the wagon were hardly crowded. They could not
have been more different, those three. Mistress Anan was sitting on one of the two narrow beds built
into the walls, a regal woman with touches of gray in her hair, seemingly intent on her embroidery hoop
and not looking at all as if she were a guard. A large golden ring hung in each of her ears, and her
marriage knife dangled from a close-fitting silver necklace, the hilt with its red and white stones snug in
the cleavage exposed by the narrow plunging neckline of her Ebou Dari dress that had one side of the
skirt sewn up to expose yellow petticoats. She wore another knife, with a long, curved blade, tucked
behind her belt, but that was just the custom of Ebou Dar. Setalle had refused to take on any disguise,
which seemed well enough. No one had reason to be hunting for her, and finding clothes for everyone
else had been a big enough problem as it was. Selucia, a pretty woman with skin the color of buttery
cream, was cross-legged on the floor between the beds, a dark scarf covering her shaven head and a
sullen expression on her face, though normally she was dignified enough to make Mistress Anan look
flighty. Her eyes were as blue as Egeanin’s, and more piercing, and she had made more fuss than
Egeanin over losing her the rest of her hair. She disliked the dark blue Ebou Dari dress she had been
given, too, claiming the deep neckline was indecent, but it hid her as effectively as a mask. Few men
who glimpsed Selucia’s impressive bosom would be able to focus long on her face. Mat might have
enjoyed the view for a A F A N OF C O L O R S 137 moment or two himself, but there was Tuon, seated on
the wagon’s only stool, a leather-bound book open on her lap, and he could barely make himself look at
anything else. His wife-to-be. Light! Tuon was tiny, not just short but almost slim as a boy, and a loosefitting
dress of brown wool, bought from one of the showfolk, made her seem a child wearing her older
sister’s clothes. Not at all the sort of woman he enjoyed, especially with only a few days’ growth of
black stubble covering her scalp. If you ignored that, she was pretty, though, in a reserved way, with her
heart-shaped face and full lips, her eyes large dark liquid pools of serenity. That utter calmness almost
unnerved him. Not even an Aes Sedai would be serene in her circumstances. The bloody dice in his head
did not help matters.
"Setalle has been keeping me informed," she said in a cool drawl as he pulled the door shut. He
had gotten so he could tell a difference in Seanchan accents; Tuon’s made Egeanin sound as if she had a
mouthful of mush, but they all sounded slurred and slow. "She’s told me the story you have put about
concerning me, Toy."
Tuon had persisted in calling him that, back in the Tarasin Palace. He had not cared, then. Well, not
much.
"My name is Mat," he began. He never saw where the pottery cup in her hand came from, but he
managed to drop to the floor in time for it to shatter against the door instead of his head. "I am a servant,
Toy?" If Tuon’s tone had been cool before, now it was deep winter ice. She barely raised her voice, but
it was hard as ice, too. Her expression would have made a hanging judge look giddy. "A thieving
servant?" The book slid from her lap as she stood and bent to snatch up the lidded white chamber pot.
"A faithless servant?"
"We will need that," Selucia said deferentially, slipping the bulbous pot out of Tuon’s hands.
Setting it carefully to one side, she crouched at Tuon’s feet almost as if ready to hurl herself at Mat,
laughable as that was. Though nothing much seemed laughable right then.
Mistress Anan reached up to one of the railed shelves above her head and handed Tuon another
cup. "We have plenty of these," she murmured.
Mat shot her an indignant look, but her hazel eyes twinkled with amusement. Amusement! She
was supposed to be guarding those two!
A fist thumped on the door. "Do you need help in there?" Harnan called uncertainly. Mat
wondered which of them he was asking. "We have everything well in hand," Setalle called back, calmly
pushing her needle through the fabric stretched on her hoop. You would have thought that needlework
was the most important thing. "Go on about your work. Don’t dawdle." The woman was not Ebou Dari,
but she certainly had soaked up Ebou Dari ways. After a moment, boots thumped back down the steps
outside. It seemed Harnan had been too long in Ebou Dar, as well. Tuon turned the new cup in her hands
as though examining the flowers painted on it, and her lips quirked in a smile so small it almost might
have been Mat’s imagination. She was more than pretty when she smiled, but it was one of those smiles
that said she knew things he did not. He was going to break out in hives if she kept doing that. "I will
not be known as a servant, Toy." "My name is Mat, not . . . that other thing," he said, climbing to his
feet and cautiously testing his hip. To his surprise, it ached no worse after smacking the floorboards.
Tuon arched an eyebrow and hefted the cup in one hand. "I could hardly tell the showfolk I’d kidnapped
the Daughter of the Nine Moons," he said in exasperation. "The High Lady Tuon, peasant!" Selucia said
crisply. "She is under the veil!" Veil? Tuon had worn a veil in the palace, but not since.
The tiny woman gestured graciously, a queen granting license. "It is of no import, Selucia. He is
ignorant, yet. We must educate him. But you will change this story, Toy. I will not be a servant."
"It’s too late to change anything," Mat said, keeping an eye on that cup. Her hands looked frail, with
those long fingernails cut short, but he remembered how quick they were. "Nobody’s asking you to be a
servant." Luca and his wife knew the truth, but there had to be some reason to give everyone else why
Tuon and Selucia were kept confined to this wagon and guarded. The perfect solution had been a pair of
serving girls, about to be dismissed for theft, who had intended to betray their mistress’s flight with her
lover. It seemed perfect to Mat, anyway. To the showfolk, it only added to the romance. He had thought
Egeanin was going to swallow her tongue while he was explaining to Luca. Maybe she had known how
Tuon would take it. Light, he almost wished the dice would stop. How could a man think with that in his
head? "I couldn’t leave you behind to raise an alarm," he went on patiently. That was true, as far as it
went. "I know Mistress Anan has explained it to you." He thought about saying he had been babbling
from nerves when he said she was his wife-she must think him a complete looby!-but it seemed best
not to bring it up again. If she was willing to let the matter lie, all the better. "I know she’s already told
you this, but I promise no one’s going to hurt you. We’re not after ransom, just getting away with our
heads still attached. As soon as I can figure out how to send you home safe and sound, I will. I promise.
I’ll make you as comfortable as I can until then. You’ll just have to put up with the other." Tuon’s big
dark eyes crackled, heat lightning in a night sky, but she said, "It seems I will see what your promises
are worth, Toy." At her feet, Selucia hissed like a doused cat, her head halfturning as if to object, but
Tuon’s left hand wiggled, and the blueeyed woman blushed and went silent. The Blood used something
like Maiden handtalk with their upper servants. Mat wished he understood the signals.
"Answer me a question, Tuon," he said.
He thought he heard Setalle murmur, "Fool." Selucia’s jaw knotted, and a dangerous look
kindled in Tuon’s eyes, but if she was going to call him "Toy," he would be burned if he gave her any
titles.
"How old are you?" He had heard that she was only a few years younger than he, but looking at
her in that sack of a dress, it seemed impossible.
To his surprise, that dangerous spark burst into flame. Not just heat lightning, this time. He
should have been fried on the spot. Tuon threw back her shoulders and drew herself to her full height.
Such as that was; he doubted she could reach five feet with her heels flat however she stretched. "My
fourteenth true-name day will come in five months," she said in a voice that was far from cold. In fact, it
could have heated the wagon better than the stove. He felt a moment of hope, but she was not finished.
"No; you keep your birth names here, don’t you. That will be my twentieth naming day. Are you
satisfied, Toy? Did you fear you had stolen a . . . child?" She almost hissed the last word.
Mat waved his hands in front of him, frantically dismissing the suggestion. A woman started
hissing at him like a kettle, a man with any brains found a way to cool her down fast. She was gripping
the cup so tightly that tendons stood out on the back of her hand, and he did not want to try his hip with
another fall to the floor. Come to think on it, he was not sure how hard she had tried to hit him the first
time. Her hands were very fast. "I just wanted to know, that’s all," he said quickly. "I was curious,
making conversation. I’m only a little older myself." Twenty. So much for hoping she was too young to
marry for another three or four years. Anything that came between him and his wedding day would have
been welcome.
Tuon studied him suspiciously with her head tilted, then tossed the cup onto the bed beside
Mistress Anan and seated herself on the stool again, taking as much care about arranging her
voluminous woolen skirts as if they had belonged to a silk gown. But she continued to examine him
through her long eyelashes. "Where is your ring?" she demanded.
Unconsciously, he thumbed the finger on his left hand where the long ring usually lay. "I don’t
wear it all the time." Not when everybody in the Tarasin Palace knew he wore it. The thing would have
stood out, with his rough layabout’s garb, in any case. It was not even his signet, anyway, just a carver’s
try-piece. Strange, how his hand felt noticeably lighter without it. Too light. Strange that she remarked
on it, too. But then, why not? Light, those dice had him shying at shadows and jumping at sighs. Or
maybe it was just her, a discomforting thought.
He moved to sit on the unoccupied bed, but Selucia swung herself up onto it so quickly any of
the acrobats might have been jealous, and stretched out with her head propped on her hand.
That pushed her scarf askew for a moment, but she hurriedly straightened it, all the while staring at him
proud and cold as a queen. He looked at the other bed, and Mistress Anan set down her embroidery long
enough to ostentatiously smooth her skirts, making it clear she did not intend to share an inch. Burn her,
she was behaving as though she were guarding Tuon from him! Women always seemed to club together
so a man never had a fair chance. Well, he had managed to keep Egeanin from taking charge so far, and
he was not about to be bullied by Setalle Anan or a bosomy lady’s maid or the high and mighty High
Lady Daughter of the Nine bloody Moons! Only, he could hardly go shoving one of them out of the way
to find a place to sit.
Leaning against a drawered cabinet at the foot of the bed Mistress Anan was seated on, he tried
to think of what to say. He never had trouble thinking of what to say to women, but his brain seemed
deafened by the sound of those dice. All three women gave him disapproving looks-he could all but
hear one of them telling him not to slouch!-so he smiled. Most women thought his best smile very
winning.
Tuon let out a long breath that did not sound won over in the slightest. "Do you remember
Hawkwing’s face, Toy?" Mistress Anan blinked in surprise, and Selucia sat up on the bed frowning. At
him. Why would she frown at him? Tuon just continued to look at him, hands folded in her lap, as cool
and collected as a Wisdom at Sunday.
Mat’s smile felt frozen. Light, what did she know? How could she know anything? He lay beneath the
burning sun, holding his side with both hands, trying to keep the last of life from leaking out and
wondering whether there was any reason to hold on. Aideshar was finished, after this day’s work. A
shadow blotted the sun for an instant, and then a tall man in armor crouched beside him, helmet tucked
under his arm, dark deep-set eyes framing a hooked nose. "You fought well against me today,
Culain, and many days past," that memorable voice said. "Will you live with me in peace?" With his
last breath, he laughed in Artur Hawkwing’s face. He hated to remember dying. A dozen other
encounters skittered through his mind, too, ancient memories that were his, now. Artur Paendrag had
been a difficult man to get along with even before the wars started.
Drawing a deep breath, he took care choosing his words. This was no time to go spouting the Old
Tongue. "Of course I don’t!" he lied. A man who could not lie convincingly got short shrift from
women. "Light, Hawkwing died a thousand years ago! What kind of question is that?"
Her mouth opened slowly, and for a moment he was sure she meant to answer question with
question. "A foolish one, Toy," she replied finally, instead. "I can’t say why it popped into my head."
The stiffness in Mat’s shoulders relaxed, a little. Of course. He was ta’veren. People did things and said
things around him they never would elsewhere. Nonsense qualified. Still, a thing like that could become
uncomfortable when it hit too close to home. "My name is Mat. Mat Cauthon." He might as well not
have spoken. "I cannot say what I will do after returning to Ebou Dar, Toy. I have not decided. I may
have you made da’covah. You are not pretty enough for a cupbearer, but it might please me to have you
for one. Still, you have represented certain promises to me, so it pleases me now to promise, as well. So
long as you keep your promises, I will neither escape nor betray you in any way, nor will I cause
dissension among your followers. I believe that covers everything necessary." This time, Mistress Anan
gaped at her, and Selucia made a sound in her throat, but Tuon appeared not to notice either woman. She
just looked at him expectantly, waiting on a response. He made a sound in his throat, too. Not a
whimper, just a sound. Tuon’s face was as smooth as a stern mask of dark glass. Her calm was madness,
but this made gibbering look sane! She would have to be insane to think he would believe that offer.
Except, he thought she did mean it. That, or she was a better liar than he ever hoped to be. Again he had
that queasy sense that she knew more than he did. Ridiculous, of course, but there it was. He swallowed
a lump in his throat. A hard lump.
"Well, that does all right for you," he said, trying to buy time, "but what about Selucia?" Time
for what? He could not think with those dice pounding in his skull.
"Selucia follows my wishes, Toy," Tuon said impatiently. The blue-eyed woman herself
straightened and stared at him as though indignant that he had doubted that. For a lady’s maid, she could
look fierce when she tried.
Mat did not know what to say or do. Without thinking, he spat on his palm and offered his hand
as if sealing a bargain on a horse.
"Your customs are . . . earthy," Tuon said in a dry voice, but she spat on her own palm and
clasped his hand. " ‘Thus is our treaty written; thus is agreement made.’ What does that writing on your
spear mean, Toy?"
He did whimper this time, and not because she had read the Old Tongue inscription on his
ashandarei. A bloody stone would have whimpered. The dice had stopped as soon as he touched her
hand. Light, what had happened?
Knuckles rapped on the door, and he was so on edge that he moved without thought, spinning, a
knife coming into either hand ready to throw at whatever came in. "Stay behind me," he snapped. The
door opened, and Thom stuck his head in. The hood of his cloak was up, and Mat realized it was raining
outside. Between Tuon and the dice, he had missed the sound of rain hitting the wagon’s roof. "I trust
I’m not interrupting anything?" Thom said, knuckling his long white mustaches.
Mat’s face heated. Setalle had frozen with her embroidery needle trailing blue thread down to her
work, and her eyebrows seemed to be trying to climb over the top of her head. Tensed on the edge of the
other bed, Selucia watched him slip the knives back up his sleeves with considerable interest. He would
not have thought she was the sort to like dangerous men. That kind of woman was worth avoiding; they
tended to find ways to make a man need to be dangerous. He did not glance back at Tuon. She was
probably staring at him as if he had been capering like Luca. Just because he did not want to get married
did not mean he wanted his future wife to think him a fool.
"What did you find out, Thom?" he asked brusquely. Something had happened, or the dice would
not have stopped. A thought came that made his hair want to stand on end. This was the second time
they had stopped in Tuon’s presence. The third, counting the gate leading out of Ebou Dar. Three bloody
times, and all tied to her.
Limping slightly, the white-haired man came the rest of the way in, pushing back his hood, and
pulled the door shut behind him. His limp came from an old injury, not trouble in the city. Tall and lean
and leathery, with sharp blue eyes and snowy mustaches that hung below his chin, it seemed he would
draw attention wherever he went, but he had practice at hiding in plain sight, and his dark bronze coat
and brown wool cloak were suitable for a man with a little coin to spend but not too much. "The streets
are full of rumors about her," he said, nodding toward Tuon, "but nothing about her disappearing. I
bought drinks for a few Seanchan officers, and they seem to believe she’s snug in the Tarasin Palace or
off on an inspection trip. I didn’t sense any dissembling, Mat. They didn’t know."
"Did you expect public announcements, Toy?" Tuon said incredulously. "As it is, Suroth may be
considering taking her own life for the shame. Do you expect her to spread such an ill omen for the
Return about for everyone to see on top of that?" So Egeanin had been right. It still seemed impossible.
And it did not seem at all important compared to the dice stopping. What had happened’? He had
shaken hands with Tuon, that was all. Shaken hands and made a bargain. He meant to keep his side, but
what had the dice told him? That she would keep hers? Or that she would not? For all he knew,
Seanchan noblewomen were in the habit of marrying-what was it she had said she was going to make
him?-a cupbearer-maybe they married cupbearers all the time. "There’s more, Mat," Thom said,
eyeing Tuon thoughtfully, and with a hint of surprise. It came to Mat that she did not appear overly
concerned that Suroth might kill herself. Maybe she was as tough as Domon thought. What were the
bloody dice trying to tell him? That was what was important. Then Thom went on, and Mat forgot about
how tough Tuon might be and even the dice. "Tylin’s dead. They’re keeping it quiet for fear of
disturbances, but one of the Palace Guards, a young lieutenant who couldn’t hold his brandy, told me
they’re planning her funeral feast and Beslan’s coronation for the same day."
"How?" Mat demanded. She was older than he, but not that much older! Beslan’s coronation.
Light! How would Beslan cope with that, when he hated the Seanchan? It had been his plan to fire those
supplies on the Bay Road. He would have tried an uprising if Mat had not convinced him it would only
result in a slaughter, and not of Seanchan.
Thom hesitated, stroking his mustaches with a thumb. Finally, he sighed. "She was found in her
bedchamber the morning after we left, Mat, still bound hand and foot. Her head. . . . Her head had been
torn off."
Mat did not realize his knees had given way until he found himself sitting on the floor with his
head buzzing. He could hear her voice. You’ll get your bead cut off yet if you’re not careful, piglet, and I
wouldn’t like that. Setalle leaned forward on the narrow bed to press a hand against his cheek in
commiseration. "The Windfinders?" he said hollowly. He did not have to say more.
"According to what that lieutenant said, the Seanchan have settled on Aes Sedai for the blame.
Because Tylin had sworn the Seanchan oaths. That’s what they’ll announce at her funeral feast." "Tylin
dies the same night the Windfinders escape, and the Seanchan believe Aes Sedai killed her?" He could
not imagine Tylin dead. I’m going to have you for supper, duckling. "That doesn’t make sense, Thom."
Thom hesitated, frowning as he considered. "It could be political, in part, but I think that’s what
they really believe, Mat. That lieutenant said they’re sure the Windfinders were running too hard to stop
or go out of their way, and the quickest path out of the palace from the damane kennels goes nowhere
near Tylin’s apartments."
Mat grunted. He was sure it was not so. And if it were, there was nothing in the world he could
do about it.
"The mar ath’damane had reason to murder Tylin," Selucia said suddenly. "They must fear her
example for others. What reason had the damane you speak of? None. The hand of justice requires
motive and proof, even for damane and da’covale." She sounded as though she were reading the words
off a page. And she was looking at Tuon from the corner of her eye.
Mat looked over his shoulder, but if the tiny woman had been using her hands to tell Selucia
what to say, they were resting in her lap, now. She was watching him, a neutral expression on her face.
"Did you care for Tylin so deeply?" she said in a cautious voice.
"Yes. No. Burn me, I liked her!" Turning away, he scrubbed fingers through his hair, pushing the
cap off. He had never been so glad to get away from a woman in his life, but this . . . ! "And I left her
tied up and gagged so she couldn’t even call for help, easy prey for the gholam," he said bitterly. "It was
looking for me. Don’t shake your head. Thom. You know it as well as I do." "What is a . . . gholam?"
Tuon asked.
"Shadowspawn, my Lady," Thom said. He frowned worriedly. He did not take easily to worry,
but anybody except a fool would worry about a gholam. "It looks like a man, but it can slip through a
mousehole, or under a door, and it’s strong enough to. . . ." He harrumphed through his mustaches.
"Well, enough of that. Mat, she could have had a hundred guards around her, and it wouldn’t have
stopped that thing." She would not have needed a hundred guards if she had not taken up with Mat
Cauthon. "A gholam," Tuon murmured wryly. Suddenly she rapped Mat hard on the top of the head
with her knuckles. Clapping a hand to his scalp, he stared over his shoulder incredulously. "I’m very
happy that you show loyalty to Tylin, Toy," she told him in a severe voice, "but I won’t have
superstition in you. I will not have it. It does Tylin no honor." Burn him, Tylin’s death seemed to
concern her as little as whether or not Suroth committed suicide. What kind of woman was he going to
marry?
When a fist pounded on the door this time, he did not even bother to stand. He felt numb at the
core and scraped raw on the surface. Blaeric pushed into the wagon without asking, his dark brown
cloak dripping rain. It was an old cloak, worn thin in spots, but he appeared not to care whether rain
leaked through. The Warder ignored everyone but Mat, or almost everyone. The man actually took a
moment to consider Selucia’s bosom! "Joline wants you, Cauthon," he said, still studying her. Light!
This was all Mat needed to make it a fine day.
"Who is Joline?" Tuon demanded.
Mat ignored her. "Tell Joline I’ll see her once we’re on the road, Blaeric." The last thing he
wanted was to be forced to listen to more of the Aes Sedai’s grievances now.
"She wants you now, Cauthon."
With a sigh, Mat got to his feet and gathered his cap from the floor. Blaeric looked as if he might
try to drag him, otherwise. In his own current mood, he thought he might put a knife in the man if he
tried. And get his neck broken for his pains; a Warder would not take a knife in the ribs lightly. He was
fairly sure he had already died the one time he was allowed, and not in an old memory. Sure enough not
to take risks he could sidestep. "Who is Joline, Toy?" If he had not known better, he would have said
Tuon sounded jealous.
"A bloody Aes Sedai," he grumbled, tugging the cap on, and got one small pleasure for the day.
Tuon’s jaw dropped in shock. He shut the door behind him on the way out before she could find a word
to say. A very small pleasure. One butterfly on a midden heap. Tylin dead, and the Windfmders might
take the blame yet, whatever Thom said. And that was aside from Tuon and the bloody dice. A very tiny
butterfly on a very large midden. The sky was full of dark clouds, now, and the downpour steady. A
soaking rain, they would have called it back home. It began to slick his hair, cap or no, and seep through
his coat as soon as he stepped outside. Blaeric hardly seemed to notice, barely gathering his cloak. There
was nothing for it but for Mat to hunch his shoulders and splash through the widening puddles on the
dirt streets. By the time he could reach his wagon for a cloak, he would be drenched to the skin anyway.
Besides, the weather fit his spirits. To his surprise, rain or no rain, an incredible amount of work had
been done in the short time he was inside. The canvas wall was gone as far as he could see in either
direction, and half the storage wagons that had been around Tuon’s wagon were missing, too. So were
most of the animals that had been picketed on the horselines. A large, iron-barred cage containing a
black-maned lion trundled past toward the road behind a plodding team, the horses as unconcerned with
the apparently sleeping lion behind them as they were with the shower. Performers were already taking
to the road, too, though how they determined the order of leaving was a mystery. Most of the tents
seemed to have vanished; in one place three of the brightly colored wagons together might be missing,
another place every second wagon, while elsewhere the wagons standing and waiting still seemed a solid
mass. The only thing that said the showfolk were not scattering was Luca himself, a bright red cloak
gathered around him against the wet as he paraded along the street, stopping now and then to clap a man
on the shoulder or murmur something to a woman that made her laugh. If the show had been breaking
apart, Luca would have been out chasing down those who tried to leave. He held the show together as
much by persuasion as anything else, and he never let anyone leave without talking himself hoarse
trying to argue them out of it. Mat knew he should feel good about seeing Luca still there, though it had
never occurred to him that the man would run out on the gold, but right at that moment, he doubted that
anything could make him feel anything but numb and angry.
The wagon that Blaeric took him to was almost as large as Luca’s, but it had been whitewashed
rather than painted. The white had long since run and streaked and faded, and the rain was washing it a
little more toward gray, where the wood was not already bare. The wagon belonged to a company of
fools, four morose men who painted their faces for the show’s patrons, dousing each other with water
and hitting each other with inflated pigbladders, and otherwise spent their time and money imbibing as
much wine as they could buy. With what Mat had paid for rent, they might be drunk for months, and it
had cost more than that to make anyone take them in.
Four shaggy, nondescript horses were already hitched to the wagon, and Fen Mizar, Joline’s
other Warder, was up on the driver’s seat, swathed in an old gray cloak and reins in hand. His tilted eyes
watched Mat the way a wolf might watch an impudent cur. The Warders had been unhappy with Mat’s
plan from the start, sure they could have gotten the sisters away safely once they were outside the city
walls. Perhaps they could have, but the Seanchan hunted vigorously for women who could channel-the
show itself apparently had been searched four times in the days after Ebou Dar fell-and all it would
have taken was one slip to land all of them in the stewpot. From what Egeanin and Domon said, the
Seekers could make a boulder tell everything it had ever seen. Luckily, not all the sisters were as sure as
Joline’s Warders. Aes Sedai tended to dither when they could not agree on what to do.
When Mat reached the steps at the back of the wagon, Blaeric stopped him with a hand to his
chest. The Warder’s face might have been carved, no more concerned than a piece of wood with the rain
running down his cheeks. "Fen and I are grateful to you for getting her out of the city, Cauthon, but this
can’t continue. The sisters are crowded, sharing with those other women, and they don’t get on. There is
going to be trouble if we can’t find another wagon."
"Is that what this is about?" Mat said crossly, tugging his collar tighter. Not that it did much
good. He was already wet through on the back, and not much better in front. If Joline had pulled him
here to whine about the accommodations again. . . . "She’ll tell you what it’s about, Cauthon. Just you
remember what I said."
Grumbling under his breath, Mat climbed the dirt-streaked steps and went in, not quite slamming
the door behind him. The wagon was laid out much like the one Tuon was in, though with four beds,
two of them folded flat against the walls above the other two. He had no idea how the six women
arranged sleeping, but he suspected it was not done peacefully. The air in the wagon all but crackled like
grease on a griddle. Three women sat on each of the lower beds, each variously watching or ignoring the
women seated on the other bed. Joline, who had never been held as damane behaved as though the three
sul’dam did not exist. Reading a small wood-bound book, she was an Aes Sedai to the inch and
arrogance on a stick despite her well-worn blue dress, lately owned by a woman who taught the lions to
do tricks. The other two sisters knew firsthand what it was to be damane, though. Edesina watched the
three sul’dam warily, one hand resting near her belt knife, while Teslyn’s eyes shifted constantly,
looking at anything except the sul’dam, and her hands kneaded her dark woolen skirts. He did not know
how Egeanin had coerced the three sul’dam into helping damane escape, but even though they were
being sought by the authorities as surely as Egeanin, they had not changed their attitudes toward women
who could channel. Bethamin, tall and as dark as Tuon in an Ebou Dari dress with a very deep neckline
and skirts sewn up above her knee on one side to show faded red petticoats, seemed a mother waiting for
inevitable misbehavior by children, while yellow-haired Seta, in high-necked gray wool that covered her
completely, appeared to be studying dangerous dogs that would need to be caged sooner or later. Renna,
she of the talk about cutting off hands and feet, pretended to be reading, too, but every so often her
deceptively mild brown eyes rose from the slim volume to study the Aes Sedai, and when they did, she
smiled in an unpleasant way. Mat felt like cursing before one of them opened her mouth. A wise man
kept clear when women were at odds, especially if there were Aes Sedai among them, but this was how
it always was when he came to this wagon.
"This better be important, Joline." Unbuttoning his coat, he tried to shake some of the water off.
He thought he would do better wringing the garment out. "I just learned that the gholam killed Tylin the
night we left, and I’m in no mood for complaints." Joline marked her place carefully with an
embroidered marker and folded her hands on the book before speaking. Aes Sedai never hurried; they
just expected everyone else to. Without him, she likely would have been wearing an a’dam by now
herself, but he had never found Aes Sedai particularly noted for gratitude, either. She ignored what he
had said about Tylin. "Blaeric tells me the show has already begun moving," she said coolly, "but you
must stop it. Luca will only listen to you." Her mouth tightened slightly on the words. Aes Sedai also
were unused to not being listened to, and Greens were not the best at hiding their displeasure. "We must
abandon the idea of Lugard for the time being. We must take the ferry across the harbor and go to
Illian."
That was about as bad a suggestion as he had heard out of her, though she did not mean it for a
suggestion, of course; she was worse than Egeanin that way. With half the show already on the road, or
near enough, it would take all day just to get everyone down to the ferry landing, and it would mean
going into the city, besides. Heading for Lugard took the show away from the Seanchan as quickly as
possible, while they had soldiers camped all the way to the Illian border and maybe beyond. Egeanin
was reluctant to tell what she knew, but Thom had his ways of learning these things. Mat did not bother
to crack his teeth, though. He did not need to.
"No," Teslyn said in a tight voice, her Illianer accent strong. Leaning past Edesina, she looked as
though she chewed rocks three meals a day, hard-faced and set-jawed, but there was a nervousness in
her eyes, put there by her weeks as a damans. "No, Joline. I have told you, we do no dare risk it! We do
no dare!"
"Light!" Joline spat, slamming her book to the floor. "Take hold of yourself, Teslyn! Just
because you were held prisoner for a little time is no reason to go to pieces!"
"Go to pieces? Go to pieces? Let them put that collar on you and then speak of going to pieces!"
Teslyn’s hand went to her throat as though she felt the a’dam’s collar still. "Help me convince her,
Edesina. She will have us collared again, if we do let her!" Edesina drew back on herself against the
wall behind the bed-a slim, handsome woman with black hair spilling to her waist, she always went
silent when the Red and the Green argued, as they did often-but Joline did not spare her so much as a
glance. "You ask a rebel for help, Teslyn? We should have left her for the Seanchan! Listen to me. You
can feel it as well as I. Would you really accept a greater danger to avoid a lesser?" "Lesser!" Teslyn
snarled. "You do know nothing of-!" Renna held her book out at arm’s length and let it drop to the
floor with a bang. "If my Lord will excuse us a little while, we still have our a’dam, and we can teach
these girls to behave again in short order." Her accent had a musical quality, but the smile on her lips
never touched her brown eyes. "It never works to let them go slack this way." Seta nodded grimly and
stood as if to fetch out the leashes.
"I think we’re done with a’dam," Bethamin said, ignoring the shocked looks from the other two
sul’dam, "but there are other ways to settle these girls down. May I suggest my Lord return in an hour?
They’ll tell you what you want to know without any squabbling once they can’t sit down." She sounded
as though she meant exactly what she said. Joline was staring at the three sul’dam in outraged disbelief,
but Edesina was sitting up straight, gripping her belt knife with a determined expression, while Teslyn
was now the one shrinking back against the wall, her hands clasped tightly at her waist.
"That won’t be necessary," Mat said after a moment. Only a moment. However satisfying it
might be to have Joline "settled down," Edesina might draw that knife, and that would set the cat among
the chickens no matter how it turned out. "What greater danger are you talking about, Joline? Joline?
What danger is greater than the Seanchan right now?"
The Green decided her stare was making no impression on Bethamin and turned it on Mat,
instead. Had she been other than Aes Sedai, he would have said she looked sulky. Joline disliked
explaining. "If you must know, someone is channeling." Teslyn and Edesina nodded, the Red sister
reluctantly, the Yellow emphatically.
"In the camp?" he said in alarm. His right hand rose on its own to press against the silver
foxhead under his shirt, but the medallion had not turned cold.
"Far away," Joline replied, still unwilling. "To the north." "Much farther than any of us should
be able to sense channeling," Edesina put in, a touch of fear in her voice. "The amount of saidar being
wielded must be immense, inconceivable." She fell silent at a sharp glance from Joline, who turned back
to study Mat as though deciding how much she had to tell him. "At that distance," she went on, "we
wouldn’t be able to feel every sister in the Tower channeling. It has to be the Forsaken, and whatever
they’re doing, we do not want to be any closer than we can avoid."
Mat was still for a moment; then finally, he said, "If it’s far, then we stick with the plan."
Joline went on arguing, but he did not bother to listen. Whenever he thought of Rand or Perrin,
colors swirled in his head. A part of being ta’veren, he supposed. This time, he had not thought of either
of his friends, but the colors had suddenly been there, a fan of a thousand rainbows. This time, they had
almost formed an image, a vague impression that might have been a man and a woman seated on the
ground facing one another. It was gone in an instant, but he knew as surely as he knew his name. Not the
Forsaken. Rand. And he could not help wondering, what had Rand been doing when the dice stopped?
CHAPTER 4
The Tale of a Doll
Furyk Karede sat staring at his writing table without seeing the papers and maps spread out in
front of him. Both of his oil lamps were lit and sitting on the table, but he no longer had need of them.
The sun must be rimming the horizon, yet since waking from a fitful sleep and saying his devotions to
the Empress, might she live forever, he had only donned his robe, in the dark Imperial green that some
insisted on calling black, and sat here without moving since. He had not even shaved. The rain had
stopped, and he considered telling his servant Ajimbura to swing a window open for a little fresh air in
his room at The Wandering Woman. Clean air might clear his head. But over the last five days there had
been lulls in the rain that ended with sudden drenching downpours, and his bed was located between the
windows. He had needed to have his mattress and bedding hung in the kitchen to dry once already.
A tiny squeal and a pleased grunt from Ajimbura made him look up to find the wiry little man
displaying a limp rat half the size of a cat on the end of his long knife. It was not the first Ajimbura had
killed in this room recently, something Karede believed would not have happened if Setalle Anan still
owned the inn, though the number of rats in Ebou Dar seemed to be increasing well in advance of
spring. Ajimbura looked a little like a wizened rat himself, his grin both satisfied and feral. After more
than three hundred years under the Empire, the Kaensada hill tribes were only half civilized, and less
than half tamed. The man wore his white-streaked dark red hair in a thick braid that hung to his waist, to
make a good trophy if he ever found his way back to those near-mountains and fell in one of the endless
feuds between families or tribes, and he insisted on drinking from a silver-mounted cup that anyone who
looked closely could see was the top of someone’s skull.
"If you are going to eat that," Karede said as though there were any question, "you will clean it
in the stableyard out of anyone’s sight." Ajimbura would eat anything except for lizards, which were
forbidden to his tribe for some reason he would never make clear.
"But of course, high one," the man replied with the hunch of his shoulders that passed for a bow
among his people. "I know well the ways of the townspeople, and I would not embarrass the high one."
After close to twenty years in Karede’s service, without a reminder he still would have skinned out the
rat and roasted it over the flames in the small brick fireplace.
Scraping the carcass off the blade into a small canvas sack, Ajimbura tucked that into a corner
for later and carefully wiped his knife clean before sheathing it and settling on his heels to await
Karede’s needs. He would wait like that all day, if necessary, as patiently as a da’covale. Karede had
never puzzled out exactly why Ajimbura had left his hill fort home to follow one of the Deathwatch
Guard. It was a much more circumscribed life than the man had known before, and besides, Karede had
nearly killed him three times before he made that choice.
Dismissing thoughts of his servant, he returned to the display on his writing table, though he had
no intention of taking up his pen for the moment. He had been raised to banner-general for achieving
some small success in the battles with the Asha’man, in days when few had achieved any, and now,
because he had commanded against men who could channel, some thought he must have wisdom to
share about fighting marath’damane. No one had had to do that in centuries, and since the so-called Aes
Sedai revealed their unknown weapon only a few leagues from where he sat, a great deal of thinking had
gone into how to cripple their power. That was not the only request littering the tabletop. Aside from the
usual run of requisitions and reports that needed his signature, his comments on the forces arrayed
against them in Illian had been solicited by four lords and three ladies, and on the special Aiel problem
by six ladies and five lords, but those questions would be decided elsewhere, very likely already had
been decided. His observations would only be used in the infighting over who controlled what in the
Return. In any event, war had always been a second calling for the Deathwatch Guard. Oh, the Guards
were always there whenever a major battle was fought, the swordhand of the Empress, might she live
forever, to strike at her enemies whether or not she herself was present, always to lead the way where
the fight was hottest, but their first calling was to protect the lives and persons of the Imperial family.
With their own lives, when necessary, and willingly given. And nine nights past, the High Lady Tuon
had vanished as if swallowed by the storm. He did not think of her as the Daughter of the Nine Moons,
could not until he knew she was no longer under the veil. He had not considered taking his own life,
either, though the shame cut him keenly. It was for the Blood to resort to the easy way to escape
disgrace; the Deathwatch Guard fought to the last. Musenge commanded her personal bodyguard, but as
the highestranking member of the Guard this side of the Aryth Ocean, it was Karede’s duty to return her
safely. Every cranny in the city was being searched on one excuse or another, every vessel larger than a
rowboat, but most often by men ignorant of what they were searching for, unaware that the fate of the
Return might rest on their diligence. The duty was his. Of course, the Imperial family was given to even
more complicated intrigues than the rest of the Blood, and the High Lady Tuon frequently played a very
deep game indeed, with a sharp and deadly skill. Only a few were aware that she had vanished twice
before, and had been reported dead, to the very arrangement of her funeral rites, all by her own
contriving. Whatever the reasons for her disappearance, though, he had to find and protect her. So far he
had no clue how. Swallowed by the storm. Or perhaps by the Lady of the Shadows. There had been
countless attempts to kidnap or assassinate her, beginning on the day of her birth. If he found her dead,
he must find who had killed her, who had given the ultimate commands, and avenge her whatever the
cost. That was his duty, too.
A slender man slipped into the room from the hallway without knocking. He might have been
one of the inn’s stablemen from his rough coat, but no local had his pale hair or the blue eyes that slid
across the room as though memorizing everything in it. His hand slipped under his coat, and Karede
rehearsed two ways of killing him bare-handed in the brief moment before he produced a small, goldbordered
ivory plaque worked with the Raven and the Tower. Seekers for Truth did not have to knock.
Killing them was frowned upon.
"Leave us," the Seeker told Ajimbura, tucking away the plaque once he was sure Karede had
recognized it. The little man remained crouched on his heels, motionless, and the Seeker’s eyebrows
rose in surprise. Even in the Kaensada Hills everyone knew a Seeker’s word was law. Well, perhaps not
in some of the more remote hill forts, not if they believed no one knew the Seeker was there, but
Ajimbura knew better than this.
"Wait outside," Karede commanded sharply, and Ajimbura rose with alacrity, murmuring, "I
hear and obey, high one." He studied the Seeker openly, though, as if to make sure the Seeker knew he
had marked his face, before leaving the room. He was going to get himself beheaded, one day.
"A precious thing, loyalty," the pale-haired man said, eyeing the tabletop, after Ajimbura pulled
the door shut behind himself. "You are involved in Lord Yulan’s plans, Banner-General Karede? I
would not have expected the Deathwatch Guard to be part of that."
Karede moved two bronze map-weights shaped like lions and let the map of Tar Valon roll up on
itself. The other had not been unrolled, yet. "You must ask Lord Yulan, Seeker. Loyalty to the Crystal
Throne is precious above the breath of life, followed closely by knowing when to keep silent. The more
who speak of a thing, the more will learn of it who should not."
No one short of the Imperial family rebuked a Seeker or whatever Hand guided him, but the
fellow appeared unaffected. Then again, he seated himself in the room’s cushioned armchair and made a
tent of his ringers, peering over them at Karede, who had the choice of moving his own chair or leaving
the man almost at his back. Most people would have been very nervous about having a Seeker behind
them. Most would have been nervous having a Seeker in the same room. Karede hid a smile and did not
move. He had only to turn his head a fraction, and he was trained at seeing clearly what lay in the
corners of sight.
"You must be proud of your sons," the Seeker said, "two following you into the Deathwatch
Guard, the third listed among the honored dead. Your wife would have been very proud." "What is your
name, Seeker?" The answering silence was deafening. More people rebuked Seekers than inquired after
their names.
"Mor," the reply came finally. "Almurat Mor." So. Mor. He had an ancestor who had come with
Luthair Paendrag, then, and was rightly proud. Without access to the breeding books, which no
da’covale was allowed, Karede had no way of knowing whether any of the tales about his own ancestry
were true-he also might have an ancestor who had once followed the great Hawkwing-but it did not
matter. Men who tried to stand on their forebears’ shoulders rather than their own feet often found
themselves shorter by a head. Especially da’covale.
"Call me Furyk. We are both the property of the Crystal Throne. What do you want of me,
Almurat? Not to discuss my family, I think." If his sons were in trouble, the fellow would never have
mentioned them so soon, and Kalia was beyond any misery. From the corner of his eye, Karede could
see the struggle on the Seeker’s face, though he hid it almost well enough. The man had lost control of
the interview-as he might have expected, flashing his plaque as though a Deathwatch Guard were not
ready to thrust a dagger into his own heart on command.
"Listen to a story," Mor said slowly, "and tell me what you think." His gaze was fastened to
Karede as if by tacks, studying, weighing, evaluating as though Karede were on the block at sale. "This
came to us in the last few days." By us, he meant the Seekers. "It began among the local people, as near
as we can tell, though we have not yet found the original source. Supposedly, a girl with a Seandar
accent has been extorting gold and jewelry from merchants here in Ebou Dar. The title Daughter of the
Nine Moons was mentioned." He grimaced with disgust, and for a moment, his fingertips turned white,
they were pressing against each other so hard. "None of the locals seem to understand what that title
means, but the description of the girl is remarkably precise. Remarkably accurate. And no one can recall
hearing this rumor before the night after . . . the night after Tylin’s murder was discovered," he finished,
choosing the least unpleasant event to fix the time.
"A Seandar accent," Karede said in a flat voice, and Mor nodded. "This rumor has passed to our
own people." That was not a question, but Mor nodded again. A Seandar accent and an accurate
description, two things no local could invent. Someone was playing a very dangerous game. Dangerous
for themselves, and for the Empire. "How does the Tarasin Palace take recent events?" There would be
Listeners among the servants, likely among even the Ebou Dari servants by now, and what the Listeners
heard soon passed to the Seekers.
Mor understood the question, of course. There was no need to mention what should not be
mentioned. He replied in an indifferent tone. "The High Lady Tuon’s entourage carries on as though
nothing has happened, except that Anath, her Truth Speaker, has taken to seclusion, but I am told that is
not unusual for her. Suroth herself is even more distraught in private than in public. She sleeps poorly,
snaps at her favorites, and has her property beaten over trifles. She ordered the death of one Seeker each
day until matters are rectified, and only rescinded the order this morning, when she realized she might
run out of Seekers before she ran out of days." His shoulders moved in a small shrug, perhaps to indicate
this was all in a day for Seekers, perhaps in relief at a near escape. "It’s understandable. If she is called
to account, she will pray for the Death of Ten Thousand Tears. The other Blood who know what has
happened are trying to grow eyes in the backs of their heads. A few have even quietly made funeral
arrangements, to cover any eventuality."
Karede wanted a clearer look at the man’s face. He was inured to insult-that was part of the
training-but this. . . . Pushing back his chair, he stood and sat at the edge of the writing table. Mor
stared at him unblinking, tensed to defend against an attack, and Karede drew a deep breath to still his
anger. "Why did you come to me if you believe the Deathwatch Guards are implicated in this?" The
effort of keeping his voice level almost strangled him. Since the first Deathwatch Guards swore on the
corpse of Luthair Paendrag to defend his son, there had never been treason among the Guards! Never!
Mor relaxed by increments as he realized that Karede did not intend to kill him, at least not right
then, but there was a haze of sweat on his forehead. "I have heard it said a Deathwatch Guard can see a
butterfly’s breath. Do you have anything to drink?" Karede gestured curtly to the brick hearth, where a
silver cup and pitcher sat near the flames, to keep warm. They had been there, untouched, since
Ajimbura brought them when Karede awoke. "The wine may be cool by now, but be free of it. And
when your throat is wet, you will answer my question. Either you suspect Guardsmen, or you wish to
play me in some game of your own, and by my eyes, I will know which, and why."
The fellow sidled to the hearth, watching him from the corner of his eye, but as Mor bent for the
pitcher, he frowned and then gave a small start. What appeared to be a silver-rimmed bowl with a ram’shorn-
patterned silver base sat beside the cup. Light of heaven, Ajimbura had been told often enough to
keep that thing out of sight! There was no doubt that Mor recognized it for what it was.
The man considered treason possible for the Guards? "Pour for me as well, if you will."
Mor blinked, showing a faint consternation-he held the only obvious cup-and then a light of
understanding appeared in his eyes. An uneasy light. He filled the bowl, too, a trifle unsteadily, and
wiped his hand on his coat before taking it up. Every man had his limits, even a Seeker, and a man
pushed to them was especially dangerous, but he was also off balance.
Accepting the skull-cup with both hands, Karede raised it high and lowered his head. "To the
Empress, may she live forever in honor and glory. Death and shame to her enemies."
"To the Empress, may she live forever in honor and glory," Mor echoed, bowing his head and
lifting his cup. "Death and shame to her enemies."
Putting Ajimbura’s cup to his lips, Karede was aware of the other man watching him drink. The
wine was indeed cool, the spices bitter, and there was a faint, acrid hint of silver polish; he told himself
the taste of dead man’s dust was his imagination. Mor dashed off half his own wine in hurried gulps,
then stared at his cup, seemed to realize what he had done, and made a visible effort to regain control of
himself. "Furyk Karede," he said briskly. "Born forty-two years ago to weavers, the property of one
Jalid Magonine, a craftsman in Ancarid. Chosen at fifteen for training in the Deathwatch Guards. Cited
twice for heroism and mentioned in dispatches three times, then, as a seven-year veteran, named to the
bodyguard of the High Lady Tuon upon her birth." That had not been her name then, of course, but
mentioning her birth-name would have been an insult. "That same year, as one of three survivors of the
first known attempt on her life, chosen for training as an officer. Service during the Muyami Uprising
and the Jianmin Incident, more citations for heroism, more mentions in dispatches, and assignment back
to the High Lady’s bodyguard just before her first true-name day." Mor peered into his wine, then
looked up suddenly. "At your request. Unusual, that. The following year, you took three serious wounds
shielding her with your body against another set of assassins. She gave you her most precious
possession, a doll. After more distinguished service, with further citations and mentions, you were
selected for the bodyguard of the Empress herself, may she live forever, and served there until named to
accompany the High Lord Turak to these lands with the Hailene. Times change, and men change, but
before going to guard the throne, you made two other requests for assignment to the High Lady Tuon’s
bodyguard. Most unusual. And you kept the doll until it was destroyed in the Great Fire of Sohima, a
matter often years."
Not for the first time, Karede was glad of the training that allowed him to maintain a smooth face
no matter what. Careless expressions gave away too much to an opponent. He remembered the face of
the small girl who had laid that doll on his litter. He could hear her still. You have protected my life, so
you must take Emela to watch over you in turn, she said. She can’t really protect you, of course; she’s
only a doll. But keep her to remind you that I will always hear if you speak my name. If I’m still alive, of
course.
"My honor is loyalty," he said, setting Ajimbura’s cup on the writing table carefully, so as not to
slop wine onto his papers. However often the fellow polished the silver, Karede did not think he
bothered to wash the thing. "Loyalty to the throne. Why did you come to me?"
Mor moved slightly, so the armchair was between them. No doubt he thought he was standing
casually, but he was clearly ready to throw the winecup. He had a knife under his coat in the small of his
back, and probably at least one other. "Three requests to join the High Lady Tuon’s bodyguard. And you
kept the doll." "That much, I understand," Karede told him dryly. The Guards were not supposed to
form attachments to those they were sent to guard. The Deathwatch Guard served only the Crystal
Throne, served whoever succeeded to the throne, with a whole heart and a whole faith. But he
remembered that serious child’s face, already aware she might not live to do her duty yet trying to do it
anyway, and he had kept the doll. "But there’s more to it than rumor of a girl, isn’t there?"
"A butterfly’s breath," the fellow murmured. "It is a pleasure to talk to someone who sees
deeply. On the night that Tylin was murdered, two damane were taken from the Tarasin Palace kennels.
Both were formerly Aes Sedai. Do you not find the coincidence too much?"
"I find any coincidence suspect, Almurat. But what has that to do with rumors and . . . other
matters?"
"This web is more tangled than you imagine. Several others left the palace that night, among
them a young man who was apparently Tylin’s pet, four men who were certainly soldiers, and an older
man, one Thom Merrilin, or so he called himself, who was supposedly a servant, but who displayed
much more education than would be expected. At one time or another, they were all seen with Aes Sedai
who were in the city before the Empire reclaimed it." Intent, the Seeker leaned forward slightly over the
back of the armchair. "Perhaps Tylin was not murdered because she swore fealty, but because she had
learned of things that were dangerous.
She might have been careless in what she revealed to the boy on the pillows, and he carried word
to Merrilin. We can call him that until we learn a better name. The more I learn of that one, the more
intriguing he is: knowledgeable of the world, well-spoken, at ease with nobles and crowns. A courtier, in
fact, if you didn’t know he was a servant. If the White Tower had certain plans in Ebou Dar, they might
send such a man to carry them out." Plans. Unthinking, Karede picked up Ajimbura’s cup and almost
drank before he realized what he was doing. He continued to hold the cup, though, so as not to give
away his turmoil. Everyone -those who knew, anyway-was sure the High Lady Tuon’s disappearance
was part of the contest to succeed the Empress, might she live forever. Such was life in the Imperial
family. If the High Lady were dead, after all, a new heir must be named. If she were dead. And if not. . .
. The White Tower would have sent their best, if they planned to carry her away. If the Seeker was not
playing him in some game of his own. Seekers could try to snare anyone short of the Empress herself,
might she live forever. "You have taken this notion to your superiors, and they rejected it, or you would
not come to me. That, or. . . . You haven’t mentioned it to them, have you? Why not?"
"Much more tangled than you can imagine," Mor said softly, eyeing the door as if suspecting
eavesdroppers. Why did he grow cautious now? "There are many . . . complications. The two damane
were removed by the Lady Egeanin Tamarath, who has had dealings with Aes Sedai before. Close
dealings, in fact. Very close. Clearly, she released the other damane to cover her escape. Egeanin left the
city that same night, with three damane in her entourage, and also, we believe, Merrilin and the others.
We don’t know who the third damane was-we suspect someone important among the Atha’an Miere,
or perhaps an Aes Sedai who was hiding in the city-but we have identified the sul’dam she used, and
two have close connections with Suroth. Who herself has many connections to Aes Sedai." For all his
wariness, Mor said that as if it were not a lightning bolt. No wonder he was on edge.
So. Suroth plotted with Aes Sedai and had corrupted at least some of the Seekers above Mor, and
the White Tower had placed men under one of their best to carry out certain actions. It was all
believable. When Karede was sent with the Forerunners, he had been tasked to watch the Blood for
over-ambition. There had always been a possibility, this far from the Empire, that they would try to set
up their own kingdoms. And he himself had sent men into a city he knew would fall whatever was done
to defend it, so they could harm the enemy from within.
"You have a direction, Almurat?"
Mor shook his head. "They went north, and Jehannah was mentioned in the palace stables, but
that seems an obvious attempt at deception. They will have changed direction at the first opportunity.
We have checked on boats large enough to have carried the party across the river, but vessels of that size
come and go all the time. There is no order in this place, no control." "This gives me a great deal to
think on."
The Seeker grimaced, a slight twisting of his mouth, but he seemed to realize he had gotten as
much commitment as Karede would make. He nodded once. "Whatever you choose to do, you should
know this. You may wonder how the girl extorted anything from these merchants. It seems two or three
soldiers always accompanied her. The description of their armor was also very precise." He half
stretched out a hand as though to touch Karede’s robe, but wisely let it fall back to his side. "Most
people call that black. You understand me? Whatever you choose to do, do not delay." Mor raised his
cup. "Your health, Banner-General. Furyk. Your health, and the health of the Empire."
Karede drained Ajimbura’s cup without hesitation. The Seeker departed as abruptly as he had
entered, and moments after the door closed behind him, it opened to admit Ajimbura. The little man
stared accusingly at the skull-cup in Karede’s hands.
"You know this rumor, Ajimbura?" As well ask whether the sun rose in the morning as ask
whether the fellow had been listening. He did not deny it, in any case.
"I would not soil my tongue with such filth, high one," he said, drawing himself up. Karede
permitted himself a sigh. Whether the High Lady Tuon’s disappearance was her own doing or some
other’s, she was in great danger. And if the rumor was some ploy by Mor, the best way to defeat
another’s game was to make the game your own. "Lay out my razor." Sitting down, he reached for his
pen, holding the sleeve of his robe clear of the ink with his left hand. "Then you will find Captain
Musenge, when he is alone, and give him this. Return quickly; I will have more instructions for you."
Shortly after noon on the following day, he was crossing the harbor on the ferry that departed each hour,
according to the strict ringing of bells. It was a lumbering barge that heaved as long sweeps propelled it
across the harbor’s choppy surface. The ropes lashing a merchant’s half-dozen canvas-covered wagons
to the cleats on the deck creaked with every shift, the horses stamped their hooves nervously, and the
oarsmen had to fend off wagon drivers and hired guards who wanted to empty their bellies over the side.
Some men had no stomach for the motion of water. The merchant herself, a plump-faced woman with a
coppery skin, stood in the bow wrapped in her dark cloak, balancing easily with the ferry’s movements,
staring fixedly at the approaching landing and ignoring Karede beside her. She might know that he was
Seanchan, from the saddle on his bay gelding if nothing else, but a plain gray cloak covered his redtrimmed
green coat, so if she thought of him at all, it was as an ordinary soldier. Not a settler, with a
sword on his hip. There might have been sharper eyes back in the city, despite all he had done to evade
them, but there was nothing he could do about that. With luck, he had a day, perhaps two, before anyone
realized he would not be returning to the inn any time soon.
Swinging into his saddle as soon as the ferry bumped hard against the landing dock’s leatherpadded
posts, he was first off when the loading gate swung aside, the merchant was still chivvying her
drivers to the wagons and the ferrymen unlashing wheels. He kept Aldazar to a slow walk across the
stones, still slippery with the morning’s rain, a litter of horse dung, and the leavings of a flock of sheep,
and let the bay’s pace increase only when he reached the Illian Road itself, though he kept short of a trot
even then. Impatience was a vice when beginning a journey of unknown length.
Inns lined the road beyond the landing, flat-roofed buildings, covered in cracked and flaking
white plaster and with faded signs out front or none at all. This road marked the northern edge of the
Rahad, and roughly dressed men slouching on benches in front of the inns sullenly watched him pass.
Not because he was Seanchan; he suspected they would have been no brighter for anyone on horseback.
Anyone who had two coins to rub, for that matter. Soon he left them behind, though, and the next few
hours took him past olive orchards and small farms where the workers were accustomed enough to
passersby on the road that they did not look up from their labors. The traffic was sparse in any case, a
handful of highwheeled farmers’ carts and twice a merchant’s train rumbling toward Ebou Dar,
surrounded by hired guards. Many of the drivers and both merchants wore those distinctive Illianer
beards. It seemed strange that Illian continued to send its trade to Ebou Dar while fighting to resist the
Empire, but people on this side of the Eastern Sea were often peculiar, with odd customs, and little like
the stories told of the great Hawkwing’s homeland. Often nothing like. They must be understood, of
course, if they were to be brought into the Empire, but understanding was for others, higher than he. He
had his duty.
The farms gave way to woodlands and fields of scrub, and his shadow was lengthening in front
of him, the sun more than halfway to the horizon, by the time he saw what he was looking for. Just
ahead, Ajimbura was squatting on the north side of the road, playing a reed flute, the image of an idler
shirking. Before Karede reached him, he tucked the flute behind his belt, gathered his brown cloak and
vanished into the brush and trees. Glancing behind to make sure the road was empty in that direction as
well, Karede turned Aldazar into the woodland at the same point. The little man was waiting just out of
sight of the road, among a stand of some sort of large pine tree, the tallest easily a hundred feet. He
made his hunch-shouldered bow and scrambled into the saddle of a lean chestnut with four white feet.
He insisted that white feet on a horse were lucky. "This way, high one?" he said, and at Karede’s gesture
of permission, turned his mount deeper into the forest.
They had only a short way to ride, no more than half a mile, but no one passing on the road could
have suspected what waited there in a large clearing. Musenge had brought a hundred of the Guard on
good horses and twenty Ogier Gardeners, all in full armor, along with pack animals to carry supplies for
two weeks. The packhorse Ajimbura had brought out yesterday, with Karede’s armor, would be among
them. A cluster of sul’dam were standing beside their own mounts, some petting the six leashed
damane. When Musenge rode forward to meet Karede with Hartha, the First Gardener, striding grimfaced
beside him with his greentasseled axe over his shoulder. One of the women, Melitene, the High
Lady Tuon’s der’sul’dam, stepped into her saddle and joined them.
Musenge and Hartha touched fists to heart, and Karede returned their salute, but his eyes went to
the damane. To one in particular, a small woman whose hair was being stroked by a dark, square-faced
sul’dam. A damane’s face was always deceptive - they aged slowly and lived a very long time - but
this one had a difference he had learned to recognize as belonging to those who called themselves Aes
Sedai. "What excuse did you use to get all of them out of the city at once?" he asked.
"Exercise, Banner-General," Melitene replied with a wry smile. "Everyone always believes
exercise." It was said the High Lady Tuon in truth needed no der’sul’dam to train her property or her
sul’dam, but Melitene, with less black than gray in her long hair, was experienced in more than her craft,
and she knew what he was really asking. He had requested that Musenge bring a pair of damane, if he
could. "None of us would be left behind, Banner-General. Never for this. As for Mylen. . . . " That must
be the former Aes Sedai. "After we left the city, we told the damane why we were going. It’s always
best if they know what’s expected. We’ve been calming Mylen ever since. She loves the High Lady.
They all do, but Mylen worships her as though she already sat on the Crystal Throne. If Mylen gets her
hands on one of these ‘Aes Sedai,’" she chuckled, "we’ll have to be quick to keep the woman from
being too battered to be worth leashing."
"I see no cause for laughter," Hartha rumbled. The Ogier was even more weathered and grizzled
than Musenge, with long gray mustaches and eyes like black stones staring out of his helmet. He had
been a Gardener since before Karede’s father was born, maybe before his grandfather. "We have no
target. We are trying to catch the wind in a net." Melitene sobered quickly, and Musenge began to look
grimmer than Hartha, if that was possible. In ten days, the people they sought would have put many
miles behind them. The best the White Tower could send would not be so blatant as to head due east
after trying the ruse of Jehannah, nor so stupid to as to head too close to north, yet that left a vast and
ever expanding area to be searched. "Then we must begin spreading our nets without delay," Karede
said, "and spread them finely." Musenge and Hartha nodded. For the Deathwatch Guard, what must be
done, would be done. Even to catching the wind.
CHAPTER 5
The Forging of a Hammer
He ran easily through the night in spite of the snow that covered the ground. He was one with the
shadows, slipping through the forest, the moonlight almost as clear to his eyes as the light of the sun. A
cold wind ruffled his thick fur, and suddenly brought a scent that made his hackles stand and his heart
race with a hatred greater than that for the Neverborn. Hatred, and a sure knowledge of death coming.
There were no choices to be made, not now. He ran harder, toward death.
Perrin woke abruptly in the deep darkness before dawn, beneath one of the high-wheeled supply
carts. Cold had seeped into his bones from the ground despite his heavy fur-lined cloak and two
blankets, and there was a fitful breeze, not strong or steady enough to be called a light wind, but icy.
When he scrubbed at his face with gauntleted hands, frost crackled in his short beard. At least it seemed
not to have snowed any more during the night. Too often he had awakened covered with a dusting
despite the shelter of a cart, and snowfall made things difficult for the scouts. He wished he could speak
with Elyas the same way he talked with wolves. Then he would not have to endure this endless waiting.
Weariness clung to him like a second skin; he could not recall when he had last had a sound
night’s sleep. Sleep, or the lack of it, seemed unimportant anyway. These days, only the heat of anger
gave him the strength to keep moving.
He did not think it was the dream that had wakened him. Every night he lay down expecting
nightmares, and every night they came. In the worst, he found Faile dead, or never found her. Those
woke him up in shivering sweats. Anything less horrible, he slept through, or only half-woke with
Trollocs cutting him up alive for the cookpot or a Draghkar eating his soul. This dream was fading
quickly, in the manner of dreams, yet he remembered being a wolf and smelling. . . . What? Something
wolves hated more than they did Myrddraal. Something a wolf knew would kill him. The knowledge he
had had in the dream was gone; only vague impressions remained. He had not been in the wolf dream,
that reflection of this world where dead wolves lived on and the living could go to consult them. The
wolf dream always remained clear in his head after he left, whether he had gone there consciously or
not. Yet this dream still seemed real, and somehow urgent. Lying motionless on his back, he sent his
mind questing, feeling for wolves. He had tried using wolves to help his hunt, to no avail. Convincing
them to take an interest in the doings of twolegs was difficult, to say the least. They avoided large
parties of men, and for them, half a dozen was large enough to stay clear of. Men chased away game,
and most men tried to kill a wolf on sight. His thoughts found nothing, but then, after a time, he touched
wolves, at a distance. How far, he could not be sure, but it was like catching a whisper almost on the
edge of hearing. A long way. That was strange. Despite scattered villages and manors and even the
occasional town, this was prime country for wolves, untouched forest for the most part, with plenty of
deer and smaller game. There was always a formality to speaking with a pack you were not part of.
Politely, he sent his name among wolves, Young Bull, shared his scent, and received theirs in reply,
Leafhunter and Tall Bear, White Tail and Feather and Thunder Mist, a cascade of others.
It was a sizable pack, and Leafhunter, a female with a feel of quiet certainty, was their leader.
Feather, clever and in his prime, was her mate. They had heard of Young Bull, were eager to speak with
the friend of the fabled Long Tooth, the first two-legs who had learned to speak with wolves after a gap
of time that carried the feel of Ages vanished into the mists of the past. It was all a torrent of images and
memories of scents that his mind turned into words, as the words he thought somehow became images
and scents they could understand.
There is something I want to learn, he thought, once the greetings were done. What would a wolf
hate more than the Neverborn? He tried to recall the scent from the dream, to add that, but it was gone
from his memory. Something that a wolf knows means death.
Silence answered him, and a thread of fear blended with hatred and determination and
reluctance. He had felt fear from wolves before-above all things they feared the wildfire that raced
through a forest, or so he would have said-but this was the prickling sort of fear that made a man’s skin
crawl, made him shiver and jump at things unseen. Laced with the resolution to go on no matter what, it
felt close to terror. Wolves never experienced that kind of dread. Except that these did.
One by one they faded from his consciousness, a deliberate act of shutting him out, until only
Leafhunter remained. The Last Hunt is coming, she said at last, and then she also was gone. Did I
offend? he sent. III did, it was in ignorance. But there was no reply. These wolves, at least, would not
speak with him again, not any time soon.
The Last Hunt is coming. That was what wolves called the Last Battle, Tarmon Gai’don. They
knew they would be there, at the final confrontation between the Light and the Shadow, though why was
something they could not explain. Some things were fated, as sure as the rise and fall of the sun and the
moon, and it was fated that many wolves would die in the Last Hunt. What they feared was something
else. Perrin had a strong sense that he also had to be there, was meant to be at least, but if the Last Battle
came soon, he would not be. He had a job of work in front of him that he could not shirk-would not!-
even for Tarmon Gai’don.
Putting nameless fears and the Last Battle alike out of his mind, he fumbled his gauntlets off and
felt in his coat pocket for the length of rawhide cord he kept there. In a morning ritual, his fingers made
another knot mechanically, then slid down the cord, counting. Twenty-two knots. Twenty-two mornings
since Faile was kidnapped.
At the start, he had not thought there was need to keep count. That first day, he had believed he
was cold and numb but focused, yet looking back he could see he had been overwhelmed by unbound
rage and a consuming need to find the Shaido as fast as possible. Men from other clans had been among
the Aiel who had stolen Faile, yet on the evidence, most were Shaido, and that was how he thought of
them. The need to rip Faile away from them, before she could be hurt, had gripped him by the throat till
he almost choked. He would rescue the other women captured with her, of course, but sometimes he had
to list their names in his head to make sure he did not forget them entirely. Alliandre Maritha Kigarin,
Queen of Ghealdan, and his liege woman. It still seemed off-kilter to have anyone oathsworn to him,
especially a queen-he was a blacksmith! He had been a blacksmith, once-but he had responsibilities
toward Alliandre, and she would never have been in danger except for him. Bain of the Black Rock
Shaarad and Chiad of the Stones River Goshien, Aiel Maidens of the Spear who had followed Faile to
Ghealdan and Amadicia. They had faced Trollocs in the Two Rivers, as well, when Perrin needed every
hand that could raise a weapon, and that earned them the right to call on him. Arrela Shiego and Lacile
Aldorwin, two foolish young women who thought they could learn to be Aiel, or some strange version
of Aiel. They were oathsworn to Faile, and so was Maighdin Dorlain, a penniless refugee Faile had
taken under her wing as one of her maids. He could not abandon Faile’s people. Faile ni Bashere
t’Aybara. The litany came back to her, his wife, the breath of his life. With a groan, he clutched the cord
so tightly that the knots impressed themselves painfully on a hand hardened by long days swinging the
hammer at a forge. Light, twenty-two days!
Working iron had taught him that haste ruined metal, but in the beginning, he had been hasty,
Traveling southward through gateways created by Grady and Neald, the two Asha’man, to where the
farthest traces of the Shaido had been found, then leaping south again, the direction their tracks went, as
soon as the Asha’man could make more gateways. Fretting every hour it took them to rest from making
the first and holding them open long enough for everyone to pass through, his mind was eaten up with
freeing Faile at any cost. What he found were days of increasing pain as the scouts spread farther and
farther through uninhabited wilderness without locating the slightest sign that anyone had been that way
before, until he knew he had to retrace his path, frittering away more days to cover ground the Asha’man
had taken him across in a step, searching for any indication of where the Shaido had turned aside.
He should have known they would turn. South took them toward warmer lands, without the snow
that seemed so strange to Aiel, yet it took them closer to the Seanchan in Ebou Dar, as well. He knew
about the Seanchan, and he should have expected the Shaido to learn! They were after pillage, not a
fight with Seanchan and damane. Days of slow marching with the scouts fanning out ahead, days when
falling snow blinded even the Aiel and forced them all to a chafing halt, until finally Jondyn Barran
found a tree scraped by a wagon and Elyas dug a broken Aiel spear shaft from beneath the snow. And
Perrin at last turned east, at most two days south of where he had Traveled to the first time. He had
wanted to howl when he realized that, yet he kept a tight hold on himself. He could not give way, not so
much as an inch, not when Faile was depending on him. That was when he began to husband his anger,
began to forge it.
Her kidnappers had gained a long lead because he was hasty, but since then, he had been as
careful as he had been in a smithy. His anger was hardened and shaped to a purpose. Since finding the
Shaido’s trail again, he had Traveled no farther in one jump than the scouts could go and come between
sunrise and sunset, and it was well that he had been cautious, because the Shaido changed directions
suddenly several times, zigzagging almost as though they could not decide on a destination. Or maybe
they had turned to joined others of their kind. All he had to go by were old traces, old camps buried by
snow, yet all of the scouts agreed the Shaido’s numbers had swollen. There had to be at least two or
three septs together, maybe more, a formidable quarry to hunt. Slowly but surely, though, he had begun
overtaking them. That was what was important.
The Shaido covered more ground on the march than he would have thought possible, given their
numbers and the snow, yet they did not seem to care whether anyone was tracking them. Perhaps they
believed no one dared. Sometimes they had camped several days in one spot. Anger forged to a purpose.
Ruined villages and small towns and estates littered the Shaido’s path as if they were human locusts,
storehouses and valuables looted, men and women carried off along with the livestock. Often no one
remained by the time he arrived, only empty houses, the people seeking somewhere for food to survive
until spring. He had crossed the Eldar into Altara where a small ferry used by peddlers and local
farmers, not merchants, once ran between two villages on the forested riverbanks. How the Shaido had
gotten across, he did not know, but he had the Asha’man make gateways. All that remained of the ferry
were the rough stone landings on either bank, and the few unburned structures were deserted except for
three slat-ribbed feral dogs that slunk away at the sight of humans. Anger hardened and shaped for a
hammer.
Yesterday morning, he had come to a tiny village where a double handful of stunned, dirty-faced
people had stared at the hundreds of lancers and bowmen riding out of the forest at first light behind the
Red Eagle of Manetheren and the crimson Wolfshead, the Silver Stars of Ghealdan and the Golden
Hawk of Mayene, followed by long lines of high-wheeled carts and strings of remounts. At first sight of
Gaul and the other Aiel, those people overcame their paralysis and began running for the trees in panic.
Catching a few to answer questions had been difficult; they were ready to run themselves to death rather
than let an Aiel near. Brytan had consisted of only a dozen families, but the Shaido had carried off nine
young men and women from there, along with all of their animals, only two days ago. Two days. A
hammer was a tool with a purpose, and a target.
He knew he had to be careful, or lose Faile forever, but being too careful could lose her, too.
Early yesterday he had told those who were going ahead to scout that they were to go farther than
before, push on harder, returning only with a full turn of the sun unless they found the Shaido sooner. In
a little while the sun would rise, and at most a few hours after that, Elyas and Gaul and the others would
return, the Maidens and Two Rivers men he knew could track a shadow across water. As fast as the
Shaido moved, the scouts could move faster. They were not encumbered with families and wagons and
captives. This time, they would be able to tell him exactly where the Shaido were. They would. He knew
it in his bones. The certainty flowed in his veins. He would find Faile and free her. That came before
anything, even living, so long as he lived long enough to accomplish it, yet he was a hammer, now, and
if there was any way to accomplish it, any way at all, he intended to hammer these Shaido into scrap.
Tossing the blankets aside, Perrin tugged his gauntlets back on, gathered his axe from where it
lay beside him, a half-moon blade balanced by a heavy spike, and rolled out into the open, rising to his
feet on trampled, frozen snow. Carts stood all around him in rows, in what had been Brytan’s fields. The
arrival of more strangers, so many, and armed, with their foreign banners, had been more than the
survivors of the little village could absorb. As soon as Perrin would let them, the pitiful remnant had fled
into the forest, carrying what they could on their backs and on dragsleds. They had run as hard as if
Perrin was another Shaido, not looking back for fear he was following them. As he slipped the axe haft
through the thick loop on his belt, a deeper shadow beside a nearby cart grew taller and resolved into a
man swathed in a cloak that seemed black in the darkness. Perrin was not surprised; the nearby
horselines thickened the air with the smell of several thousand animals, mounts and remounts and cart
horses, not to mention the sweet stink of horse dung, but he still had caught the other’s scent on waking.
Man smell always stood out. Besides, Aram was always there when Perrin woke, waiting. A waning
sickle moon low in the sky still gave enough light for him to make out the other man’s face, if not
clearly, and the brasspommeled hilt of his sword slanting up past his shoulder. Aram had been a Tinker
once, but Perrin did not think he would be again, even if he did wear a brightly striped Tinker coat.
There was a frowning hardness about Aram now that moon shadows could not hide. He stood as though
ready to draw that sword, and since Faile was taken, anger seemed a permanent part of his scent. A great
deal had changed when Faile was taken. Anyway, Perrin understood anger. He had not, not really,
before Faile was taken.
"They want to see you, Lord Perrin," Aram said, jerking his head toward two dim forms farther
away between the lines of carts. The words came out in a faint mist in the cold air. "I told them to let
you sleep." It was a fault Aram had, looking after him too much, unasked.
Testing the air, Perrin separated out the scents of those two shadows from the masking smell of
the horses. "I’ll see them now. Have Stepper readied for me, Aram." He tried to be in the saddle before
the rest of the camp woke. Partly that was because standing still for long seemed beyond him. Standing
still was not catching the Shaido. Partly it was to avoid having to share anyone’s company he could
avoid. He would have gone out with the scouts himself if the men and women already doing that job
were not so much better at it than he.
"Yes, my Lord." A jaggedness entered Aram’s scent as he trudged away across the snow, but
Perrin barely noted it. Only something important would make Sebban Balwer root himself out of his
blankets in the dark, and as for Selande Darengil. . . . Balwer appeared skinny even in a bulky cloak, his
pinched face all but hidden in the deep hood. Had he stood straight instead of hunching, he still would
have been at most a hand taller than the Cairhienin woman, who was not tall. With his arms wrapped
around himself, he was hopping from one foot to the other, trying to avoid the cold that must be soaking
through his boots. Selande, in a man’s dark coat and breeches, made a good effort at ignoring the
temperature despite the feathery white that marked every breath. She was shivering, but managed to
swagger standing still, with one side of her cloak thrown back and a gloved hand on the hilt of her
sword. The hood of her cloak was lowered, too, exposing hair cut short except for the tail in the back
that was tied at the nape of her neck with a dark ribbon. Selande was the leader of those fools who
wanted to be imitation Aiel, Aiel who carried swords. Her scent was soft and thick, like a jelly. She was
worried. Balwer smelled . . . intent . . . but then, he nearly always did, though there was never any heat
to his intensity, only focus.
The skinny little man stopped hopping to make a stiff, hurried bow. "The Lady Selande has news
I think you should hear from her lips, my Lord." Balwer’s thin voice was dry and precise, just like its
owner. He would sound the same with his neck on a headsman’s block. "My Lady, if you would?" He
was only a secretary-Faile’s secretary, and Perrin’s-a fussy self-effacing fellow for the most part, and
Selande was a noblewoman, but Balwer made that more than a request.
She gave him a sharp sideways glance, shifting her sword, and Perrin tensed to grab her. He did
not think she would actually draw on the man, but then again, he was not sure enough of her, or any of
her ridiculous friends, to put it out of the question. Balwer merely watched her, his head tilted to one
side, and his smell carried impatience, not concern.
With a toss of her head, Selande turned her attention to Perrin. "I see you, Lord Perrin
Goldeneyes," she began in the crisp accents of Cairhien, but, aware that he had little patience for her
pretend Aiel formality, she hurried on. "I have learned three things tonight. First, the least important,
Haviar reported that Masema sent another rider back toward Amadicia yesterday. Nerion tried to follow,
but lost him."
"Tell Nerion I said he isn’t to follow anybody," Perrin told her sharply. "And tell Haviar the
same. They should know that! They are to watch, listen, and report what they see and hear, no more. Do
you understand me?" Selande gave a quick nod, a thorn of fear entering her scent for a moment. Fear of
him, Perrin supposed, fear that he was angry with her. Yellow eyes on a man made some people uneasy.
He took his hand from his axe and clasped both hands behind his back.
Haviar and Nerion were more of Faile’s two dozen young fools, one Tairen, the other Cairhienin.
Faile had used the lot of them for eyes-and-ears, a fact that still irritated him for some reason, though she
had told him to his face that spying was a wife’s business. A man needed to listen hard when he thought
his wife was joking; she might not be. The whole notion of spying made him uncomfortable, but if Faile
could use them so, then so could her husband, when there was need. Just the two, though. Masema
seemed convinced that everyone except Darkfriends were fated to follow him sooner or later, yet he
might grow suspicious if too many left Perrin’s camp to join him.
"Don’t call him Masema, not even here," he added brusquely.
Lately the man claimed Masema Dagar was actually dead and risen from the grave as the
Prophet of the Lord Dragon Reborn, and he was touchier than ever about mention of his former name.
"You get careless with your tongue in the wrong place, and you might be lucky if he just has a few of
his bullyboys flog you the next time they can find you alone." Selande nodded again, gravely, and this
time without any fear smell. Light, those idiots of Faile’s lacked the sense to recognize what they should
be afraid of. "It’s almost dawn," Balwer murmured, shivering and pulling his cloak tighter. "All will be
waking before long, and some matters are best discussed unseen. If my Lady will continue?" Once
again, that was more than a suggestion. Selande and the rest of Faile’s hangers-on had been good only
for causing trouble, that Perrin could see, and Balwer looked to be trying to put a fly up her nose for
some reason, but she actually gave an embarrassed start and murmured an apology.
The darkness truly was beginning to lessen, Perrin realized, at least to his eyes. The sky overhead
still looked black, dusted with bright stars, yet he could almost make out the colors of the six thin stripes
that crossed the front of Selande’s coat. He could tell one from another, anyway. The realization that he
had slept later than usual made him growl. He could not afford to give in to weariness, however tired he
was! He needed to hear Selande’s report-she would not be worried about Masema sending out riders;
the man did that almost every day-yet he looked anxiously for Aram and Stepper. His ears picked up
the sounds of activity among the horselines, but there was no sign of his horse yet.
"The second thing, my Lord," Selande said, "is that Haviar has seen casks of salt fish and salt
beef branded with Altaran markings, a great many of them. He says there are Altarans among Mas . . .
among the Prophet’s people, too. Several appear to be craftsfolk, and one or two could be merchants or
town officials. Established men and women, in any case, solid folk, and some seem unsure they made
the right decision. A few questions might reveal from where the fish and beef came. And perhaps gain
more eyes-and-ears for you."
"I know where the fish and beef came from and so do you," Perrin said irritably. His hands
knotted into fists behind his back. He had hoped the speed with which he was moving would keep
Masema from sending out raiding parties. That was what they were, and as bad as the Shaido if not
worse. They offered people a chance to swear to the Dragon Reborn, and those who refused, sometimes
those who simply hesitated too long, died by fire and steel. In any case, whether or not they marched off
to follow Masema, those who swore were expected to donate generously in support of the Prophet’s
cause, while those who died were plainly Darkfriends, their belongings forfeit. Thieves lost a hand, by
Masema’s laws, but none of what his raiders did was thieving, according to Masema. By his laws,
murder and a whole host of other crimes merited hanging, yet a fair number of his followers seemed to
prefer killing to receiving oaths. There was more loot, that way, and for some of them murder was a fine
game to play before eating.
"Tell them to keep clear of these Altarans," Perrin went on. "All sorts drift into Masema’s
following, and even if they are having second thoughts, it won’t take them long to stink of zeal like the
rest. They wouldn’t hesitate to gut a neighbor then, much less somebody who’s asked the wrong
questions. What I want to know is what Masema’s doing, what he’s planning." That the man had some
scheme seemed obvious. Masema claimed it was blasphemy for anyone except Rand to touch the One
Power, claimed he wanted nothing more than to join Rand in the east. As always, thought of Rand
brought colors whirling through Perrin’s head, more vividly than usual this time, but anger melted them
to vapor. Blasphemy or no, Masema had accepted Traveling, which was not just channeling but men
channeling. And no matter what he claimed, he had done it to remain in the west as long as possible, not
to help rescue Faile. Perrin tended to trust people until they proved unreliable, but one sniff of Masema
had told him the fellow was as insane as a rabid animal and less trustworthy. He had considered ways to
stop that scheme, whatever it was.
Ways to stop Masema’s killing and burning. Masema had ten or twelve thousand men with him,
maybe more-the man was not very forthcoming about numbers, and the way they camped in a squalid
sprawl made counting impossible-while less than a quarter of that number followed Perrin, several
hundred of them cart drivers and grooms and others who would be more hindrance than help in a fight,
yet with three Aes Sedai and two Asha’man, not to mention six Aiel Wise Ones, he could halt Masema
in his tracks. The Wise Ones and two of the Aes Sedai would be eager to take part. More than simply
willing, at least. They wanted Masema dead. But dispersing Masema’s army would only break it into
hundreds of smaller bands that would scatter across Altara and beyond, still looting and killing, just for
themselves instead of in the name of the Dragon Reborn. Breaking the Shaido will do the same thing, he
thought, and pushed the thought away. Stopping Masema would take time he did not have. The man
would have to keep until Faile was safe. Until the Shaido were smashed to kindling. "What’s the third
thing you learned tonight, Selande?" he said roughly. To his surprise, the smell of worry coming from
the woman thickened.
"Haviar saw someone," she said slowly. "He did not tell me at first." Her voice hardened for a
moment. "I made sure that will not happen again!" Drawing a deep breath, she seemed to struggle with
herself, then burst out, "Masuri Sedai has visited Masema . . . the Prophet. It is true, my Lord; believe
me! Haviar has seen her more than once. She slips into their camp hooded and leaves the same way, but
he has had a good look at her face twice. A man accompanies her each time, and sometimes another
woman. Haviar has not seen the man well enough to be sure, but the description fits Rovair, Masuri’s
Warder, and Haviar is certain the second woman is Annoura Sedai."
She broke off abruptly, her eyes shining darkly in the moonlight as she watched him. Light, she
was as worried about how he would take it as by what it meant! He forced his hands to unclench.
Masema despised Aes Sedai as much as he did Darkfriends; he nearly considered them Darkfriends. So
why would he receive two sisters? Why would they go to him? Annoura’s opinion of Masema lay
hidden behind Aes Sedai mystery and doublejointed comments that could mean anything, but Masuri
had said straight out that the man needed to be put down like a mad dog.
"Make sure Haviar and Nerion keep a sharp eye for the sisters and see if they can eavesdrop on
one of their meetings with Masema." Could Haviar be mistaken? No, there were few women in
Masema’s camp, relatively speaking, and it passed belief that the Tairen could mistake one of those
unwashed murderous-eyed harridans for Masuri. The sort of women willing to march with Masema
usually made the men look like Tinkers. "Tell them to take care, though. Better to let the chance pass
than get caught at it. They’re no good to anyone strung up on a tree." Perrin knew he sounded gruff, and
tried to make his voice milder. That seemed harder since Faile was kidnapped. "You’ve done well,
Selande." At least he did not sound as if he were barking at her. "You and Haviar and Nerion. Faile
would be proud if she knew."
A smile lit up her face, and she stood a little straighter, if that was possible. Pride, clean and
bright, the pride of accomplishment, almost overwhelmed any other scent from her! "Thank you, my
Lord. Thank you!" You would have thought he had given her a prize. Maybe he had, come to think on it.
Though come to think Faile might not be best pleased that he was using her eyes-andears, or even knew
about them. Once, the thought of Faile displeased would have made him uneasy, but that was before he
learned about her spies. And that little matter of the Broken Crown that Elyas had let slip. Everybody
always said that wives kept their secrets close, but there were limits! Adjusting his cloak on his narrow
shoulders with one hand, Balwer coughed behind the other. "Well said, my Lord. Very well said. My
Lady, I’m sure you want to pass on Lord Perrin’s instructions as soon as possible. It wouldn’t do for
there to be any misunderstanding." Selande nodded without taking her eyes off Perrin. Her mouth
opened, and Perrin was sure she intended to say something about hoping he found water and shade.
Light, water was the one thing they had in plenty, even if it was mostly frozen, and this time of year,
nobody needed shade even at noon! She probably did intend it, because she hesitated before saying,
"Grace favor you, my Lord. If I may be so bold, Grace has favored the Lady Faile in you." Perrin jerked
his head in a nod of thanks. There was a taste of ashes in his mouth. Grace had a funny way of favoring
Faile, giving her a husband who still had not found her after more than two weeks of searching. The
Maidens said she had been made gai’shain, that she would not be mistreated, but they had to admit these
Shaido already had broken their customs a hundred different ways. In his book, being kidnapped was
mistreatment enough. Bitter ashes.
"The lady will do very well, my Lord," Balwer said softly, watching Selande vanish into the
darkness among the carts. This approval was a surprise; he had tried to talk Perrin out of using Selande
and her friends on the grounds they were hotheaded and unreliable. "She has the necessary instincts.
Cairhienin do, usually, and Tairens to some extent, at least the nobles, especially once-" He cut off
abruptly, and eyed Perrin cautiously. If he were another man, Perrin would have believed he had said
more than he intended, but he doubted Balwer slipped in that fashion. The man’s scent remained steady,
not jiggling the way it would in a man who was unsure. "May I offer one or two points on her report, my
Lord?"
The crunch of hooves in the snow announced the approach of Aram, leading Perrin’s dun stallion
and his own rangy gray gelding. The two animals were trying to nip at one another, and Aram was
keeping them well apart, though with some difficulty. Balwer sighed.
"You can say whatever you need to in front of Aram, Master Balwer," Perrin said. The little man
bowed his head in acquiescence, but he sighed again, too. Everybody in the camp knew that Balwer had
the skill of fitting together rumors and chance-heard comments and things people had done to form a
picture of what had really happened or what might, and Balwer himself considered that part of his job as
a secretary, but for some reason he liked to pretend he never did any such thing. It was a harmless
pretense, and Perrin tended to humor him.
Taking Stepper’s reins from Aram, he said, "Walk behind us awhile, Aram. I need to talk with
Master Balwer in private." Balwer’s sigh was so faint that Perrin barely heard it.
Aram fell in behind the two of them without a word as they began to walk, frozen snow cracking
beneath their feet, but his scent grew spiky again, and quivery, a thin, sour smell. This time, Perrin
recognized the scent, though he paid it no more mind than usual. Aram was jealous of anyone except
Faile who spent time with him. Perrin saw no way to put a stop to it, and anyway, he was as used to
Aram’s possessiveness as he was to the way Balwer hopped along at his side, glancing over his shoulder
to see whether Aram was close enough to hear when he finally decided to speak. Balwer’s razor-thin
scent of suspicion, curiously dry and not even warm but still suspicion, provided a counterpoint to
Aram’s jealousy. You could not change men who did not want to change. The horselines and supply
carts were located in the middle of the camp, where thieves would have a hard time reaching them, and
although the sky still looked black to most eyes, the cart drivers and grooms, who slept close to their
charges, were already awake and folding their blankets, some tending shelters made of pine boughs and
other small tree limbs harvested from the surrounding forest, in case they might be needed another night.
Cook fires were being lit and small black kettles set over them, though there was little to eat except
porridge or dried beans. Hunting and trapping added some meat, venison and rabbits, partridges and
woodhens and the like, but that could only go so far with so many to feed, and there had been nowhere
to buy supplies since before crossing the Eldar. A ripple of bows and curtsies and murmurs of "A good
morning, my Lord" and "The Light favor you, my Lord" followed Perrin, but the men and women who
saw him stopped trying to strengthen their shelters, and a few began to pull theirs down, as though they
had sensed his determination from his stride. They should have known his resolve by now. Since the day
he realized how badly he had blundered, he had not spent two nights in one place. He returned the
greetings without slowing. The rest of the camp made a thin ring around the horses and carts, facing the
encircling forest, with the Two Rivers men divided into four groups and the lancers from Ghealdan and
Mayene spaced between them. Whoever came at them, from whatever direction, would face Two Rivers
longbows and trained cavalry.
It was not a sudden appearance by the Shaido that Perrin feared, but rather Masema. The man
seemed to be following him meekly enough, but aside from this news of raiding, nine Ghealdanin and
eight Mayeners had vanished in the last two weeks, and no one believed they had deserted. Before that,
on the day Faile was stolen, twenty Mayeners had been ambushed and killed, and no one believed it had
been anyone but Masema’s men who did the killing. So an uneasy peace existed, a strange thorny sort of
peace, yet a copper wagered on it lasting forever was likely a copper lost. Masema pretended to be
unaware of any danger to that peace, but his followers seemed not to care one way or the other, and
whatever Masema pretended, they took their lead from him. Somehow, though, Perrin intended to see
that it endured until Faile was free. Making his own camp too tough a nut to crack was one way of
making the peace last.
The Aiel had insisted on having their own thin wedge of the strange pie, though there were fewer
than fifty of them, counting the gai’shain who served the Wise Ones, and he paused to study their low
dark tents. The only other tents erected anywhere in the camp were those of Berelain and her two
serving women, on the other side of the camp, not far from Brytan’s few houses. Fleas and lice in hordes
made those uninhabitable, even for hardened soldiers seeking shelter from the cold, and the barns were
putrid ramshackle affairs that let the wind howl through and harbored worse vermin than the houses.
The Maidens and Gaul, the only man among the Aiel not gai’shain, were all out with the scouts, and the
Aiel tents were silent and still, though the smell of smoke coming from some of the vent holes told him
the gai’shain were preparing breakfast for the Wise Ones, or serving it. Annoura was Berelain’s adviser,
and usually shared her tent, but Masuri and Seonid would be with the Wise Ones, maybe even helping
the gai’shain with breakfast. They still tried to hide the fact that the Wise Ones considered them
apprentices, though everyone in camp must be aware of it by now. Anyone who saw an Aes Sedai
actually carrying firewood or water, or heard one being switched, could make it out. The two Aes Sedai
were oathsworn to Rand-again the colors whirled in his head, an explosion of hues; again they melted
under his constant anger-but Edarra and the other Wise Ones had been sent to keep an eye on them.
Only the Aes Sedai themselves knew how tightly their oaths held them, or what room they saw
to maneuver between the words, and neither was allowed to hop unless a Wise One said toad.
Seonid and Masuri had both said Masema should be put down like a mad dog, and the Wise
Ones agreed. Or so they said. They had no Three Oaths to hold them to the truth, though in truth, that
particular Oath held the Aes Sedai more in letter than spirit. And he seemed to recall one of the Wise
Ones telling him that Masuri thought that the mad dog could be leashed. Not allowed to hop unless a
Wise One said toad. It was like a blacksmith’s puzzle with the edges of the metal pieces sharpened. He
needed to solve it, but one mistake and he could cut himself to the bone. From the corner of his eye,
Perrin caught Balwer watching him, lips pursed in thought. A bird studying something unfamiliar, not
afraid, not hungry, just curious. Gathering Stepper’s reins, he walked on so quickly that the little man
had to lengthen his stride into small jumps to catch up.
Two Rivers men had the segment of camp next to the Aiel, facing northeast, and Perrin
considered walking a little north, to where Ghealdanin lancers were camped, or south to the nearest
Mayener section, but taking a deep breath, he made himself lead his horse through his friends and
neighbors from home. They were all awake, huddling in their cloaks and feeding the remnants of their
shelters into the cook fires or cutting up the cold remains of last night’s rabbit to add to the porridge in
the kettles. Talk dwindled and the smell of wariness grew thick as heads lifted to watch him. Whetstones
paused in sliding along steel, then resumed their sibilant whispering. The bow was their preferred
weapon, but everyone carried a heavy dagger or a short-sword as well, or sometimes a longsword, and
they had picked up spears and halberds and other polearms with strange blades and points that the
Shaido had not thought worth carrying off with their pillage. Spears they were accustomed to, and hands
used to wielding the quarterstaff at feastday competitions found the polearms not much different once
the weight of metal on one end was accounted for. Their faces were hungry, tired and withdrawn.
Someone raised a halfhearted cry of "Goldeneyes!" but no one took it up, a thing that would
have pleased Perrin a month gone. A great deal had changed since Faile was taken. Now their silence
was leaden. Young Kenly Maerin, his cheeks still pale where he had scraped off his attempt at a beard,
avoided meeting Perrin’s eyes, and Jori Congar, lightfingered whenever he saw anything small and
valuable and drunk whenever he could manage it, spat contemptuously as Perrin passed by. Ban Crawe
punched Jori’s shoulder for it, hard, but Ban did not look at Perrin either.
Dannil Lewin stood up, tugging nervously at the thick mustache that looked so ridiculous
beneath his beak of a nose. "Orders, Lord Perrin?" The skinny man actually looked relieved when Perrin
shook his head, and he sat down again quickly, staring at the nearest kettle as though he were anxious
for the morning gruel. Maybe he was; nobody got a full belly lately, and Dannil had never had much
spare flesh on his bones. Behind Perrin, Aram made a disgusted sound very like a growl.
There were others here besides Two Rivers folk, yet they were no better. Oh, Lamgwin Dorn, a
hulking fellow with scars on his face, tugged his forelock and bobbed his head. Lamgwin looked like a
shoulderthumper, a tavern tough, but he was Perrin’s bodyservant now, when he had need of one, which
was not often, and he might just want to keep in a good odor with his employer. But Basel Gill, the stout
onetime innkeeper Faile had taken on as their shambayan, busied himself folding his blankets with
exaggerated care, keeping his balding head down, and Faile’s chief maid, Lini Eltring, a bony woman
whose tight white bun made her face seem even narrower than it was, straightened from stirring a kettle,
her thin lips compressed, and raised her long wooden spoon as if to fend Perrin off. Breane Taborwin,
dark eyes fierce in her pale Cairhienin face, slapped Lamgwin’s arm hard and frowned up at him. She
was Lamgwin’s woman, if not his wife, and the second of Faile’s three maids. They would follow the
Shaido till they dropped dead, if necessary, and fall on Faile’s neck when they found her, but only
Lamgwin had an ounce of welcome for Perrin. He might have gotten more from Jur Grady-the
Asha’man were estranged from everyone else themselves, by who and what they were, and neither had
shown any animosity toward Perrin-but despite the noise of people tramping about on the frozen snow
and cursing when they slipped, Grady was still wrapped in his blankets, snoring away beneath a pinebranch
lean-to. Perrin walked through his friends and neighbors and servants and felt alone. A man
could only proclaim his faithfulness so long before he just gave up. The heart of his life lay somewhere
to the northeast. Everything would return to normal once he had her back.
A thicket of sharpened stakes ten paces deep encircled the camp, and he went to the edge of the
Ghealdanin lancers’ section, where angled paths had been left for mounted men to ride out, though
Balwer and Aram had to fall in behind him in the narrow way. In front of the Two Rivers men, a man
afoot would have to twist and turn to make it through. The edge of the forest lay little more than a
hundred paces distant, easy bowshot for Two Rivers men, huge trees thrusting a canopy high into the
sky. Some of the trees here were strange to Perrin, but there were pines and leatherleaf and elms out
there, some as much as three or four paces thick at the base, and oaks that were larger still. Trees that big
killed anything larger than weeds or small bushes that tried to grow beneath them, leaving wide spaces
between, but shadows darker than the night filled those spaces. An old forest, one that could swallow
armies whole and never give up the bones. Balwer followed him all the way through the stakes before
deciding that this was as close to alone with Perrin as he was likely to get any time soon. "The riders
Masema has sent out, my Lord," he said, and holding his cloak close he cast a suspicious look back at
Aram, who met it with a flat stare.
"I know," Perrin said, "you think they’re going to the Whitecloaks." He was eager to be moving,
and that much farther from his friends. He put the hand holding his reins on the saddlebow, but refrained
from putting a boot in the stirrup. Stepper tossed his head, also impatient. "Masema could be sending
messages to the Seanchan just as easily."
"As you have said, my Lord. A viable possibility, to be sure. May I suggest once again, however,
that Masema’s view of Aes Sedai is very close to that of the Whitecloaks? In fact, identical. He would
see every last sister dead, if he could. The Seanchan view is more . . . pragmatic, if I may be permitted to
call it that. Less in accord with Masema, in any case."
"However much you hate Whitecloaks, Master Balwer, they aren’t at the root of every evil. And
Masema has dealt with the Seanchan before."
"As you say, my Lord." Balwer’s face did not change, but he reeked of doubt. Perrin could not
prove Masema’s meetings with the Seanchan, and telling anyone how he had learned of them would
only add to his present difficulties. That gave Balwer problems; he was a man who liked evidence. "As
for the Aes Sedai and the Wise Ones, my Lord. . . . Aes Sedai always seem to believe they know better
than anyone else, except possibly another Aes Sedai. I believe the Wise Ones are much the same."
Perrin snorted brief white plumes in the air. "Tell me something I don’t know. Like why Masuri
would meet with Masema, and why the Wise Ones allowed it. I’ll wager Stepper against a horseshoe
nail she didn’t do it without their permission." Annoura was another question, but she could be acting on
her own. It certainly seemed unlikely she was acting at Berelain’s behest. Shifting his cloak on his
shoulders, Balwer peered back across the rows of sharpened stakes into the camp, toward the Aiel tents,
squinting as if he hoped to see through the tent walls. "There are many possibilities, my Lord," he said
testily. "For some who swear an oath, whatever is not forbidden is permitted, and whatever is not
commanded can be ignored. Others take actions they believe will help their liege without first asking
permission. The Aes Sedai and the Wise Ones fall into one of those categories, it seems, but further than
that, I can only speculate, as matters stand." "I could just ask. Aes Sedai can’t lie, and if I press hard
enough, Masuri might actually tell me the truth."
Balwer grimaced as though at a sudden stomach pain. "Perhaps, my Lord. Perhaps. More likely
is that she would tell you something that sounds like the truth. Aes Sedai are experienced in that, as you
know. In any event, my Lord, Masuri would wonder how you knew to ask, and that line of thought
might lead to Haviar and Nerion. Under the circumstances, who can say who she might tell?
Straightforward is not always the best way. Sometimes, certain things must be done behind masks, for
safety." "I told you the Aes Sedai couldn’t be trusted," Aram said abruptly. "I told you that, Lord
Perrin." He fell silent when Perrin raised a hand, but the stink of fury from him was so strong that Perrin
had to exhale to clear his lungs. Part of him wanted to draw the scent deep and let it consume him.
Perrin studied Balwer carefully. If Aes Sedai could twist the truth till you could not tell up from
down, and they could and did, how far could you trust? Trust was always the question. He had learned
that in hard lessons. He took a firm check on his anger, though. A hammer had to be used with care, and
he was working a forge where one slip would tear the heart out of his chest. "And might matters change
if some of Selande’s friends began spending more time among the Aiel? They want to be Aiel, after all.
That ought to give them enough excuse. And maybe one of them can strike up a friendship with
Berelain, and with her advisor." "That should be possible, my Lord," Balwer said after the slightest
hesitation. "Lady Medore’s father is a High Lord of Tear, giving her sufficient rank to approach the First
of Mayene, and also a reason. Possibly one or two of the Cairhienin stand high enough, as well. Finding
those to live among the Aiel will be easier still." Perrin nodded. Infinite care with the hammer, however
much you wanted to smash whatever lay within reach. "Then do it. But, Master Balwer, you’ve been
trying to . . . guide . . . me to this since Selande left us. From now on, if you have a suggestion to make,
make it. Even if I say no to nine in a row, I’ll always listen to a tenth. I’m not a clever man, but I’m
willing to listen to people who are, and I think you are. Just don’t try poking me in the direction you
want me to go. I don’t like that, Master Balwer." Balwer blinked, then of all things, bowed with his
hands folded at his waist. He smelled surprised. And gratified. Gratified? "As you say, my Lord. My
previous employer disliked me suggesting actions unless I was asked. I won’t make the same mistake
again, I assure you." Eyeing Perrin, he seemed to reach a decision. "If I may say so," he said carefully,
"I have found serving you . . . pleasant . . . in ways I did not expect. You are what you seem, my Lord,
with no poisoned needles hidden away to catch the unwary. My previous employer was known widely
for cleverness, but I believe you are equally clever, in a different way. I believe I would regret leaving
your service. Any man might say these things to keep his place, but I mean them."
Poisoned needles? Before entering Perrin’s service, Balwer’s last employment had been as
secretary to a Murandian noblewoman fallen into hard times who could no longer afford to keep him.
Murandy must be a rougher place than Perrin thought. "I see no reason for you to leave my employ. Just
tell me what you want to do and let me decide, don’t try to prod. And forget the flattery."
"I never flatter, my Lord. But I am adept at shaping myself to my master’s needs; it is a
requirement of my profession." The little man bowed once more. He had never been this formal before.
"If you have no further questions, my Lord, may I go to find the Lady Medore?"
Perrin nodded. The little man bowed yet again, backing away, then went skittering toward the
camp, his cloak fluttering behind him as he dodged through the sharpened stakes like a sparrow hopping
across the snow. He was a strange fellow.
"I don’t trust him," Aram muttered, staring after Balwer. "And I don’t trust Selande and that lot.
They’ll throw in with the Aes Sedai, you mark my words."
"You have to trust somebody," Perrin said roughly. The question was, who? Swinging into
Stepper’s saddle, he booted the dun in the ribs. A hammer was useless lying at rest.
CHAPTER 6
The Scent of a Dream
The cold air seemed clean and fresh in Perrin’s nose as he galloped into the forest, the breezes
full of the crispness of the snow that fountained in sprays beneath Stepper’s hooves. Out here, he could
forget old friends who were willing to believe the worst on rumor. He could try to forget Masema, and
the Aes Sedai, and the Wise Ones. The Shaido were welded to the inside of his skull, however, an iron
puzzle that would not yield no matter how he twisted. He wanted to wrench it apart, but that never
worked with a blacksmith’s puzzle.
After one short burst of speed, he slowed the dun to a walk, feeling a touch of guilt. The darkness
beneath the forest canopy was deep, and stone outcrops between the tall trees warned of more hidden
beneath the snow, a hundred places that could break a running horse’s leg, and that without counting
gopher holes and fox dens and badger sets. There was no need to take the risk. A gallop would not free
Faile an hour sooner, and no horse could maintain that pace for long in any case. The snow here was
knee-deep in places where it had drifted, and deep enough elsewhere. He rode northeast, though. The
scouts would be coming from the northeast, with news of Faile. News of the Shaido, at least, a location.
He had hoped for that so often, prayed for it, but today, he knew it would come. Yet knowing only
increased his anxiety. Finding them was only the first part of solving this puzzle. Anger made his mind
flash from one thing to another, yet no matter what Balwer said, Perrin knew he was methodical at best.
He did not do well trying to think quickly, and lacking cleverness, methodical was going to have to do.
Somehow.
Aram caught up to him, running his gray hard, and slowed to ride just a little behind and to one
side like a heeling hound. Perrin let him. Aram never smelled comfortable when Perrin made him ride
alongside. The onetime Tinker did not speak, but eddies in the icy air brought his scent, a melange of
anger and suspicion and disgruntlement. He sat his saddle as tense as an over-wound clockspring and
watched the forest around them grimly, as though he expected Shaido to leap out from behind the
nearest tree. In truth, almost anything could have hidden from most men in these woods. Where the sky
overhead could be seen through the canopy of branches, it held a definite tinge of dark grayness, but for
the moment that cast the forest in shadows murkier than night, and the trees themselves were massive
columns of darkness. Yet even the shift of a black-winged jackdaw on a snow-mounded branch, its
feathers fluffed against the cold, caught Perrin’s eyes, and a hunting pine martin, a deeper black than the
darkness, cautiously raising its head on another. He caught the scent of both, too. A faint whiff of man
scent came from up in a massive oak with dark spreading limbs as thick as a pony. The Ghealdanin and
Mayeners had their mounted patrols circling the camp a few miles out, but he preferred to rely on Two
Rivers men closer in. He did not have enough men to ring the camp completely, yet they were used to
forests, and to hunting animals that might hunt them in turn, used to noticing movement that would
escape a man thinking in terms of soldiers and war. Ridgecats down from the mountains after sheep
could hide in plain sight, and bear and wild boar were known to double back on their pursuers and lie in
ambush.
From branches thirty and forty feet above the ground, the men could see anything that moved
below in time to warn the camp, and with their longbows, they could exact a heavy price from anyone
who tried to force a way past them. Yet the presence of the guard touched his mind as lightly as the
ptesence of the jackdaw. He was focused ahead through the trees and the shadows, intent on picking out
the first sign of the scouts returning. Abruptly Stepper tossed his head and snorted in a spew of mist,
eyes rolling in fear as he stopped dead, and Aram’s gray squealed and shied. Perrin leaned forward to
pat the trembling stallion’s neck, but his hand froze as he caught a trace of scent, a smell of burned
sulphur faint in the air, that made the hair on the back of his neck try to stand. Almost burnt sulphur; that
was only a pale imitation of this smell. It had a reek of. . . wrongness, of something that did not belong
in this world. The scent was not new-you could not ever have called that stink "fresh"-but not old,
either. An hour, perhaps less. Maybe about the time he had wakened. About the time he had dreamed of
this scent. "What is it, Lord Perrin?" Aram was having difficulty controlling his gray, which danced in
circles fighting the reins and wanting to run in any direction so long as it was away, but even while
sawing at his reins he had his wolfhead-pommeled sword out. He practiced with it daily, for hours on
end when he could, and those who knew about such things said he was good. "You may be able to make
out a black thread from a white in this, but it isn’t day yet to me. I can’t see anything well enough to
matter." "Put that away," Perrin told him. "It isn’t needed. Swords wouldn’t do any good, anyway." He
had to coax his trembling mount to move forward, but he followed the rank smell, scanning the snowcovered
ground ahead. He knew that smell, and not just from the dream.
It only took a little while to find what he was looking for, and Stepper gave a grateful whicker
when Perrin reined him in well short of a slab-like crest of gray stone, two paces wide, that jutted up to
his right. The snow all around was smooth and unmarked, but dog tracks covered the tilted span of
stone, as though a pack had scrambled over it as they ran. Dimness and shadows or no, they were plain
to Perrin’s eyes. Footprints larger than the palm of his hand, pressed into the stone as though it had been
mud. He patted Stepper’s neck again. No wonder the animal was frightened.
"Go back to the camp and find Dannil, Aram. Tell him I said to let everyone know there were
Darkhounds here, maybe an hour ago. And put your sword away. You wouldn’t want to try killing a
Darkhound with a sword, believe me."
"Darkhounds?" Aram exclaimed, peering around into the murky shadows between the trees.
There was an anxious fear in his scent, now. Most men would have laughed about travelers’ tales or
stories for children. Tinkers roamed the countryside, and knew what could found in the wilds. Aram
sheathed the sword on his back with obvious reluctance, but his right hand remained raised, halfreaching
for the hilt. "How do you kill a Darkhound? Can they be killed?" Then again, maybe he did not
have much good sense at that.
"Just be glad you don’t have to try, Aram. Now go do like I told you. Everyone needs to keep a
sharp lookout in case they come back. Not much chance of that, I’d say, but better safe." Perrin
remembered facing a pack of them once, and killing one. He thought he had killed one, after hitting it
with three good broadhead arrows. Shadowspawn did not die easily. Moiraine had had to finish that
pack, with balefire. "Make sure the Aes Sedai and Wise Ones learn of this, and the Asha’man." Small
chance any of them knew how to make balefire-the women might not admit knowing a forbidden
weave if they did, and maybe not the men either-but maybe they knew something else that could work.
Aram was reluctant to leave Perrin alone until Perrin snapped at him, and then he turned back toward the
camp trailing smells of umbrage and hurt, as if two men would have been a whit safer than one. As soon
as the other man was out of sight, Perrin reined Stepper southward, the direction the Darkhounds had
been heading. He did not want company for this, even Aram’s. Just because people sometimes noted his
sharp eyesight was no reason to flaunt it, or his sense of smell. There were already reasons enough to
shun him without adding more.
It might have been chance that the creatures had passed so near his camp, but the last few years
had made him uneasy with coincidences. All too often, they were not coincidence at all, not the way
other men counted such things. If this was another bit of his ta’-veren tugging at the Pattern, it was a bit
he could have done without.
The thing seemed to have more disadvantages than advantages even when it appeared to be
working in your favor. The chance that favored you one minute could turn on you in the next. And there
was always another possibility. Being ta’veren made you stand out in the Pattern, and some of the
Forsaken could use that to find you at times, or so he had been told. Maybe some Shadowspawn could,
too.
The trail he followed was surely near an hour old, but Perrin felt a tightness between his shoulder
blades, a prickling on his scalp. The sky was still a deep dark gray where it showed, even to his eyes.
The sun had not yet crested the horizon. Just before sunrise was one of the worst times to meet the Wild
Hunt, when darkness was changing to light but the light had not taken hold. At least there was no
crossroads nearby, no graveyard, but the only hearthstones to touch lay back in Brytan, and he was not
certain how much safety those hovels held. In his mind, he marked out the location of a nearby stream,
where the camp got its water by chopping through the ice. It was no more than ten or twelve paces wide
and only knee-deep, but putting running water between you and Darkhounds would stop them
supposedly. But then, so would facing them, supposedly, and he had seen the results of that. His nose
tested the breezes, searching for that old scent. And for any hint of a newer. Coming on those things
unaware would be worse than unpleasant.
Stepper caught scents almost as easily as Perrin, and sometimes noticed what they were sooner,
but whenever the dun balked, Perrin forced him forward. There were plenty of tracks scattered in the
snow, hoofprints of the mounted patrols going out and coming back, occasional sign of rabbits and
foxes, but the only marks left by the Darkhounds were where stone stuck up out of the snow. The burnt
sulphur smell was always strongest there, yet enough trace lingered in between to lead him to the next
place where their tracks showed. The huge pawprints overlapped one another, and there was no way to
tell how many Darkhounds there had been, but whether a pace wide or six, every rock surface they had
crossed was smothered in tracks from one side to the other. A larger pack than the ten he had seen
outside Illian. Much larger. Was that why there were no wolves in the area? He was sure that the
certainty of death he had felt in the dream was something real, and he had been a wolf in the dream.
As the trail began to curve to the west, he felt a growing suspicion that firmed into certainty as it
continued to bend. The Darkhounds had circled the camp completely, running right across the place
north of the camp where several huge trees lay half toppled and propped by their neighbors, each with a
tall chunk sliced cleanly out of its splintered trunk. The tracks covered a stone outcrop as smooth and
flat as a polished marble floor except for one hair-thin gouge cut through it straight as a plumb line.
Nothing resisted the opening of an Asha’man’s gateway, and two had opened here. A thick pine that had
fallen blocking one had a section four paces wide burned out of it, but the charred ends were as neat as if
they had come from a sawmill. It seemed that evidence of the One Power did not interest Darkhounds,
however. The pack had not paused there any more than anywhere else, or even slowed that he could tell.
Darkhounds could run faster than horses, and for longer, and the stench of them hardly seemed to have
faded more in one place than another. At two points in that circuit he had picked up a forking in the trail,
but that was only the pack coming from the north and departing south. Once around the camp, and then
on their way after whatever or whoever they were hunting. Plainly, that was not him. Perhaps the pack
had circled because they sensed him, sensed someone who was ta’veren, yet he doubted that
Darkhounds would have hesitated one instant at coming into the camp, had they been after him. The
pack he had faced before had entered the city of Illian, though it had not tried to kill him till later. But
did Darkhounds report what they saw, the way rats and ravens did? The thought made his jaw clench.
The Shadow’s attention was something any sane man feared, the Shadow’s attention might interfere
with freeing Faile. That concerned him more than anything else. Yet there were ways to fight
Shadowspawn, ways to fight the Forsaken, if it came to that. Whatever came between him and Faile,
Darkhounds or the Forsaken or anything else, he would find a way to go around or through, whichever
was necessary. A man could only have so much fear in him at one time, and all of his fear was centered
on Faile. There just was no room for any more.
Before he reached his starting place again, the breezes brought him the smells of people and
horses, sharp in the icy cold, and he reined Stepper to a slow walk, and then to a halt. He had spotted
some fifty or sixty horses near a hundred paces ahead. The sun had finally peeked above the horizon and
begun to send sharply slanted shafts of light through the forest canopy, reflecting off the snow and
lessening the gloom a little, though deep, dappled shadows remained between the sun’s slender fingers.
Some of those shadows enveloped him. The mounted party was not far from where he had first seen the
Darkhounds’ tracks, and he could see Aram’s sickly green cloak and red-striped coat, the Tinker
garments jarring with the sword on his back. Most of the riders wore rimmed red helmets shaped like
pots and dark cloaks over red breastplates, and the long red streamers on their lances stirred in the light
airs as the soldiers tried to keep watch in every direction. The First of Mayene often rode out in the
mornings, with a suitable bodyguard of the Winged Guards.
He started to slip away without having to meet Berelain, but then he saw three tall women afoot
among the horses, long dark shawls wrapped around their heads and draped over their upper bodies, and
he hesitated. Wise Ones rode when they had to, if unwillingly, but tramping a mile or two in the snow
wearing heavy woolen skirts was insufficient reason to force them onto horseback. Almost certainly
Seonid or Masuri was in that group, as well, though the Aiel women seemed to like Berelain for some
reason he could not fathom.
He had no thought of joining the riders, no matter who was with them, but hesitation cost him his
chance at evasion. One of the Wise Ones-he thought it was Carelle, a fire-haired woman who always
had a challenge in her sharp blue eyes-raised a hand to point in his direction, and the whole party
turned, the soldiers whipping their horses around and peering through the trees toward him, lances
tipped with a foot of steel half lowered. It was unlikely they could make him out clearly through the
deep pools of shadow and bright bars of sunlight. He was surprised the Wise One had, but then, Aiel
generally had sharp eyes.
Masuri was there, a slim woman in a bronze-colored cloak riding a dapple mare, and Annoura as
well, keeping her brown mare well back but marked by the dozens of thin dark braids that hung from the
opening of her cowl. Berelain herself sat a sleek bay gelding at the forefront, a tall beautiful young
woman with long black hair, in a red cloak lined with black fur. A simple flaw lessened her beauty,
though; she was not Faile. A worse flaw ruined it, as far as he was concerned. He had learned of Faile’s
kidnapping from her, and of Masema’s contact with the Seanchan, but nearly everyone in the camp
believed that he had slept with Berelain on the very night Faile was taken, and she had done nothing to
correct the tale. It was hardly the kind of story he could ask her to stand up and deny publicly, yet she
could have said something, told her maids to deny it, anything. Instead, Berelain held her silence, and
her maids, gossiping like magpies, actually fostered the tale. That sort of reputation stuck to a man, in
the Two Rivers. He had avoided Berelain since that night, and he would have ridden away now even
after they saw him, but she took a hoophandled basket from the maid accompanying her, a plump
woman wrapped in a blue-and-gold cloak, then spoke to the others and started her sleek bay gelding
toward him. Alone. Annoura raised a hand and called something after her, but Berelain never glanced
back. Perrin did not doubt she would follow wherever he went, and the way things were, leaving would
only make people believe he wanted to be private with her. He dug his heels into Stepper’s flanks,
meaning to join the others no matter how little he wanted to-let her follow him back to them if she
wanted-but she urged the bay to a canter despite the rough ground and the snow, even leaping a stone
outcrop, her red cloak flowing out behind her, and met him halfway. She was a good rider, he admitted
grudgingly. Not as good as Faile, but better than most.
"Your scowl is quite fierce," she laughed softly as she halted right in front of Stepper. From the
way she held her reins, she was ready to block him if he tried going around. The woman had no shame
at all! "Smile, so people think we are flirting." She pushed the basket at him with one crimson-gloved
hand. "This should make you smile, at least. I hear you forget to eat." Her nose wrinkled. "And to wash,
it seems. Your beard needs trimming, too. A careworn, somewhat disheveled husband rescuing his wife
is a romantic figure, but she might not think so well of a dirty ragamuffin. No woman will ever forgive
you ruining her image of you."
Suddenly confused, Perrin took the basket, sitting it in front of him on the tall pommel of his
saddle, and unconsciously rubbed at his nose. He was accustomed to certain smells from Berelain,
usually those of a hunting she-wolf, and he was the intended prey, but today she gave off no hunting
scent. Not a whisker of it. She smelled patient as stone, and amused, with undercurrents of fear. The
woman certainly had never been afraid of him that he recalled. And what did she have to be patient
about? For that matter, what did she have to amused about? A ridge cat smelling like a lamb would not
have confounded him more.
Confusion or no, his stomach rumbled at the aromas drifting from the lidded basket. Roasted
woodhen, unless he was much mistaken, and bread still warm from the baking. Flour was in short
supply, and bread almost as rare as meat. It was true that he missed eating some days. He really did
forget, sometimes, and when he remembered, eating was a chore, for he had to run the gauntlet of Lini
and Breane or be given the cold shoulder by people he had grown up with just to get a meal. Food right
under his nose made his mouth water. Would it be disloyal to eat food brought by Berelain? "Thank you
for the loaf and the woodhen," he said roughly, "but the last thing on earth I want is for anyone to think
we’re flirting. And I wash when I can, if it’s any of your business. It isn’t easy in this weather. Besides,
nobody else smells any better than I do." She did, he realized suddenly. There was no hint of sweat or
dirt under her light, flowery perfume. It irritated him that he had noticed she was wearing perfume, or
that she smelled clean. It seemed a betrayal.
Berelain’s eyes widened momentarily in startlement-why?-but then she sighed through her
smile, which was beginning to look fixed, and a thread of irritation entered her scent. "Have your tent
set up. I know there’s a good copper bathtub in one of your carts. You won’t have thrown that out.
People expect a noble to look like a noble, Perrin, and that includes being presentable, even when it
takes extra effort. It’s a bargain between you and them. You must give them what they expect as well as
what they need or want, or they lose respect and start resenting you for making them lose it. Frankly,
none of us can afford for you to let that happen.
We’re all far from our homes, surrounded by enemies, and I very much believe that you, Lord
Perrin Goldeneyes, may be our only chance of living to reach our homes again. Without you, everything
falls apart. Now smile, because if we’re flirting, then we aren’t talking about something else."
Perrin bared his teeth. The Mayeners and the Wise Ones were watching, but at fifty paces, in this
gloom, it would be taken for a smile. Lose respect? Berelain had helped strip him of any respect he once
had from the Two Rivers folk, not to mention Faile’s servants. Worse, Faile had given him some version
of that lecture about a noble’s duty to give people what they expected more than once. What be resented
was hearing this woman, of all people, echo his wife. "What are we talking about, then, that you don’t
trust your own people to know?"
Her face remained smooth and smiling, yet the undercurrent of fear in her scent strengthened. It
was nowhere near panic, but she believed herself in danger. Her gloved hands were tight on the bay’s
reins. "I’ve had my thief-catchers nosing about in Masema’s camp, making ‘friends.’ Not as good as
having eyes-and-ears there, but they took wine they supposedly stole from me, and they learned a little
by listening." For an instant she regarded him quizzically, tilting her head. Light! She knew Faile used
Selande and those other idiots as spies! It had been Berelain who told him about them in the first place.
Likely Gendar and Santes, her thiefcatchers, had seen Haviar and Nerion in Masema’s camp. Balwer
would have to be warned before he tried to set Medore on Berelain and Annoura. That would certainly
make a fine tangle. When he said nothing, she went on. "I put something in that basket besides bread
and a woodhen. A . . . document . . . that Santes found early yesterday, locked away in Masema’s camp
desk. The fool never saw a lock without wanting to know what it hid. If he had to meddle with what
Masema kept under lock and key, he should have memorized the thing instead of taking it, but what’s
done is done. Don’t let anyone see you reading it after I went to all this trouble to hide it!" she added
sharply as he lifted the basket’s lid, revealing a cloth-wrapped bundle and releasing stronger smells of
roasted bird and warm bread. "I’ve seen Masema’s men following you before. They could be watching
now!" "I’m not a fool," he growled. He knew about Masema’s watchers. Most of the man’s followers
were townsmen, and most of the rest awkward enough in the woods to shame a ten-year-old back home.
Which was not to say one or two might not be hiding somewhere among the trees close enough to spy
from among the shadows. They always kept their distance, since his eyes made them believe he was
some sort of half-tame Shadowspawn, so he seldom detected their scents, and he had had other things on
his mind this morning.
Fingering the cloth aside to expose the woodhen, almost as large as a fair-sized chicken, with its
skin crisply browned, he tore off one of the bird’s legs while feeling under the bundle and sliding out a
piece of heavy, cream-colored paper folded in four. Careless of grease-spots, he unfolded the paper atop
the bird, a little clumsily in his gauntlets, and read while nibbling on the leg. To everyone watching, he
would appear to be studying what part of the woodhen to attack next. A thick green wax seal, cracked on
one side, held an impression of what he decided were three hands, each with the forefinger and little
finger raised and the others folded. The letters written on the paper in a flowing script were oddly
formed, some unrecognizable, but the thing was readable with a little effort.
The bearer of this stands under my personal protection. In the name of the Empress,
may she live forever, give him whatever aid he requires in service to the Empire and speak of
it to none but me.
By her seal
Suroth Sabelle Meldarath
of Asinbayar and Barsabba
High Lady
"The Empress," he said softly, soft like iron brushing silk. Confirmation of Masema’s dealings
with the Seanchan, though for himself, he had needed none. It was not the sort of thing Berelain would
have lied about. Suroth Sabelle Meldarath must be someone important, to be handing out this kind of
document. "This will finish him, once Santes testified where he found it." Service to the Empire?
Masema knew Rand had fought the Seanchan! That rainbow burst into his head, and was swept
away. The man was a traitor! Berelain laughed as if he had said something witty, but her smile definitely
looked forced, now. "Santes told me no one saw him in the bustle of setting up camp, so I allowed him
and Gendar to go back with my last cask of good Tunaighan. They were supposed to return by an hour
after dark, but neither has. I suppose they could be sleeping it off, but they’ve never-" She broke off
with a startled sound, staring at him, and he realized that he had bitten the thighbone in half. Light, he
had stripped all the flesh from the leg without noticing. "I’m hungrier than I thought," he muttered.
Spitting the nub of bone into the palm of his gauntlet, he dropped the pieces to the ground. "It’s safe to
assume Masema knows you have this. I hope you’re keeping a heavy guard around you all the time, not
just when you ride out." "Gallenne has fifty men sleeping around my tent as of last night," she said, still
staring, and he sighed. You would think she had never seen anybody bite a bone in two before. "What
has Annoura told you?"
"She wanted me to give it to her to destroy, so if I was asked, I could say I didn’t have it and
didn’t know where it was, and she could support my word. I doubt that would satisfy Masema, though."
"No, I doubt it would." Annoura had to know that, too. Aes Sedai could be wrongheaded, or
even foolish upon occasion, but they were never stupid. "Did she say she would destroy it, or that if you
gave it to her, she could?"
Berelain’s brow furrowed in thought, and it took her a moment to say, "That she would." The
bay danced a few impatient steps, but she brought him under control easily, without paying attention. "I
can’t think what else she would want it for," she said after another pause. "Masema is hardly likely to be
susceptible to . . . pressure." Blackmail, she meant. Perrin could not see Masema standing still for that
either. Especially blackmail by an Aes Sedai.
Under cover of tearing the other leg loose from the bird, he managed to refold the piece of paper
and tuck it into his sleeve, where his gauntlet would keep it from falling out. It was still evidence. But of
what? How could the man be both a fanatic for the Dragon Reborn and a traitor? Could he have taken
the document from . . . ? Who? Some collaborator he had captured? But why would Masema keep it
locked away unless it had been meant for him? He had met with Seanchan. And how had he intended to
use it? Who could tell what a thing this would allow a man to call on? Perrin sighed heavily. He had too
many questions, and no answers. Answers required a quicker mind than his. Maybe Balwer would have
a notion. With a taste of food in it, his stomach wanted him to devour the leg in his hand and the rest of
the bird too, but he closed the lid firmly and tried to take measured bites. There was one thing he could
find out for himself. "What else has Annoura said? About Masema." "Nothing, besides that he’s
dangerous and I should avoid him, as if I didn’t know that already. She dislikes him and talking about
him." Another brief hesitation, and Berelain added, "Why?" The First of Mayene was used to intrigues,
and she listened for what was not said.
Perrin took another bite to give himself a moment while he chewed and swallowed. He was not
used to intrigues, yet he had been exposed to enough of them to know that saying too much could be
dangerous. So could saying too little, no matter what Balwer thought. "Annoura has been meeting with
Masema in secret. So has Masuri."
Berelain’s fixed smile remained in place, but alarm entered her scent. She started to twist in her
saddle as if to look back at the two Aes Sedai, and stopped herself, licking her lips with the tip of her
tongue. "Aes Sedai always have their reasons" was all she said. So, was she alarmed over her advisor
meeting Masema, or alarmed that Perrin knew, or . . . ? He hated all these complications. They just got
in the way of what was important. Light, he had managed to clean the second leg already! Hoping
Berelain had not noticed, he hastily tossed the bones aside. His belly growled for more.
Her people had maintained their distance, but Aram had ridden a short way toward Perrin and
Berelain and was leaning forward to peer at them through the shadowed trees. The Wise Ones were
standing to one side talking among themselves, seemingly unaware that they were over their ankles in
snow or that the cold breezes had picked up enough to flap the dangling ends of their shawls. Every so
often one or another of the three looked Perrin and Berelain’s way, too. Notions of privacy never kept a
Wise One from sticking her nose wherever she wanted. They were like Aes Sedai that way. Masuri and
Annoura were watching, too, though they appeared to be keeping their distance from one another. Perrin
would have wagered that without the Wise Ones there, both sisters would have been using the One
Power to eavesdrop. Of course, the Wise Ones probably knew how to do that, too, and they had allowed
Masuri’s visits to Masema. Would either Aes Sedai crack her teeth if they saw the Wise Ones listening
with the Power? Annoura seemed almost as careful with the Wise Ones as Masuri was. Light, he had no
time for this briar thicket! He had to live in it, though. "We’ve given tongues enough to wag over," he
said. Not that they needed any more than they had. Hooking the basket’s hoophandles over his pommel,
he heeled Stepper’s flanks. It could hardly be disloyal just to eat a bird.
Berelain did not follow immediately, yet before he reached Aram, she caught up and slowed her
bay beside him. "I’ll find out what Annoura is up to," she said determinedly, looking straight ahead. Her
eyes were hard. Perrin would have pitied Annoura, if he had not been ready to try shaking answers out
of her himself. But then, Aes Sedai seldom needed pity, and they seldom gave answers they did not want
to give. The next instant, Berelain was all smiles and gaiety again, though the scent of determination still
hung about her, almost crushing the fear scent. "Young Aram has been telling us all about Heartsbane
riding these woods with the Wild Hunt, Lord Perrin. Could it really be so, do you think? I remember
hearing those tales in the nursery." Her voice was light and amused and carrying. Aram’s cheeks turned
red, and some of the men beyond him laughed.
They stopped laughing when Perrin showed them the tracks in the stone slab.
CHAPTER 7
Blacksmith’s Puzzle
When the laughter cut off, Aram put on a smug grin, and with none of the fear scent he had given
off earlier. Anyone would have thought he had already seen the tracks himself and knew everything
there was to know. No one paid any mind to his smirk, however, or to much of anything except the huge
dog tracks impressed in stone, even Perrin’s explanation that the Darkhounds were long gone. Of course,
he could not tell them how he knew that, yet no one seemed to notice the lack. One of the sharply
slanting bars of early morning light was falling directly on the gray slab, illuminating it clearly. Stepper
had grown accustomed to the fading burnt-sulphur smell-at least he only snorted and laid back his
ears-but the other horses shied at the tilted stone. None of the humans except Perrin could detect that
smell, and most growled over their mounts’ fractious behavior and peered at the oddly marked stone as
if it were a curiosity displayed by a traveling show.
Berelain’s plump maid screamed when she saw the tracks, and swayed on the point of falling off
her round-bellied, nervously dancing mare, but Berelain merely asked Annoura in an absent fashion to
look after her and stared at the prints with as little expression as if she herself were Aes Sedai. Her hands
tightened on her reins, though, until the thin red leather paled across her knuckles. Bertain Gallenne, the
Lord Captain of the Winged Guards, his red helmet embossed with wings and bearing three thin crimson
plumes, had personal command of Berelain’s bodyguard this morning, and he forced his tall black
gelding close to the stone, swinging down from his saddle in knee-deep snow and removing his helmet
to frown at the stone slab with his one eye. A scarlet leather patch covered the empty socket of the other,
the strap cutting through his shoulder-length gray hair. His grimace said he saw trouble, but he always
saw the worst possibilities first. Perrin supposed that was better in a soldier than always seeing the best.
Masuri dismounted, too, but no sooner was she on the ground than she paused with her dapples reins in
one gloved hand, looking uncertainly toward the three sun-dark Aiel women. A few of the Mayener
soldiers muttered uneasily at that, yet they should have been used to it by now. Annoura hid her face
deeper in her gray hood as if she did not want to see the rock and gave Berelain’s maid a brisk shake; the
woman goggled at her in astonishment. Masuri, on the other hand, waited beside her mare with an
appearance of patience, spoiled only by smoothing the russet skirts of her silk riding dress as though
unaware of what she was doing. The Wise Ones exchanged silent glances, expressionless as sisters
themselves. Carelle stood on one side of Nevarin, a skinny green-eyed woman, and on the other Marline,
with eyes of twilight blue and dark hair, rare among Aiel, not covered completely with her shawl. All
three were tall women, as tall as some men, and none looked more than a few years older than Perrin,
but no one could have managed that calm self-assurance without more years than their faces claimed.
Despite the long necklaces and heavy bracelets of gold and ivory that they wore, their dark heavy skirts
and the dark shawls that almost hid their white blouses could have suited farm women, yet there was no
doubt who was in command between them and the Aes Sedai. In truth, sometimes there seemed to be
doubt who was in command between them and Perrin.
Finally, Nevarin nodded. And gave a warm and approving smile. Perrin had never before seen a
smile out of her. Nevarin did not walk around scowling, but she usually seemed to be searching for
someone to upbraid.
Not until that nod did Masuri hand her reins up to one of the soldiers. Her Warder was nowhere
to be seen, and that had to be the Wise Ones’ doing. Rovair usually stuck to her like a burr. Lifting her
divided skirts, she waded through the snow, deeper the closer to the stone she came, and began passing
her hands above the footprints, obviously channeling, though nothing happened that Perrin could see.
The Wise Ones watched her closely, but then, Masuri’s weaves were visible to them. Annoura displayed
no interest. The ends of the Gray sister’s narrow braids twitched as if she were shaking her head inside
her hood, and she moved her horse back from the maid, well out of the Wise Ones’ line of sight, though
that took her farther from Berelain, who anyone could think might want her advice now. Annoura really
did avoid the Wise Ones as much as she could.
"Fireside stories walking," Gallenne muttered, drawing his gelding away from the stone with a
sideways glance at Masuri. Aes Sedai, he honored, yet few men wanted to be close to an Aes Sedai who
was channeling. "Though I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore after what I’ve seen since leaving
Mayene." Intent on the tracks, Masuri did not seem to notice him.
A stir rippled through the mounted lancers, as though they had not really believed their own eyes
until their commander gave confirmation, and some of them began to smell of uneasy fear, as if
expecting Darkhounds to leap out of the shadows. Perrin could not pick out individuals among so many
with any ease, but the jittery rankness was strong enough that it had to come from more than a few.
Gallenne seemed to sense what Perrin smelled; he had his faults, but he had commanded soldiers
for a long time. Hanging his helmet on his long sword hilt, he grinned. The eyepatch gave it a grim
quality, a man who could see a joke in the face of death and expected others to see it, too. "If the Black
Dogs bother us, we’ll salt their ears," he announced in a loud and hearty voice. "That’s what you do in
the stories, isn’t it? Sprinkle salt on their ears, and they vanish." A few of the lancers laughed, though
the miasma of fear did not lessen appreciably. Stories told by the fire were one thing, those same stories
walking in the flesh quite another. Gallenne led his black to Berelain and rested a gauntleted hand on her
bay’s neck. He gave Perrin a considering look that Perrin returned levelly, refusing to take the hint.
Whatever the man had to say, he could say in front of him and Aram. Gallenne sighed. "They will keep
their nerve, my Lady," he said softly, "but the fact is, our position is precarious, with enemies on every
side and our supplies running out. Shadowspawn can only make matters worse. My duty is to you and
Mayene, my Lady, and with all respect to Lord Perrin, you may wish to alter your plans." Anger
crackled in Perrin-the man would abandon Faile!-but Berelain spoke before he could suggest it.
"There will be no alteration, Lord Gallenne." Sometimes it was easy to forget that she was a
ruler, small though Mayene was, but there was a regal note in her voice fit for the Queen of Andor. Back
straight, she made her saddle seem a throne, and she spoke loudly enough to make sure everyone heard
her decision, firmly enough that everyone knew the decision had been made. "If we have enemies all
around, then going on is as safe as turning back or turning aside. Yet if turning back or turning aside
were ten times safer, I would still go on. I intend to see the Lady Faile rescued if we must fight our way
through a thousand Darkhounds, and Trollocs as well. That I have sworn to do!"
A roar of cheers answered her, Winged Guards shouting and thrusting their lances into the air so
the red streamers danced. The smell of fear remained, but they sounded ready to cut their way through
any number of Trollocs rather than appear less in Berelain’s eyes. Gallenne commanded them, but they
felt more than fondness for their ruler, despite her reputation with men. Maybe because of it, in part.
Berelain had kept Tear from swallowing Mayene by playing one man who found her beautiful against
another. For his part, Perrin found it hard not to gape in surprise. She sounded as determined as he was!
She smelled as determined! Gallenne bowed his gray head in unwilling acceptance, and Berelain gave a
small, satisfied nod before turning her attention to the Aes Sedai beside the stone slab.
Masuri had stopped waving her hands about and was staring at the footprints, tapping a finger
against her lips thoughtfully. She was a pretty woman without being beautiful, though some of that
might have been Aes Sedai agelessness, with a grace and elegance that might also have come from being
Aes Sedai. It was often difficult to tell a sister who had been born on a hardscrabble farm from one born
in a grand palace. Perrin had seen her red-faced and angry, worn down and on the end of her tether, yet
despite hard travel and life in the Aiel tents, her dark hair and her clothing looked as though she had a
maid attending her, too. She might have been standing in a library.
"What have you learned, Masuri?" Berelain asked. "Masuri, if you please? Masuri?"
The last came a little more sharply, and Masuri gave a start, as though surprised to realize she
was not alone. Possibly she was startled; in many ways she seemed more of the Green Ajah than the
Brown, more intent on action than on contemplation, straight to the point and never vague, yet she was
still capable of losing herself completely in whatever captured her interest. Folding her hands at her
waist, she opened her mouth, but rather than speaking, she hesitated and looked a question at the Wise
Ones. "Go on, girl," Nevarin said impatiently, planting her fists on her hips in a jangle of bracelets. A
frown made her appear more her usual self, but neither of the other Wise Ones looked any more
approving. Three frowns in a row like three pale-eyed crows on a fence. "We were not simply letting
you exercise your curiosity. Get on with it. Tell us what you learned."
Masuri’s face reddened, but she spoke up immediately, her eyes on Berelain. She could not like
being called down in public, no matter what anyone knew of her relationship with the Wise Ones.
"Relatively little is known of Darkhounds, but I’ve made something of a study of them, in a
small way. Over the years, I have crossed the paths of seven packs, five of them twice and two others
three times." The color began to fade from her cheeks, and slowly she began to sound as if she were
lecturing. "Some ancient writers say there are only seven packs, others say nine, or thirteen, or some
other number they believed had special significance, but during the Trolloc Wars, Sorelana Alsahhan
wrote of ‘the hundred packs the Shadow’s hounds that hunt the night,’ and even earlier, Ivonell
Bharatiya supposedly wrote of ‘hounds born of the Shadow, in numbers like unto the nightmares of
mankind.’ Though in truth, Ivonell herself may be apocryphal. In any case, the-" She gestured as if
groping for a word. "Smell is not the right word, and neither is flavor. The sense of each pack is unique,
and I can say with certainty that I have never encountered this one before, so we know the number seven
is wrong. Whether the correct number is nine or thirteen or something else, tales of Darkhounds are
much more common than Darkhounds themselves, and they are extremely rare this far south of the
Blight. A second rarity: there may have been as many as fifty in this pack. Ten or twelve is the usual
limit. A useful maxim: two rarities combined call for close attention." Pausing, she raised a finger to
emphasize the point, then nodded when she thought Berelain had taken it, and folded her hands again. A
gusting breeze pushed her yellowish-brown cloak off one shoulder, yet she did not appear to notice the
loss of warmth. "There is always a feel of urgency about Darkhounds’ trails, but it varies according to a
number of factors, not all of which I can be certain of. This one has an intense admixture of. . . I suppose
you could call it impatience. That isn’t really strong enough, by far-as well call a stabwound a
pinprick-but it will do. I would say their hunt has been going on for some time, and their prey is
eluding them somehow. No matter what the stories say-by the way, Lord Gallenne, salt doesn’t harm
Darkhounds in the least." So she had not been entirely lost in thought after all. "Despite the stories, they
never hunt at random, though they will kill if the opportunity presents itself and doesn’t interfere with
the hunt. With Darkhounds, the hunt is paramount. Their quarry is always important to the Shadow,
though at times we cannot see why. They have been known to bypass the great and mighty to slay a
farmwife or a craftsman, or to enter a town or village and leave without killing, though clearly they
came for some reason. My first thought for what brought them here had to be discarded, since they
moved on." Her gaze flickered toward Perrin, so quickly he was not sure anyone else noticed. "Given
that, I strongly doubt they will return.
Oh, yes; and they are an hour or more gone. That, I’m afraid, is really all I can tell you." Nevarin
and the other Wise Ones nodded their approval as she finished, and a touch of color returned to her
cheeks, though it vanished quickly as she assumed a mask of Aes Sedai serenity. A shift in the breeze
brought her scent to Perrin, surprised and pleased, and upset at being pleased. "Thank you, Masuri
Sedai," Berelain said formally, making a small bow in her saddle that Masuri acknowledged with a
slight motion of her head. "You have put our minds at rest." Indeed, the fear smell among the soldiers
began to fade, though Perrin heard Gallenne grumble under his breath, "She might have told those last
bits first."
Perrin’s ears caught something else, too, through the stamping of horses’ hooves and men’s
quiet, relieved laughter. A bluetit’s trill sounded to the south, beyond the hearing of anyone else there,
followed closely by the buzzing call of a masked sparrow. Another bluetit sounded, closer, followed
again by a masked sparrow, and then the same pair called again closer still. There might be bluetits and
masked sparrows in Altara, but he knew these birds carried Two Rivers longbows. The bluetit meant
men were coming, more than a few and maybe unfriendly. The masked sparrow, that some back home
called the thiefbird for its habit of stealing bright objects, on the other hand. . . . Perrin ran a thumb along
the edge of his axe, but he waited for one more pair of calls, close enough that the others might have
noticed.
"Did you hear that?" he said, looking south as if he had just heard. "My sentries have spotted
Masema." That brought heads up, listening, and several men nodded when the calls were repeated,
closer still. "He’s coming this way."
Growling curses, Gallenne clapped his helmet onto his head and mounted. Annoura gathered her
reins, and Masuri began floundering back toward her dapple. The lancers shifted in their saddles and
began giving off smells of anger, once more touched with fear. The Winged Guards were owed a blood
debt by Masema, in their eyes, but none was anxious to try collecting with only fifty men, not when
Masema always rode with a hundred at his back.
"I will not run from him," Berelain announced. She stared south wearing a cold frown. "We will
wait for him here."
Gallenne opened his mouth, and closed it again without speaking-to her, at least. Drawing a
deep breath, he began to bellow orders arraying his Guardsmen. That was not an easy matter. No matter
how far apart the trees stood, forests were poor places for lancers. Any charge would be disjointed at its
start, and sticking a man with a lance was difficult when he could dodge behind a tree trunk and come
out behind you. Gallenne tried to form them in front of Berelain, between her and the approaching men,
but she gave him a sharp look, and the one-eyed man changed his commands, lining the lancers up in a
single crooked rank, bulging around massive trees but centered on her. One soldier Gallenne sent racing
back toward the camp, crouching low in his saddle with his lance low as if at the charge, riding as fast as
he could in spite of the snow and terrain. Berelain raised an eyebrow at that, yet said nothing.
Annoura began guiding her brown mare toward Berelain, but stopped when Masuri called her
name. The Brown sister had gathered her dapple but still stood in the snow with the Wise Ones around
her, who were tall enough in comparison to make her seem less than full-grown. Annoura hesitated until
Masuri summoned her again, more sharply, and then Perrin thought he heard Annoura sigh heavily
before she rode to them and dismounted. Whatever the Aiel women had to say, in voices pitched too
softly for Perrin to hear, clustering in front of Annoura with heads bent close to hers, the Taraboner
sister did not like. Her face remained hidden in her hood, but her thin braids swung ever faster with the
shaking of her head, and at last she turned away abruptly and put a foot in the stirrup of her saddle.
Masuri had been standing quietly, letting the Wise Ones have their say, but now she laid a hand on
Annoura’s sleeve and said something in a low voice that made Annoura’s shoulders slump and the Wise
Ones nod. Pushing back her hood to fall down her back, Annoura waited for Masuri to climb onto her
mare before mounting her own horse, and then the two sisters rode back to the line of lancers together,
crowding in beside Berelain with the Wise Ones pushing in between them, on the other side from Perrin.
Annoura’s wide mouth was turned down in a glum curve, and she was rubbing her thumbs nervously.
"What is it you’re planning?" Perrin asked, trying not to hide suspicious. Maybe the Wise Ones
had let Masuri meet with Masema, yet they still claimed to think the man was better dead. The Aes
Sedai could not use the Power as a weapon unless they were in danger, but the Wise Ones had no such
prohibition. He wondered whether they were linked. He knew more than he wanted about the One
Power, and enough about the Wise Ones to be sure that Nevarin would be in control if they had formed
a circle. Annoura opened her mouth, but snapped it shut at a warning touch from Carelle and glared at
Masuri. The Brown sister pursed her lips and shook her head slightly, which did not seem to mollify
Annoura. Her gloved hands gripped her reins so tightly that they shook.
Nevarin looked up at Perrin past Berelain as if she read his mind. "~We plan to see you safely
back to the camp, Perrin Aybara," she said sharply, "you and Berelain Paeron. We plan to see that as
many as possible survive this day, and the days to come. Do you have objections?"
"Just don’t do anything unless I tell you," he said. An answer like that could mean a lot of things.
"Not anything." Nevarin shook her head in disgust, and Carelle laughed as if he had made a huge joke.
None of the Wise Ones seemed to think any more response was needed. They had been commanded to
obey him, but their notions of obedience failed to square with any he had ever learned. Pigs would grow
wings before he got a better answer out of them.
He could have put a stop to it. He knew he should. No matter what the Wise Ones had planned,
meeting Masema this far from the others in the camp, when the man had to know who had stolen his
Seanchan paper, was like hoping to snatch your hand off the anvil before the hammer fell. Berelain was
almost as bad as the Wise Ones when it came to following orders, but he thought she would listen if he
gave an order to withdraw to the camp. He thought she would, for all that her smell said she had her
heels dug in hard. Staying was a senseless risk. He was sure he could convince her of that. Yet he did
not want to run from the man, either. Part of him said he was being a fool. The larger part smoldered
with anger that he found hard to control. Aram crowded in beside him scowling, but at least he had not
drawn his sword. Waving a sword might put a hot coal in the hayloft, and the time for a confrontation
with Masema had not come yet. Perrin rested a hand on his axe. Not yet.
Despite the sharply angled rays of light that penetrated through the thick branches overhead, the
forest as a whole lay wrapped in dim early-morning shadows. Even at noon, it would be dim here.
Sounds came to him first, the muffled thud of hooves in snow, the heavy breath of horses pushed for
speed, and then a mass of riders appeared, a disordered mob flowing north among the huge trees at a
near-gallop in spite of snow and rough ground. Rather than a hundred, they numbered two or three times
that. A horse went down with a scream and laying thrashing atop its rider, but none of the others so
much as slowed until, some seventy or eighty paces away, the man at their head raised a hand, and they
suddenly drew rein in sprays of snow, lathered horses blowing hard and steaming. Here and there, lances
stuck up among the riders. Most wore no armor, and many just a breastplate or a helmet, yet their
saddles were hung about with swords and axes and maces. Shafts of sunlight picked out a few faces,
grim flat-eyed men who looked as though they never had smiled and never would. It occurred to Perrin
that he might have made a mistake not to overrule Berelain. That was what came of hasty decisions, of
letting anger do his thinking. Everyone knew that she often rode out in the mornings, and Masema might
be desperate to recover his Seanchan document. Even with the Aes Sedai and Wise Ones, a fight in these
woods could turn bloody, a free-for-all where men, and women, could die without once seeing who
killed them. If no witnesses lived, it could always be blamed on bandits or even the Shaido. That had
happened before. And if there were witnesses left, Masema was not above hanging a few dozen of his
own men and claiming the guilty had been punished. He likely wanted to keep Perrin Aybara alive for a
while yet, though, and he would not have expected the Wise Ones, or a second Aes Sedai. Small points
to hang fifty-odd lives on. Very small points to hang Faile’s life on. Perrin eased his axe in its loop on
his belt. Beside him, Berelain smelled of cool calm and stony determination. No fear, oddly. Not a
whiff. Aram smelled . . . excited.
The two parties sat regarding one another in silence, until at last Masema rode forward, followed
by just two men, all three pushing back their hoods. None wore a helmet, or any piece of armor. Like
Masema, Nengar and Bartu were Shienaran, but like him, they had shaved off their topknots, leaving
bare heads with a look of skulls. The coming of the Dragon Reborn had broken all bonds, including
those that had pledged these men to fight the Shadow along the Blight. Nengar and Bartu each carried a
sword on his back and had another hanging at his saddlebow, and Bartu, shorter than the other two, had
a cased horsebow and a quiver fastened to his saddle, too. Masema wore no visible weapons. The
Prophet of the Lord Dragon Reborn needed none. Perrin was glad to see Gallenne watching the men
Masema had left behind, for there was something about Masema that drew the eye. Maybe it was only
knowing who he was, but that was more than enough. Masema stopped his rangy sorrel a few paces
from Perrin. The Prophet was a dark frowning man of average size with a faded arrow-scar white on his
cheek, in a worn brown woolen coat and a dark cloak with frayed edges. Masema cared nothing for
appearances, least of all his own. At his back, Nengar and Bartu held a fever in their eyes, but Masema’s
deep-set, almost black eyes seemed as hot as coals in a forge, as though the breezes must soon fan them
to a glow, and his smell was the jangled, darting sharpness of pure insanity. He ignored the Wise Ones
and Aes Sedai with a scorn he did not bother to hide. Wise Ones were worse than Aes Sedai, in his
view; they not only blasphemed by channeling the One Power, they were Aiel savages to boot, a double
sin. The Winged Guards could have been just more shadows beneath the trees. "You are taking a
picnic?" he said with a glance at the basket hanging from Perrin’s saddle. Normally, Masema’s voice
was as intense as his eyes, but now it sounded wry, and his lip curled as his eyes traveled to Berelain. He
had heard the rumors, of course.
A wave of rage shot through Perrin, but he seized onto it, forcing it back. Folding it in with the
rest, folding it tight. His anger had one target, and he would not waste it striking at another. Catching his
rider’s mood, Stepper bared his teeth at Masema’s gelding, and Perrin had to rein him in sharply. "There
were Darkhounds here in the night," he said, not very smoothly, but it was the best he could manage.
"They’re gone, and Masuri doesn’t think they’ll come back, so there’s no need to worry." Masema did
not smell worried. He never smelled of anything except madness. The sorrel thrust his head aggressively
toward Stepper, but Masema pulled him up with a harsh jerk. He rode well, Masema did, but he treated
his horses as he did people. For the first time, he looked at Masuri. Perhaps his gaze grew a little hotter,
if that was possible. "The Shadow can be found everywhere," he said, a heated pronouncement of
unquestionable truth. "No one need fear the Shadow who follows the Lord Dragon Reborn, may the
Light illumine his name. Even in death they will find the final victory of the Light."
Masuri’s mare shied as though burned by that gaze, yet Masuri controlled the animal with a
touch on the reins and met Masema’s stare with Aes Sedai inscrutability, as calm as a frozen pond.
Nothing hinted that she had been meeting this man in secret. "Fear is a useful spur to the wits, and to
determination, when well controlled. If we have no fear of our enemies, that leaves only contempt, and
contempt leads to the enemy’s victory." You could have thought she was speaking to a simple farmer
she had never met before. Annoura, watching, looked a little ill. Was she afraid their secret would come
out? That their plans for Masema could be spoiled?
Masema’s lip curled again, in a smile, or a sneer. The Aes Sedai seemed to cease to exist for him
as he turned his attention back to Perrin. "Some of those who follow the Lord Dragon have found a town
called So Habor." That was how he always referred to his followers: they really followed the Dragon
Reborn, not him. The fact that Masema told them what do and when and how was just a detail. "A tidy
place of three or four thousand people, about a day back, or a little less, to the south and west. It seems
they were out of the Aiel’s path, and their crop was good last year despite the drought. They have
storehouses full of barley, millet and oats, and other needful things, I should imagine. I know you are
running short on fodder. For your men as well as your horses." "Why would their storehouses be full
this time of year?" Berelain leaned forward with a frown, her tone just short of a demand, and not far
short of disbelief.
Scowling, Nengar put a hand to his saddle-sword. No one made demands of the Prophet of the
Lord Dragon. No one doubted him, either. No one who wished to live. Leather creaked as lancers shifted
their saddles, but Nengar ignored them. The smell of Masema’s madness slithered and flailed in Perrin’s
nose. Masema studied Berelain. He seemed unaware of Nengar or the lancers or the possibility that men
might start killing one another any moment. "A matter of greed," he said finally. "Apparently the grain
traders of So Habor thought to make larger profits by holding their stock until winter drove prices up.
But they normally sell west, into Ghealdan and Amadicia, and events there and in Ebou Dar have made
them fearful that anything they send out will be confiscated. Their greed has left them with full
storehouses and empty purses." A note of satisfaction entered Masema’s voice. He despised greed. But
then, he despised any human weakness, great or small. "I think they will part with their grain very
cheaply, now." Perrin smelled a trap, and it did not take a wolf’s nose. Masema had his own men and
horses to feed, and no matter how thoroughly they had scoured the country they crossed, they could not
be in much better shape than Perrin’s own people. Why had Masema not sent a few thousand of his
followers into this town and taken whatever it held? A day back. That would take him farther from Faile,
and maybe give the Shaido time to gain ground again. Was that the reason for this peculiar offer? Or a
further delay to keep Masema in the west, close to his Seanchan friends? "Perhaps there will be time to
visit this town after my wife is free." Once again, Perrin’s ears caught the faint sound of men and horses
moving through the forest before anyone else, coming from the west, this time, from the camp.
Gallenne’s messenger must have galloped the whole way.
"Your wife," Masema said in a flat voice, directing a look at Berelain that made Perrin’s blood
boil. Even Berelain colored, though her face remained smooth. "Do you really believe you will have
word of her today?"
"I do." Perrin’s voice was as flat as Masema’s, and harder. He clutched the pommel of his
saddle, atop the hoop-handles of Berelain’s basket, to keep from reaching for his axe. "Freeing her
comes first. Her and the others. We can fill our bellies to bursting once that’s done, but that comes first."
The horses approaching were audible to everyone, now. A long line of lancers appeared to the
west, sifting through the shadowed trees with another mounted line behind it, the red streamers and
breastplates of Mayene interspersed with the green streamers and burnished breastplates of Ghealdan.
The lines stretched from opposite Perrin down below the mass of horsemen who were waiting on
Masema. Men afoot ghosted from tree to tree, carrying long Two Rivers bows. Perrin found himself
hoping that they had not stripped the camp too far. Stealing that Seanchan paper might have forced
Masema’s hand, and he was a veteran of fighting along the Blight and against the Aiel. He might have
thought further ahead than simply riding out to find Berelain. It was like another blacksmith’s puzzle.
Move one piece to shift another just enough to let a third slip free. A camp with weakened defenders
could be overrun, and in these woods, numbers could count for as much as who had people channeling.
Did Masema want to keep his secret enough to try putting a seal to it here and now? Perrin realized that
he had moved one hand to rest on his axe, but he left it there. Among the mass of Masema’s followers,
horses moved nervously at tugs from their riders, men shouted and waved weapons, but Masema himself
studied the oncoming lancers and bowmen with no change of expression, neither more dour nor less.
They might have been birds hopping from branch to branch. The smell of him writhed madly,
unchanging.
"What is done to serve the Light, must be done," he said when the newcomers halted, some two
hundred paces away. That was easy range for a Two Rivers bowman, and Masema had seen
demonstrations, but he gave no sign that broadhead shafts might be aimed at his heart. "All else is dross
and trash. Remember that, Lord Perrin Goldeneyes. Everything else is dross and trash!"
Jerking his sorrel around without another word, he headed back toward his waiting men trailed
by Nengar and Bartu, all three pushing their horses without a care for broken legs or broken heads. The
waiting company fell in behind, a mob flowing south, now. A few men at the tail end stopped to drag a
limp shape from under the injured horse and put the animal out of its misery with a quick slash of a
dagger. Then they began gutting and butchering. That much meat could not be allowed to go to waste.
The rider, they left where they had dropped him.
"He believes every word he says," Annoura breathed, "but where does his belief lead him?"
Perrin considered asking her straight out where she thought Masema’s belief was leading him,
where she wanted to lead him, but she suddenly put on that impenetrable Aes Sedai calm. The tip of her
sharp nose had turned red from the cold; she regarded him with a level stare. You could pry that
Darkhound-marked stone out of the ground bare-handed as easily as get an answer from an Aes Sedai
who wore that look. He would have to leave questions to Berelain.
The man who had brought the lancers suddenly spurred his horse forward. A short compact
fellow in a silver-plated breastplate and a helmet with a barred faceguard and three short white plumes,
Gerard Arganda was a tough man, a soldier who had worked his way up from the bottom, against all
odds, to become the First Captain of Alliandre’s bodyguard. He had no liking for Perrin, who had
brought his queen south for no good reason and gotten her kidnapped, but Perrin expected him to stop
and make his respects to Berelain, perhaps confer with Gallenne. Arganda had a great deal of respect for
Gallenne, and often spent time with him both smoking their pipes. Instead, the roan floundered past
Perrin and the others, Arganda digging his heels into the animal’s sides, trying to force more speed.
When Perrin saw where the man was heading, he understood. A single horseman on a mousecolored
animal was approaching from the east at a steady walk, and beside him, an Aiel shuffled along on
snowshoes.
CHAPTER 8
Whirlpools of Color
Perrin did not realize he had moved until he found himself crouched over Stepper’s neck,
streaking after Arganda. The snow was no less deep, the ground no smoother, the light no better, but
Stepper raced through the shadows, unwilling to let the roan stay in the lead, and Perrin urged him to run
faster. The approaching rider was Elyas, his beard fanned out over his chest, a broad-brimmed hat
casting his face in shadows and his fur-lined cloak hanging down his back. The Aiel was one of the
Maidens, with a dark shoufa wrapped around her head and a white cloak, used for hiding against the
snow, worn over her coat and breeches of grays and browns and greens. Elyas and one Maiden, without
the others, meant Faile had been found. It had to.
Arganda ran his horse without a care for whether he broke the roan’s neck or his own, leaping
stone outcrops, splashing through the snow at a near-gallop, but Stepper overtook him just as he reached
Elyas and demanded in a harsh voice, "Did you see the queen, Machera? Is she alive? Tell me, man!"
The Maiden, Elienda, her sun-darkened face expressionless, raised a hand to Perrin. It might have been
meant for a greeting, or sympathy, but she never broke her skimming stride. With Elyas to make his
report to Perrin, she would carry hers to the Wise Ones.
"You’ve found her?" Perrin’s throat was suddenly dry as sand. He had waited so long for this.
Arganda snarled soundlessly through the steel bars of his helmet’s faceguard, knowing that Perrin was
not asking after Alliandre.
"We found the Shaido we’ve been following," Elyas said carefully, both hands on the pommel of
his saddle. Even Elyas, the fabled Long Tooth who had lived and run with wolves, was showing the
strain of too many miles and not enough sleep. His whole face sagged with a weariness emphasized by
the golden-yellow glow of his eyes beneath his hat brim. Gray streaked his thick beard and the hair that
he wore hanging to his waist and tied with a leather cord at the nape of his neck, and for the first time
since Perrin had known him, he looked old. "They’re camped around a fair-sized town they took, in
ridge country near forty miles from here. They’ve got no sentries to speak of close in, and those further
out seem to be watching for prisoners trying to escape more than anything else, so we got near enough
for a good look. But Perrin, there are more of them than we thought. At least nine or ten septs, the
Maidens say. Counting gai’shain-folks in white, anyway-there could be as many people in that camp
as in Mayene or Ebou Dar. I don’t know how many spear fighters, but ten thousand might be on the low
side from what I saw."
Knots of desperation twisted and tightened in Perrin’s stomach. His mouth was so dry he could
not have spoken had Faile miraculously appeared in front of him. Ten thousand algai’d’siswai, and even
weavers and silversmiths and old men who passed their days reminiscing in the shade would pick up a
spear if they were attacked. He had fewer than two thousand lancers, and they would have been
overmatched against an equal number of Aiel. Fewer than three hundred Two Rivers men, who could
wreak havoc with their bows at a distance but not stop ten thousand. That many Shaido would shred
Masema’s murderous rabble like a cat slaughtering a nest of mice. Even counting the Asha’man and the
Wise Ones and Aes Sedai. . . . Edarra and the other Wise Ones were hardly generous in what they told
him about Wise Ones, but he knew ten septs might have fifty women who could channel, maybe more.
Maybe fewer, too-there was no set number-but not enough fewer to make a difference.
With an effort, he strangled the despair welling up in him, squeezed until only writhing filaments
remained for his anger to burn up. A hammer had no place in it for despair. Ten septs or the whole
Shaido clan, they still had Faile, and he still had to find a way. "What does it matter how many there
are?" Aram demanded. "When Trollocs came to the Two Rivers, there were thousands, tens of
thousands, but we killed them just the same. Shaido can’t be worse than Trollocs."
Perrin blinked, surprised to find the man right behind him, not to mention Berelain and Gallenne
and the Aes Sedai. In his haste to reach Elyas, he had shut out everything else. Dimly visible through the
trees, the men Arganda had brought out to confront Masema still held their rough lines, but Berelain’s
bodyguard was forming a loose ring centered on Elyas and facing outward. The Wise Ones stood
outside the circle, listening to Elienda with grave faces. She spoke in a low murmur, sometimes shaking
her head. Her view of matters was no brighter than Elyas’s. He must have lost the basket in his haste, or
thrown it away, because it hung from Berelain’s saddle now. There was a look of. . . could it be
sympathy, on her face? Burn him, he was too tired to think straight. Only, now more than ever, he had to
think straight. His next mistake might be the last, for Faile.
"Way I heard it, Tinker," Elyas said quietly, "the Trollocs came to you in the Two Rivers, and
you managed to catch them in a vise. You have any fancy plans for catching the Shaido in a vise?"
Aram glared at him sullenly. Elyas had known him before he picked up a sword, and Aram disliked
being reminded of that time, despite his brightly colored clothes.
"Ten septs or fifty," Arganda growled, "there must be some way to free the Queen. And the
others, of course. And the others." His hard-bitten face was creased in a scowl of anger, yet he smelled
frantic, a fox ready chew off its own leg to escape a trap. "Will . . . ? Will they accept a ransom?" The
Ghealdanin looked around until he found Marline coming through the Winged Guards. She managed a
steady stride in spite of the snow, not staggering in the least. The other Wise Ones were no longer
anywhere to be seen among the trees, nor Elienda. "Will these Shaido take a ransom . . . Wise One?"
Arganda’s honorific had the sound of an afterthought. He no longer believed the Aiel with them had any
knowledge of the kidnapping, but there was a taint in him regarding Aiel. "I cannot say." Marline
seemed not to notice his tone. Arms folded across her chest, she stood looking at Perrin rather than
Arganda. It was one of those looks where a woman weighed and measured you till she could have sewn
you a suit of clothes or told you when your smallclothes were last washed. It would have made him
uncomfortable back when he had had time for such things. When she spoke again, there was nothing of
offering advice in her tone, merely a setting out of the facts. She might even have meant it so. "Your
wetlander paying of ransom goes against our custom. Gai’shain may be given as a gift, or traded for
other gai’shain , but they are not animals to be sold. Yet it seems the Shaido no longer follow ji’e’tob.
They make wetlanders gai’shain and take everything instead of only the fifth. They may set a price."
"My jewels are at your disposal, Perrin," Berelain put in, her voice steady and her face firm. "If
necessary, Grady or Neald can fetch more from Mayene. Gold, as well."
Gallenne cleared his throat. "Altarans are used to marauders, my Lady, neighboring nobles and
brigands alike," he said slowly, slapping his reins against his palm. Although reluctant to contra dict
Berelain, he clearly intended to anyway. "There’s no law this far from Ebou Dar, except what the local
lord or lady says. Noble or common, they’re accustomed to paying off anyone they can’t fight off, and
quick to tell the difference. It goes against reason that none of them tried to buy safety, yet we’ve seen
nothing but ruins in these Shaido’s path, heard of nothing but pillage right down to the ground. They
may accept an offer of ransom, and even take it, but can they be trusted to give anything in return? Just
making the offer gives away our one real advantage, that they don’t know we are here." Annoura shook
her head slightly, the barest movement, but Gallenne’s one eye caught it, and he frowned. "You
disagree, Annoura Sedai?" he asked politely. And with a hint of surprise.
The Gray was almost diffident at times, especially for a sister, but she never vacillated about
speaking up when she disagreed with advice offered to Berelain.
This time Annoura hesitated, though, and covered by pulling her cloak around herself and
arranging the folds with care. It was clumsy of her; Aes Sedai could ignore heat or cold when they
chose, remaining untouched when everyone around them was drenched with sweat or fighting to stop
their teeth chattering. An Aes Sedai who paid attention to the temperature was buying time to think,
usually about how to hide what she was thinking. Glancing toward Marline with a small frown, she
finally reached a decision, and the slight crease in her forehead vanished.
"Negotiation is always better than fighting," she said in cool Taraboner accents, "and in
negotiation, trust is always a matter of the precautions, yes? We must consider with care the precautions
that must be taken. There is also the question of who is to approach them. Wise Ones may no longer be
sacrosanct, since they took part in the battle at Dumai’s Wells. A sister, or a group of sisters, might be
better, yet even that must have careful arrangement.
"I myself am willing to -"
"No ransom," Perrin said, and when everyone stared at him, most in consternation, Annoura with
her face unreadable, he said it again, in a harder voice. "No ransom." He would not pay these Shaido for
making Faile suffer. She would be afraid, and they had to pay for that, not profit from it. Besides,
Gallenne had the right of it. Nothing Perrin had seen, in Altara or Amadicia or before that in Cairhien, so
much as hinted that the Shaido could be trusted to keep any bargain. As well trust rats in the grain bins
and cutworms with the harvest. "Elyas, I want to see their camp." When he was a boy he had known a
blind man, Nat Torfinn with his wrinkled face and thin white hair, who could disassemble any
blacksmith’s puzzle by touch. For years Perrin tried to learn how to duplicate that feat, but he never
could. He had to see how the pieces fit together before he could make sense of them. "Aram, find Grady
and tell him to meet me as fast as he can, at the Traveling ground." That was what they had come to call
the place where they arrived at the end of each jump, and departed from for the next. It was easier for
the Asha’man to weave a gateway in a place already touched by one they had woven before.
Aram gave one short, purposeful nod, then wheeled his gray and sped toward camp, but Perrin
could see arguments and questions and demands gathering on the faces around him. Marline was still
examining him, as though suddenly not quite sure what he was, and Gallenne was frowning at the reins
in his hands, no doubt seeing matters turn out badly whatever he did, but Berelain wore a perturbed
expression, objections visible in her eyes, and Annoura’s mouth had tightened to a thin line. Aes Sedai
disliked being interrupted, and, diffident for an Aes Sedai or not, she looked ready to vent her
displeasure. Arganda, his face growing red, opened his mouth with the clear intention of shouting.
Arganda had shouted often since his queen was kidnapped. There was no point in waiting to listen.
Digging in his heels, Perrin sent Stepper lunging through the line of Winged Guards, heading
back toward the sheared trees. Not at a run, but not dawdling, either-a quick trot through the towering
forests, hands tight on the reins and eyes already searching the dappled gloom for Grady. Elyas followed
on his gelding without a word. Perrin had been sure he had no room in him for another ounce of fear, yet
Elyas’ silence made the weight grow. The other man never saw an obstacle without seeing a way
around. His silence shouted of impassable mountains. There had to be a way, though. When they
reached the smooth stone outcrop, Perrin walked Stepper back and forth through the slanting bars of
light, around the toppled trees and between the standing ones, unable to make himself stop. He had to
keep moving. There had to be a way. His mind darted like a caged rat.
Elyas dismounted to squat and frown at the sliced stone, pay ing little heed to his gelding tugging
at the reins and trying to back away. Beside the stone, the thick trunk of a pine that had stood a good
fifty paces tall was propped up at one end by the splintered remains of its stump, high enough that Elyas
could have walked beneath the tree trunk upright. Brilliant rays of sunlight piercing the forest canopy
elsewhere seemed to deepen the shadow to near blackness around the track-marked outcrop but that trou
bled him no more than it did Perrin. His nose wrinkled at the burnt-sulphur smell that still hung in the
air. "I thought I caught this stink on the way here. I expect you’d have mentioned this if you didn’t have
things on your mind. A big pack. Bigger than any thing I’ve ever seen or heard of."
"That’s what Masuri said," Perrin said absently. What was keeping Grady? How many people
were there in Ebou Dar? That was the size of the Shaido camp. "She said she’s crossed the paths of
seven packs, and this isn’t one she’s seen before." "Seven," Elyas murmured in surprise. "Even an Aes
Sedai would have to go some to do that. Most tales of Darkhounds are just people frightened by the
dark." Frowning at the tracks crossing the smoothed stone, he shook his head, and sadness entered his
voice when he said, "They were wolves, once. The souls of wolves, anyway, caught and twisted by the
Shadow. That was the core used to make Darkhounds, the Shadowbrothers. I think that’s why the
wolves have to be at the Last Battle. Or maybe Darkhounds were made because wolves will be there, to
fight them. The Pattern makes Sovarra lace look like a piece of string, sometimes. Anyway, it was a long
time ago, during the Trolloc Wars as near as I can make out, and the War of the Shadow before that.
Wolves have long memories. What a wolf knows is never really forgotten while other wolves remain
alive. They avoid talking about Darkhounds, though, and they avoid Darkhounds, too. A hundred
wolves could die trying to kill one Shadowbrother. Worse, if they fail, the Darkhound can eat the souls
of those that aren’t quite dead yet, and in a year or so, there’d be a new pack of Shadowbrothers that
didn’t remember ever being wolves. I hope they don’t remember, anyway." Perrin reined in, though he
itched to keep moving. Shadowbrothers. The wolves’ name for Darkhounds had taken on a new
grimness. "Can they eat a man’s soul, Elyas? Say a man who can talk to wolves?" Elyas shrugged. Only
a handful of people could do what they did, as far as either man knew. An answer to that question might
come only at the point of death. More importantly right then, if they had been wolves, once, they must
be intelligent enough to report what they found. Masuri had implied as much. Foolishness to hope
otherwise. How long before they did? How long did he have to free Faile?
The sound of hooves crunching in snow announced riders coming, and he hurriedly told Elyas
that the Darkhounds had circled the camp, that they would be carrying word of him to whomever they
reported to.
"I wouldn’t worry overmuch, boy," the older man replied, watching warily for sight of the
oncoming horses. Moving away from the stone, he began to stretch, working muscles over-long in the
saddle. Elyas was too careful to be caught studying what would be swallowed in shadows to other eyes.
"Sounds like they’re hunting something more important than you. They’ll stay on that till they find it if
it takes all year. Don’t worry. We’ll get your wife out before those Darkhounds report you were here.
Not saying it’ll be easy, but we’ll do it." There was determination in his voice, and in his scent, but not
much hope. Almost none at all, in fact. Fighting despair, refusing to let it rise again, Perrin resumed
walking Stepper as Berelain and her bodyguard appeared through the trees, with Marline astride behind
Annoura. As soon as the Aes Sedai drew rein, the twilight-eyed Wise One slid to the ground, shaking
down her thick skirts to cover her dark stockings. Another woman might have appeared flustered over
having her legs exposed, but not Marline. She was merely straightening her clothes. Annoura was the
one who looked upset, a sour-faced disgruntlement that made her nose seem more like a beak. She kept
silent, but her mouth was set to bite. She must have been certain her offer to negotiate with the Shaido
would be accepted, especially with Berelain supporting and Marline seemingly neutral at worst. Grays
were negotiators and mediators, adjudicators and treaty makers. That might have been her motivation.
What else could it have been? A problem that he had to set aside while keeping it in mind. He had to
take into account anything that might interfere with freeing Faile, but the problem he had to solve lay
forty miles to the northeast. While the Winged Guards formed their protective circle among the towering
trees around the Traveling ground, Berelain brought her bay alongside Stepper and paced him, trying to
engage Perrin in talk, to entice him with the rest of the woodhen. She smelled uncertain, doubtful of his
decision. Maybe she hoped to talk him into attempting the ransom. He kept Stepper moving and refused
to listen. To make that attempt was to gamble everything on one toss of the dice. He could not gamble
with Faile as the stake. Methodical as working at a forge, that was the way. Light, but he was tired. He
folded himself in tighter around his anger, embracing the heat for energy.
Gallenne and Arganda arrived shortly after Berelain, with a double column of Ghealdanin
lancers in burnished breastplates and bright conical helmets who interspersed themselves among the
Mayeners between the trees. A trace of irritation entering her scent, Berelain left Perrin and rode to
Gallenne. The pair of them sat their horses knee-to-knee, the one-eyed man bending his head to listen to
what Berelain had to say. Her voice was low, but Perrin knew their subject, at least in part. Now and
then one of them glanced at him as he walked Stepper back and forth, back and forth. Arganda planted
his roan in one spot and stared south through the trees toward the camp, still as a statue yet radiating
impatience as a fire radiated heat. He was the picture of a soldier, with his plumes and his sword and his
silvered armor, his face as hard as stone, but he smelled on the brink of panic. Perrin wondered how he
himself smelled. You could never catch your own scent unless you were in a closed space. He did not
think he smelled of panic, just fear and anger. All would be well once he had Faile back. All would be
well, then. Back and forth, back and forth.
At last Aram appeared, with a yawning Jur Grady on a dark bay gelding, dark enough that the
white stripe on its nose made it seem almost a black. Dannil and a dozen Two Rivers men, spears and
halberds abandoned for the moment in favor of their longbows, rode close behind, but not too close. A
stocky fellow with a weathered face already beginning to show creases, though he was short of his
middle years yet, Grady looked like a sleepy farmer despite of the long-hiked sword at his waist and his
black coat with the silver sword pin on the high collar, but he had left the farm behind forever, and
Dannil and the others always gave him room. They gave Perrin room, too, hanging back and peering at
the ground, sometimes darting quick, embarrassed looks at him or Berelain. It did not matter. All would
be well. Aram tried to lead Grady to Perrin, but the Asha’man knew why he had been summoned. With
a sigh, he climbed down beside Elyas, who squatted in a patch of sunlight to mark a map in the snow
with his finger and speak of distance and direction, describing the place he wanted to go in detail, a
clearing on a slope that faced almost south, with the ridge above notched in three places.
Distance and direction were enough, if the distance and direction were precise, but the better the
picture in an Asha’man’s mind, the closer he could come to an exact spot.
"There’s no margin for error here, boy." Elyas’s eyes seemed to brighten with intensity.
Whatever others thought of Asha’man, they never intimidated him. "There’s lots of ridges in that
country, and the main camp is only a mile or so the other side of this one. There’ll be sentries, little
parties that camp in a different place every night, maybe less than two miles the other way. You put us
out off by much, and we’ll be seen for sure." Grady met that stare, unblinking. Then he nodded and
scrubbed stubby ringers through his hair, drawing a deep breath. He looked as weary as Elyas. As bonetired
as Perrin felt. Making gateways, holding them open long enough for thousands of people and
horses to pass through, was wearing work. "Are you rested enough?" Perrin asked him. Tired men made
mistakes, and mistakes with the One Power could be deadly. "Should I send for Neald?"
Grady stared up at him blearily, then shook his head. "Pager’s no more rested than me. Less,
maybe. I’m stronger than he is, a bit. Better if I do it." He turned to face northeast, and with no more
warning, a vertical slash of silver-blue appeared beside the trackmarked stone. Annoura jerked her mare
out of the way with a loud gasp as the line of light widened into an opening, a hole in the air that showed
a sunlit clearing on steep ground among trees much smaller than those around Perrin and the others. The
already splintered pine shivered as it lost another thin slice, groaned, and collapsed the rest of the way
with a snow-muffled crash that made the horses snort and dance. Annoura glared at the Asha’man, her
face growing dark, but Grady just blinked and said, "Does that look like the right place?" Elyas adjusted
his hat before nodding.
That nod was all Perrin waited for. He ducked his head and rode Stepper through into snow that
was over the dun’s fetlocks. It was a small clearing, but the sky full of white clouds overhead made it
seem vastly open after the forest behind. The light was almost blinding compared to the forest, though
the sun was still hidden by the tree-covered ridge above. The Shaido camp lay on the other side of that
ridge. He stared toward the height yearningly. It was all he could do to stay where he was rather than
race ahead to finally see where Faile was. He made himself turn Stepper to face the gateway as Marline
came out.
Still studying him, hardly taking her eyes away long enough to place her feet in the snow without
tripping, she moved to one side to let Aram and the Two Rivers men ride through. Accustomed to
Traveling if not to Asha’man by now, they barely bent their heads enough to clear the top of the
opening, and only the tallest did even that. It struck Perrin that the gateway was larger than the first one
of Grady’s make that he had passed through. He had had to dismount, then. It was a vague thought, no
more important than a fly buzzing. Aram rode straight to Perrin, tight-faced and smelling impatient and
eager to be going on, and once Dannil and the others were out of the way, climbing down and calmly
fitting arrows to bows while they watched the surrounding trees, Gallenne appeared, peering grimly at
the trees around them as though he expected an enemy to come dashing out, followed by half a dozen
Mayeners who had to lower their red-streamered lances to crowd through after him.
A long pause passed with the gateway empty, but just when Perrin had decided to go back and
see what was holding Elyas up, the bearded man led his horse out, with Arganda and six Ghealdanin
riding at his heels, discontent carved on their faces. Their shining helmets and breastplates were
nowhere to be seen, and they scowled as though they had been made to leave off their breeches.
Perrin nodded to himself. Of course. The Shaido camp was on the other side of this ridge, and so
was the sun. That gleaming armor would have been like mirrors. He should have thought of that. He was
still letting fear goad him into impatience and cloud his thinking. He had to be clearheaded, now more
than ever. The detail he missed now could kill him and leave Faile in Shaido hands. It was easier to say
that he had to let go of fear than to do it, though. How could he not be afraid for Faile? It had to be
managed, but how?
To his surprise, Annoura rode through the gateway just ahead of Grady, who was leading his
dark bay. Just as every time he had seen her pass through a gateway, she lay as flat on her mare as her
saddle’s high pommel would allow, grimacing at the opening that had been made with the tainted male
half of the Power, and as soon as she was clear of it, she urged her horse as far up the slope as she could
without entering the trees. Grady let the gateway snap shut, leaving the purple afterimage of a vertical
bar in Perrin’s eyes, and Annoura flinched and looked away, glaring at Marline, at Perrin. If she had
been anyone other than an Aes Sedai, he would have said she was simmering in a sullen fury. Berelain
must have told her to come, but it was not Berelain she blamed for her having to be there.
"From here, we go afoot," Elyas announced in a quiet voice that barely carried over the
occasional stamp of a horse’s hoof. He had said the Shaido were careless and had no sentries, or almost
none, but he spoke as if they could be within twenty paces. "A man on a horse stands out. The Shaido
aren’t blind, just blind for Aiel, which means they see twice as sharp as any of you, so don’t go
skylining yourselves when we reach the crest. And try not to make any more noise than you can help.
They aren’t deaf, either. They’ll find our tracks, eventually-can’t do much about that in snow-but we
can’t let them know we were here until after we’re gone." Already sour over being shorn of his armor
and plumes, Arganda began to argue about Elyas giving orders. Not being a complete fool, he did it in a
quiet voice that would not carry, but he had been a soldier since the age of fifteen, he had commanded
soldiers fighting Whitecloaks, Altarans and Amadicians, and as he was fond of pointing out, he had
fought in the Aiel War and lived through the Blood Snow, at Tar Valon. He knew about Aiel, and he did
not need an unbarbered woodsman to tell him how to put his boots on. Perrin let it pass, since the man
did his complaining in between telling off two men to hold the horses. He really was not a fool, just
afraid for his queen. Gallenne left all of his men behind, muttering that lancers were worse than useless
off their horses and would probably break their necks if he made them walk any distance. He was no
fool, either, but he did see the black side first. Elyas took the lead, and Perrin waited only long enough to
transfer the thick brass-bound tube of his looking glass from Stepper’s saddlebags to his coat pocket
before following.
The underbrush grew in clumps beneath the trees, which were mostly pine and fir, with clusters
of others that were winter-gray and leafless, and the terrain, no steeper than the Sand Hills back home, if
more rocky, presented no problems for Dannil and the other Two Rivers men, who ghosted up the slope
with arrows nocked and eyes watchful, almost as silent as the mist of their breath. Aram, no stranger to
the woods himself, stayed close to Perrin with his sword out. Once he started to chop a tangle of thick
brown vines out of his way until Perrin stopped him with a hand on his arm, yet he made little more
noise than Perrin, the faint crunch of boots in snow. It was no shock that Marline moved through the
trees as if she had grown up in a forest instead of the Aiel Waste, where anything that could be called a
tree was rare and snow unheard of, though it seemed that all of her necklaces and bracelets should have
made some clatter as they swung, but Annoura climbed with almost as little effort, floundering a little
with her skirts but deftly avoiding the sharp thorns of dead cat’sclaw and wait-a-minute vines. Aes Sedai
usually found a way to surprise you. She managed to keep a wary eye on Grady, too, though the
Asha’man appeared to be focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes he sighed heavily
and paused for a minute, frowning toward the crest ahead, but somehow he never fell behind. Gallenne
and Arganda were not young men, nor accustomed to walking where they could ride, and their breathing
began to grow heavier as they ascended, sometimes pulling themselves up from tree to tree, but they
watched one another nearly as much as they did the ground, each unwilling to let the other outdo him.
The four Ghealdanin lancers, on the other hand, slipped and slid, tripped over roots hidden beneath the
snow, caught their scabbards on vines, and growled curses when they fell on rocks or were stabbed by
thorns. Perrin began to consider sending them back to wait with the horses. That, or hitting them over
the head and leaving them to be picked up when he returned.
Abruptly, two Aiel stepped out of the undergrowth in front of Elyas, dark veils hiding their faces
to the eyes, white cloaks hanging down their backs and spears and bucklers in hand. They were Maidens
of the Spear by their height, which made them no less dangerous than any other algai’d’nswai, and in an
instant, nine longbows were drawn, broadhead points aimed at their hearts. "You could get hurt that
way, Tuandha," Elyas muttered. "You should know better, Sulin." Perrin motioned for the Two Rivers
men to lower their bows, and for Aram to lower his sword. He had caught their scents as soon as Elyas
had, before they stepped into the open.
The Maidens exchanged startled looks, but they unveiled, letting the dark veils hang down their
chests. "You see closely, Elyas Machera," Sulin said. Wiry and leather-faced, with a scar across one
cheek, she had sharp blue eyes that could pierce like awls, but they still looked surprised, now. Tuandha
was taller and younger, and she might have been pretty before losing her right eye and gaining a thick
scar than ran from her chin up under her sboufa. It pulled up one corner of her mouth in a half-smile, but
that was the only smile she ever gave.
"Your coats are different," Perrin said. Tuandha frowned down at her coat, all gray and green
and brown, then at Sulin’s identical garment. "Your cloaks, too." Elyas was tired, to make that slip.
"They haven’t started moving, have they?"
"No, Perrin Aybara," Sulin said. "The Shaido seem prepared to stay in one place for a time. They
made the people from the city leave and go north last night, those they would let leave." She gave a
small shake of her head, still perturbed by the Shaido forcing people to become gai’shain who did not
follow ji’e’toh. "Your friends Jondyn Barran and Get Ayliah and Hu Marwin have gone after them to
see if they can learn anything. Our spear-sisters and Gaul are making their way around the camp again.
We waited here for Elyas Machera to return with you." She seldom let emotion into her voice, and there
was none there now, but she smelled of sadness. "Come, I will show you."
The two Maidens turned up the slope, and he hurried after them, forgetting anyone else. A little
short of the crest, they crouched, then went to hands and knees, and he copied them, crawling the last
spans through the snow to peer past a tree over the top of the ridgeline. The forest ended there, fading
into scattered brush and isolated saplings on the downslope. He was high enough to see for several
leagues, across rolling ridges like long treeless hills to where a dark band of forest began again. He
could see everything he wanted to see, and so much less than he needed. He had tried to imagine the
Shaido camp from Elyas’ description, but the reality dwarfed his imaginings. A thousand paces below
lay a mass of low Aiel tents and every other sort of tent, a mass of wagons and carts and people and
horses. It spread for well over a mile in every direction from the gray stone walls of a city halfway to the
next rise. He knew the sprawl must be the same on the other side. It was not one of the great cities, not
like Caemlyn or Tar Valon, less than four hundred paces wide along the side he could see and narrower
on the others, it seemed, but still a city with high walls and towers and what looked like a fortress at the
northmost end. Yet the Shaido encampment swallowed it whole. Faile was somewhere in that great lake
of people. Fumbling his looking glass from his pocket, he remembered at the last instant to cup one hand
for shade on the far end of the tube. The sun was a golden ball almost ahead of him, just shy of halfway
to its noonday height. A stray reflection from the lens could ruin everything. Groups of people leapt up
in the looking glass, their faces clear, at least to his eye. Long-haired women with dark shawls over their
shoulders, draped in dozens of long necklaces, women with fewer necklaces milking goats, women
wearing the cadin’sor and sometimes carrying spears and bucklers, women peeking from the deep cowls
of heavy white robes as they scurried across snow already trampled halfway to mud. There were men
and children, too, but his eye skipped past them hungrily, ignored them. Thousands upon thousands of
women, just counting those in white. "Too many," Marline whispered, and he lowered the glass to glare
at her. The others had joined the Maidens and him, all lying in a row in the snow along the ridgeline.
The Two Rivers men were taking pains to keep their bowstrings up out of the snow without raising their
bows above the ridgeline. Arganda and Gallenne were using their own looking glasses to study the camp
below, and Grady was staring down the slope with his chin propped on his hands, every bit as intent as
the two soldiers. Maybe he was using the Power in some way. Marline and Annoura were staring at the
camp, too, the Aes Sedai licking her lips and the Wise One frowning. Perrin did not think Marline had
intended to speak aloud.
"If you think I’ll walk away just because there are more Shaido than I expected," he began
heatedly, but she broke in, meeting his scowl with a level look.
"Too many Wise Ones, Perrin Aybara. Wherever I look, I can see a woman channeling. Just for
a moment here, a moment there-Wise Ones do not channel all the time-but they are everywhere I
look. Too many to be the Wise Ones often septs." He drew a deep breath. "How many do you think
there are?" "I think maybe all the Shaido Wise Ones are down there," Marline replied, as calm as if she
were talking about the price of barley. "All who can channel."
All of them? That made no sense! How could they all be together here, when the Shaido seemed
to be scattered everywhere? At least, he had heard tales of what had to be Shaido raids all across
Ghealdan and Amadicia, tales of raids here in Altara long before Faile was taken and rumors from even
farther. Why would they all be together? If the Shaido intended to gather here, the whole clan. . . . No, he
had to deal with what he knew for fact. That was bad enough. "How many?" he asked again, in a
reasonable tone. "Do not growl at me, Perrin Aybara. I cannot say exactly how many Shaido Wise Ones
remain alive. Even Wise Ones die from sickness, snakebite, accident. Some died at Dumai’s Wells. We
found bodies left behind, and they must have carried away those they could for proper burial. Even
Shaido cannot have abandoned all custom. If all who remain alive are below, and the apprentices who
can channel, I would say perhaps four hundred. Perhaps more, but fewer than five hundred. There were
fewer than five hundred Shaido Wise Ones who could channel before they crossed the Dragonwall, and
perhaps fifty apprentices." Most farmers would have shown more emotion over the barley.
Still staring at the Shaido camp, Annoura made a strangled sound, half a sob. "Five hundred?
Light! Half the Tower from one clan? Oh, Light!"
"We could sneak in, in the night," Dannil murmured from down the row, "the way you sneaked
into that Whitecloak camp back home." Elyas gave a grunt that might have meant anything but did not
sound hopeful.
Sulin snorted derisively. "We could not sneak into that camp, not with any real hope of getting
out. You would be trussed like a goat for the spit before you passed the first tents." Perrin nodded
slowly. He had thought of slipping in under cover of darkness and somehow spiriting Faile away. And
the others, of course. She would not go without the others. He had never had any real belief that could
work, though, not against Aiel, and the size of the camp had quenched the last glimmers. He could
wander for days among that many people without finding her. Abruptly, he realized that he was not
having to fight down despair. The anger remained, but it was cold as steel in winter, now, and he could
not detect a single drop of the hopelessness that had threatened to drown him before. There were ten
thousand algai’d’siswai in that camp, and five hundred women who could channel-Gallenne had the
right of it; prepare for the worst, and all your surprises were pleasant ones-five hundred women who
would not hesitate to use the Power as a weapon; Faile was hidden like one snowflake in a meadow
covered with snow, but when you piled up so much, there just was no point in despair. You had to
buckle down or be plowed under. Besides, he could see the puzzle, now. Nat Torfinn had always said
any puzzle could be solved, once you found out where to push and where to pull.
To the north and south, the land had been cleared farther from the city than the rise where he lay.
Scattered farmhouses, none with smoke rising from its chimney, dotted the landscape, and rail fences
marked out fields beneath the snow, but more than a handful of men trying to approach from either
direction might as well carry torches and banners and blow trumpets. There seemed to be a road leading
roughly south through the farms and another roughly north. Useless to him, probably, but you never
could tell. Jondyn might bring back some information about the city, though what good that would do
when the city was in the middle of the Shaido, he could not begin to guess. Gaul and the Maidens who
were making their way around the camp would be able to tell him what lay beyond the next ridge. A
saddle in that ridge had the look of a road heading somewhere east. Oddly, a cluster of windmills stood
maybe a mile north of the saddle, long white arms turning slowly, and there appeared to another group
of windmills atop the next rise beyond. A row of arches, like a long narrow bridge, stretched down the
slope from the nearest windmills all the way to the city walls.
"Does anybody know what that is?" he asked, pointing. Studying it through the looking glass
told him nothing except that it seemed made of the same gray stone as the wall. The thing was much too
narrow for a bridge. It lacked side walls, and there did not seem to be anything for a bridge to cross. "It
is for bringing water," Sulin replied. "It runs for five miles, to a lake. I do not know why they did not
build their city closer, but most of the land around the lake looks as if it will be mud when the cold goes
away." She no longer stumbled over unfamiliar words like mud, yet a touch of awe remained in "lake,"
in the idea of so much water in one place. "You think to stop their water supply? That will surely make
them come out." She understood fighting over water. Most fighting in the Waste started with water.
"But I do not think -"
The colors erupted inside Perrin’s head, an explosion of hues so strong that sight and hearing
vanished. All sight except for the colors themselves, at least. They were a vast tide, as if all the times he
had pushed them out of his head had built a dam that they now smashed aside in a silent flood, swirling
in soundless whirlpools that tried to suck him under. An image coalesced in the middle of it, Rand and
Nynaeve sitting on the ground facing one another, as clear as if they were right in front of him. He had
no time for Rand, not now. Not now! Clawing at the colors like a drowning man clawing for the surface,
he - forced - them - out! Sight and hearing, the world around, crashed in on him.
". . . it’s madness," Grady was saying in worried tones. "Nobody can handle enough of saidin for
me to feel that far off! Nobody!"
"No one can handle that much of saidar, either," Marline murmured.
"But someone is."
"The Forsaken?" Annoura’s voice shook. "The Forsaken, using some sa’angreal we never
suspected. Or . . . or the Dark One himself."
They were all three peering back to the north and west, and if Marline looked calmer than
Annoura or Grady, she smelled as frightened and worried. Except for Elyas, the others were watching
those three with the look of men awaiting an announcement that a new Breaking of the World had
begun. Elyas’s face was accepting. A wolf would snap at a landslide carrying him to his death, but a
wolf knew that death came sooner or later, and you could not fight death.
"It’s Rand," Perrin muttered thickly. He shuddered as the colors tried to return, but he hammered
them down. "His business. He’ll take care of it, whatever it is." Everyone was staring at him, even
Elyas. "I need prisoners, Sulin. They must send out hunting parties. Elyas says they have sentries out a
few miles, small groups. Can you get me prisoners?"
"Listen to me carefully," Annoura said, the words rushing out of her. She rose up out of the snow
enough to reach over Marline and seize a fistful of Perrin’s cloak. "Something is happening, perhaps
wonderful, perhaps terrible, but in any case momentous, more so than anything in recorded history! We
must know what! Grady can take us there, close enough to see. I could take us if I knew the weaves. We
must know!"
Meeting her gaze, Perrin raised his hand, and she stopped with her mouth open. Aes Sedai never
shut up that easily, yet she did. "I told you what it is. Our work is right down there in front of us. Sulin?"
Sulin’s head swung from him to the Aes Sedai to Marline. Finally, she shrugged. "You will learn
little useful even if you put them to the question. They will embrace the pain and laugh at you. And
shame will be slow - if these Shaido can still be shamed." "Whatever I learn will be more than I know
now," he replied. His work lay in front of him. A puzzle to solve, Faile to free, and the Shaido to
destroy. That was all that mattered in the world.
CHAPTER 9
Traps
"And she complained again that the other Wise Ones are timid," Faile finished in her best meek
voice, shifting the tall basket she held balanced on one shoulder, shifting from foot to foot in the muddy
snow. The basket was not heavy, though filled with dirty laundry, and the wool of her white robe was
thick and warm, with two under-robes beneath, but her soft leather boots, themselves bleached white,
gave little protection from the cold slush. "I was told to report what the Wise One Sevanna said exactly,"
she added quickly. Someryn was one of the "other" Wise Ones, and her mouth had turned down at the
word timid. With her eyes lowered, that was all Faile could see of Someryn’s face. Gai’shain were
required to maintain a humble manner, especially the gai’shain who were not Aiel, and though she
looked up through her eyelashes to read Someryn’s expression, the other woman was taller than most
men, even Aiel men, a yellow-haired giant who towered over her. Most of what she could see was
Someryn’s over-large bosom, plump sun-dark cleavage exposed by a blouse unlaced halfway down her
chest and covered mainly by a massive collection of long necklaces, firedrops and emeralds, rubies and
opals, three-tiered strands of fat pearls and intricately patterned chains of gold. Most of the Wise Ones
seemed to dislike Sevanna, who "spoke for the chief until a new Shaido clan chief could be chosen, an
event unlikely to occur any time soon, and they tried to undercut her authority whenever they were not
squabbling among themselves or forming cliques, but many shared Sevanna’s love of wetlander jewelry,
and some had even begun wearing finger rings, like Sevanna. On her right hand Someryn wore a large
white opal that flashed caverns of red whenever she adjusted her shawl, and a long blue sapphire
surrounded by rubies on the left. She had not adopted silk clothing, however. Her blouse was plain white
algode, from the Waste, and her skirt and shawl thick wool as dark as the folded scarf that held her
waist-long yellow hair back from her face. The cold did not appear to discomfort her in the least. The
two of them stood just beyond what Faile thought of as the border between the Shaido camp and the
gai’shain camp-the prisoners’ camp-not that there really were two camps. A few gai’shain slept
among the Shaido, but the rest were kept to the center of the camp unless doing their assigned work,
cattle fenced off from the lure of freedom by a wall of Shaido. Most of the men and women who passed
them wore white gai’shain robes, though few as finely woven as what she wore. With so many to clothe,
the Shaido scooped up any sort of white cloth they could find. Some were garbed in layers of coarse
linen or toweling or robes of rough tent cloth, and many of the robes were stained with mud or soot.
Only now and then did one of the gai’shain show the height and pale eyes of an Aiel. The vast majority
were ruddy-faced Amadicians, oliveskinned Altarans, and pale Cairhienin, along with occasional
travelers or merchants from Illian or Tarabon or elsewhere who had found themselves in the worst place
at the worst time. The Cairhienin were the longest held and most resigned to their situation aside from
the handful of Aiel in white, but they all kept their eyes down and moved about their tasks as fast as the
trampled mush of snow and mud would allow. Gai’shain were expected to display humility, obedience,
and an eagerness to embrace both. Any less resulted in painful reminders.
Faile would very much have liked to hurry on herself. Cold feet were only a small part of it, and
eagerness to do Sevanna’s laundry less. Too many eyes could see her standing there in the open with
Someryn, and even with her deep cowl hiding her face, the broad mesh belt of shiny golden links around
her waist and a close-fitting collar to match marked her as one of Sevanna’s servants. No one called
them that - in Aiel eyes, being a servant was demeaning -but that was what they were, the wetlanders
at least, just unpaid and with fewer rights and less freedom than any servant Faile had ever heard tell of.
Sooner or later Sevanna herself was going to learn that Wise Ones were stopping her gai’shain to
question them. Sevanna had well over a hundred servants and kept adding to them, and Faile was certain
that every last one was repeating every word they heard Sevanna say to the Wise Ones. It was a brutally
efficient trap. Sevanna was a harsh mistress, in a rather casual way, never snapping, seldom openly
angry, but the slightest infraction, the smallest slip in demeanor or behavior, was punished immediately
with the switch or the strap, and every night the five gai’shain who had pleased her least that day were
chosen out for further punishment, sometimes a night bound and gagged on top of a beating, just to
encourage the rest. Faile did not want to think of what the woman would order for a spy. On the other
hand, the Wise Ones had made it clear that anyone who did not talk freely of what they heard, anyone
who tried to hold back or bargain, faced an uncertain future, possibly ending in a shallow grave.
Harming a gai’shain beyond the permitted limits of discipline was a violation of ji’e’toh, the web of
honor and obligation that governed the lives of Aiel, but wetlander gai’shain seemed to stand outside a
number of the rules.
Sooner or later, one side or the other of that trap would snap shut. All that had held the jaws apart
this long was that the Shaido seemed to see their wetlander gai’shain as no different from cart horses or
pack animals, though in truth the animals received far better treatment. Now and then a gai’shain tried
to run away, but aside from that, one simply gave them food and shelter, put them to work and punished
them if they faltered. The Wise Ones no more expected them to disobey, Sevanna no more expected
them to spy on her, than they expected a cart horse to sing. Sooner or later, though. . . . And that was not
the only trap Faile was caught in.
"Wise One, I have nothing more to tell," she murmured when Someryn said nothing. Unless you
were addled in the head, you did not just walk away from a Wise One, not until she dismissed you. "The
Wise One Sevanna talks freely in front of us, but she says little."
The tall woman remained silent, and after a long moment Faile dared to raise her eyes a little
more. Someryn was staring over Faile’s head, her mouth hanging open in stunned amazement.
Frowning, Faile shifted the basket on her shoulder and looked behind her, but there was nothing to
account for Someryn’s expression, just the sprawl of the camp, dark low Aiel tents mingled with peaked
tents and walled tents and every sort of tent, most in shades of dirty white or pale brown, others green or
blue or red or even striped. The Shaido took everything valuable when they struck, everything that might
prove useful, and they left behind nothing that resembled a tent.
As it was, they hardly had enough shelter to go around. There were ten septs gathered here, more
than seventy thousand Shaido and nearly as many gai’shain, by her estimate, and everywhere she saw
only the usual bustle, dark-clad Aiel going about their lives among scurrying white-clad captives. A
smith was working the bellows on his forge in front of an open tent with his tools laid out on a tanned
bull hide, children were herding flocks of bleating goats with switches, a trader was displaying her
goods in an open pavilion of yellow canvas, everything from golden candlesticks and silver bowls to
pots and kettles, all looted. A lean man with a horse on a lead stood talking with a gray-haired Wise One
named Masalin, no doubt seeking a cure for some ailment the animal had, from the way he kept pointing
at the horse’s belly. Nothing to make Someryn gape.
Just as Faile was about to turn back around, she noticed a darkhaired Aiel woman facing the
other way. Not just dark hair, but hair black as a raven’s wing, a great rarity among Aiel. Even from
behind, Faile thought she recognized Alarys, another of the Wise Ones. There were over four hundred
Wise Ones in the camp, but she had learned quickly to know all of them on sight. Mistaking a Wise One
for a weaver or a potter was a quick way to earn a switching.
It might have meant nothing that Alarys was standing stock still and looking in the same
direction as Someryn, or that she had let her shawl slide to the ground, except that just beyond her, Faile
recognized still another Wise One, also looking off to the north and west, and slapping at people who
walked in front of her. That had to be Jesain, a woman who would have been called short even if she
were not Aiel, with a great mass of hair red enough to make fire look pale and a temper to match.
Masalin was talking to the man with the horse and gesturing to the animal. She could not channel, but
three Wise Ones who could were all staring in the same direction. Only one thing could account for it;
they saw someone channeling up there on the forested ridgeline beyond the camp. A Wise One
channeling surely would not make any of them stare. Could it be an Aes Sedai? Or more than one?
Better not to get her hopes up. It was too soon.
A clout on the head staggered her, and she nearly dropped the basket. "Why are you standing
like a lump?" Someryn snarled. "Go on with your work. Go, before I . . . !"
Faile went, balancing the basket with one hand, lifting the skirts of her robe out of the muddy
snow with the other, and moving as quickly as she could without slipping and falling in the muck.
Someryn never hit anyone, and she never raised her voice. If she was doing both, it was best to be out of
her way with no delay. Humbly and obediently.
Pride said to maintain a cool defiance, a quiet refusal to yield, yet sense said that was the way to
find herself guarded twice as closely as she was. The Shaido might take the wetlander gai’shain for
domesticated animals, but they were not completely blind. They must think that she had accepted her
captivity as inescapable if she were to be able to escape, and that was very much on her mind. The
sooner, the better. Certainly before Perrin caught up. She had never doubted that Perrin was following
her, that he would find her somehow-the man would walk through a wall if he took it into his head!-
but she had to escape before that. She was a soldier’s daughter. She knew the Shaido’s numbers, she
knew the strength Perrin had to call on, and she knew she had to reach him before that clash could take
place. There was just the little matter of getting free of the Shaido, first.
What had the Wise Ones been looking at-the Aes Sedai or Wise Ones with Perrin? Light, she
hoped not, not yet! But other matters took precedence, the laundry not least. She carried the basket
toward what remained of the city of Maiden, weaving through a steady flow of gai’shain. Those leaving
the city each carried a pair of heavy buckets balanced on the ends of a pole carried across the shoulders,
while the buckets of those going in swayed, empty, on their poles. As many people as were in the camp
required a great deal of water, and this was how it came to them, bucket by bucket.
It was easy to tell the gai’shain who had been inhabitants of Maiden. This far north in Altara,
they were fair rather than olivecomplected, and some even had blue eyes, but all stumbled along in a
daze. Shaido climbing the city walls in the night had overwhelmed the defenses before most of the
residents knew they were in danger, and they still seemed unable to believe what their lives had come to.
Faile searched for a particular face, though, someone she hoped would not be carrying water
today. She had been looking ever since the Shaido made camp here, four days ago. Just outside the city
gates, which stood open and shoved back against the granite walls, she found her, a white-clad woman
taller than herself with a flat basket of bread on her hip and her hood pushed back just enough to show a
bit of dark reddish hair. Chiad appeared to be studying the iron-strapped gates that had failed to protect
Maiden, but she turned away from them as soon as Faile approached. They paused side by side, not
really looking at one another while they pretended to shift their baskets. There was no reason two
gai’shain should not talk to one another, but no one should remember that they had been captured
together. Bain and Chiad were not watched as closely as gai’shain serving Sevanna, but that might
change if anyone remembered. Almost everyone in sight was gai’shain, and from west of the
Dragonwall besides, yet too many had learned to curry favor by carrying tales and rumors. Most people
did what they must to survive, and some always tried to feather their own nests, whatever the
circumstances.
"They got away the first night here," Chiad murmured. "Bain and I led them out to the trees and
obscured the tracks coming back. No one seems to realize they are gone, as far as I can see.
With so many gai’shain, it seems a wonder these Shaido notice any who run away."
Faile heaved a small sigh of relief. Three days gone. The Shaido did notice runaways. Few
managed a full day of freedom, but the chances of success increased with every day uncaught, and it
seemed certain the Shaido would move on tomorrow, or the next day. They had not halted as long as this
since Faile was captured. She suspected they might be trying to march back to the Dragonwall and
recross into the Waste.
It had not been easy talking Lacile and Arrela into leaving without her. What finally convinced
them had been the argument that they could carry word to Perrin of where Faile was, along with a
warning of how many Shaido there were and a claim that Faile already had her own escape well in hand
and any interference by him might endanger that and her. She was sure she had made them believe all of
that-she did have her escape in hand, in a way; she had several plans, in fact, and one of them had to
work-but until this minute she had been half convinced the two women would decide their oaths to her
required them to stay. Water oaths were tighter than oaths of fealty in some ways, yet they left
considerable room for stupidity in the name of honor. In truth, she did not know whether the pair could
find Perrin, but either way, they were free and she had only two other women to worry about. Of course,
the absence of three of Sevanna’s servants would be noticed very quickly, within hours, and the best
trackers would be sent to bring them back. Faile was accustomed to the woods, but she knew better than
to pit herself against Aiel trackers. It was very unpleasant for "ordinary" gai’shain who ran away and
were recaptured. For Sevanna’s gai’shain, it might be better to die in the attempt. At best, they would
never be allowed the opportunity for a second try.
"The rest of us would have a better chance if you and Bain came with us," she said in a low
voice. The flow of men and women in white carrying water by them continued, no one seeming to more
than glance their way, but wariness had become ingrained in her these last two weeks. Light, it seemed
more like two years! "What difference can there be between helping Lacile and Arrela reach the forest
and helping the rest of us get further?" That was despair talking. She knew the difference-Bain and
Chiad were her friends and had taught her about Aiel ways, about ji’e’toh and even a little Maiden
handtalk-and it did not surprise her when Chiad turned her head slightly to regard her with gray eyes
that had nothing of gai’shain meekness in them. Nor did her voice, though she still spoke quietly.
"I will help you as far as I can because it is not right for the Shaido to hold you. You do not
follow ji’e’toh. I do. If I cast aside my honor and my obligations just because the Shaido have, then I
allow them to decide how I will act. I will wear white for a year and a day and then they will release me,
or I will walk away, but I will not throw away who I am." Without another word, Chiad strode off into
the throngs of gai’shain.
Faile half-raised a hand to stop her, then let it fall. She had asked that question before, receiving
a gentler answer, and in asking again, she had insulted her friend. She would have to apologize. Not to
keep Chiad’s help-the woman would not withdraw that-but because she had her own honor, even if
she did not follow ji’e’toh. You did not insult friends and simply forget it, or expect them to. Apologies
must wait, though. They dared not be seen talking too long.
Maiden had been a prosperous city, a producer of good wool and great quantities of fair-quality
wine, but an empty ruin inside the walls, now. As many of the slate-roofed houses were timber as were
stone, and fire had gotten loose during the looting. The southern end of the city was half piles of
blackened timbers decorated with icicles, half scorched, roofless walls. The streets everywhere, whether
stone-paved or dirt, were gray with windblown ash trampled into the snow, and the whole city stank of
charred wood. Water was one thing Maiden apparently never ran short of, but like all Aiel, the Shaido
placed a very high value on it, and they knew nothing of fighting fires. There was little in the Aiel Waste
that could burn. They might have let the entire city be consumed had they been finished with stealing,
and as it was, they dithered over the waste of water before forcing gai’shain into bucket lines at
spearpoint and letting the men of Maiden bring out their pumpwagons.
Faile would have thought the Shaido would at least have rewarded those men by allowing them
to leave with the people who had escaped being chosen for gai’shain, but the men who worked the
pumps were young and fit, just the sort the Shaido wanted for their gai’shain. The Shaido kept some of
the rules regarding gai’shain-women who were pregnant or had children under the age often had been
let go, and youths under sixteen, and the city’s blacksmiths, who had been both mystified and grateful-
but gratitude never entered into it.
Furniture littered the streets, large overturned tables and ornate chests and chairs, and sometimes
a crumpled wall hanging or broken dishes. Bits of clothing lay everywhere, coats and breeches and
dresses, most sliced to tatters. The Shaido had seized anything made of gold or silver, anything that had
gems, anything useful or edible, but the furnishings must have been hauled outside in the frenzy of
looting, then abandoned when whoever was carrying them decided that a little gilded edging or fine
carving did not make them worth the effort. Aiel did not use chairs in any case, except for chiefs, and
there was no room on the carts and wagons for any of those heavy tables. A few Shaido still wandered
through, searching the houses and inns and shops for anything they might have missed, yet most people
she saw were gai’shain carrying buckets. Aiel had no interest in cities except as storehouses to be
plundered. A pair of Maidens passed her, using the butts of their spears to drive a naked, wild-eyed man,
his arms bound behind him, toward the gates. Doubtless he had thought he could hide in a basement or
attic until the Shaido were gone. Doubtless the Maidens had thought to find a cache of coin or plate.
When a huge man in the cadin’sor of an algai’d’siswai stepped in front of her, she swerved to go around
him as smoothly as she could. A gai’shain always made way for any Shaido.
"You are very pretty," he said, putting himself in her way. He was the biggest man she had ever
seen, perhaps seven feet tall and thick in proportion. Not fat-she had never seen a fat Aiel-but very
wide. He belched, and she smelled wine fumes. Drunken Aiel she had seen, since they found all those
casks of wine here in Maiden. She felt no fear, though. Gai’shain might be punished for any number of
infractions, often for transgressions few of the wetlanders understood, but the white robes gave a certain
protection, too, and she had another layer besides.
"I am gai’shain to the Wise One Sevanna," she said in as obsequious a tone as she could
manage. To her disgust, she had gotten so she could manage it very well. "Sevanna would be displeased
if I shirked my duties to talk." She tried again to step around him, and gasped when he seized her arm in
a hand that could have wrapped around it twice with inches to spare.
"Sevanna has hundreds of gai’shain. She will not miss one for an hour or two."
The basket fell to the street as he plucked her into the air as easily as picking up a pillow. Before
she knew what was happening, he had her tucked beneath his arm, her own arms trapped at her sides.
She opened her mouth to scream, and he used his free hand to press her face flat against his chest. The
smell of sweaty wool filled her nose. All she could see was gray-brown wool. Where were those two
Maidens? Maidens of the Spear would not let him do this! Any Aiel who saw would step in! She never
expected help from any of the gai’shain. One or two might run for help, if she was lucky, but the very
first lesson a gai’shain learned was that even a threat of violence got you hung up by the ankles and
beaten till you howled. The first lesson wetlanders learned, at least; Aiel already knew: & gai’shain was
forbidden to offer violence for any reason. Any reason. Which did not stop her from kicking at the man
furiously. She might as well have been kicking a wall for all the impression it made. He was moving,
carrying her somewhere. She bit as hard down as hard as she could, and got a mouthful of coarse dirty
wool for her pains, her teeth sliding over muscle with no slack to give her purchase. He seemed made of
stone. She screamed, but her shriek sounded muffled even to her own ears.
Abruptly, the monster carrying her stopped.
"I made this one gai’shain, Nadric," another man’s deep voice said.
Faile felt a rumble of laughter in the chest against her face even before she heard it. She did not
stop her kicking, never stopped writhing or trying to shout, yet her captor seemed unaware of her efforts.
"She belongs to Sevanna now, Brotherless," the huge man-Nadric?-said contemptuously. "Sevanna
takes what she wants, and I take what I want. It is the new way."
"Sevanna took her," the other man replied calmly, "but I never gave her to Sevanna. I never
offered to trade her to Sevanna. Do you abandon your honor because Sevanna abandons hers?" There
was a long silence broken only by the smothered noises Faile was making. She did not stop struggling,
could not stop, but she might as well have been an infant in swaddling. "She is not pretty enough to fight
over," Nadric said finally. He did not sound frightened or even concerned.
His hands fell away from her, and Faile’s teeth ripped loose from his coat so suddenly she
thought one or two might be jerked out, but the ground smashed into her back and all of the air rushed
out of her lungs along with most of the wits from her head. By the time she could gather enough breath
to push up on her hands, the huge man was striding away down the alley, almost back to the street. It
was an alley, a narrow track of dirt between two stone buildings. No one would have seen what he did
back here. Shivering - she was not trembling, just shivering! - spitting out the taste of unwashed wool
and Nadric’s sweat, she glared at his back. If the knife she had hidden away had been within reach, she
would have stabbed him. Not pretty enough to fight over, was she? Part of her knew that was ludicrous,
but she was grabbing hold of anything that could feed her anger, just for the warmth of it. To help her
stop shivering. She would have stabbed him and stabbed him, until she could not lift her arms. Getting
up on legs that wobbled, she explored her teeth with her tongue. They were all sound, nothing broken or
missing. Her face had been scraped by the rough wool of Nadric’s coat, and her lips were bruised, but
she was unhurt. She reminded herself of that. She was unhurt, and free to walk out of the alley. As free
as anyone in gai’shain robes could be, anyway. If there were many like Nadric who no longer saw the
protection of those robes, then order was breaking down among the Shaido. The camp would be a more
dangerous place, but disorder would bring more opportunities for escape. That was how she had to look
at this. She had learned something that could aid her. If only she could stop shivering.
At last, reluctantly, she looked at her rescuer. She had recognized his voice. He stood well back
from her, watching her calmly, making no move to offer sympathy. She thought she would have
screamed if he touched her. Another absurdity, since he had rescued her, but a fact all the same. Rolan
was no more than a hand shorter than Nadric, and almost as wide, and she had reason to want to stab
him, too. He was not Shaido, but one of the Brotherless, the Mera’din, men who had left their clans
because they would not follow Rand al’Thor, and he had indeed been the one to "make her gai’shain."
True, he had kept her from freezing to death the night after she was captured by wrapping her in his own
coat, yet she would not have needed the covering if he had not cut off every last stitch of her clothing in
the first place. The first part of being made gai’shain was always being stripped, but that was no reason
to forgive him for any of it.
"Thank you," she said, the words sour on her tongue. "I do not ask for gratitude," he said mildly.
"Do not look at me as though you want to bite me just because you could not bite Nadric."
She managed not to snarl at him-barely; she could not have summoned meekness right then had
she wanted to-before she turned away and stalked back out to the street. Well, she tried to stalk. Her
legs were still shaking enough that it was more of a lurch. The passing gai’shain barely glanced in her
direction as they trudged along the street with their water buckets. Few of the captives wanted to share
anyone else’s troubles. They had enough of their own.
Reaching the laundry basket, she gave a sigh. It lay on its side, white silk blouses and dark silk
skirts divided for riding spilled out over the dirty ash-smeared pavement. At least it seemed no one had
trodden on them. Anyone who had been carrying water all morning, and had a day of it to look forward
to, could have been forgiven if they failed to step aside, with bits of clothing lying all around that had
been cut off the people of Maiden who had been made gai’shain. She would have tried to forgive them.
Righting the basket, she began gathering the clothes, shaking off the dirt and ash that would come loose
and careful not to grind in the rest. Unlike Someryn, Sevanna had taken to silk. She wore nothing else.
She was as proud of her silks as she was of her jewelry, and equally possessive of both. She would not
be pleased if any of these garments failed to be returned clean.
As Faile laid the last blouse atop the rest, Rolan reached past her and lifted the basket with one
hand. On the brink of snapping at him-she could carry her own burdens, thank you very much!-she
swallowed the words. Her brain was the only real weapon she possessed, and she had to use it instead of
letting her temper have control. Rolan had not been here by chance. That was straining credulity too far.
She had seen him frequently since she was captured, much more often than chance could account for.
He had been following her. What was it he had told Nadric? He had not given her to Sevanna or offered
to trade her. For all that he had been the one to capture her, she thought he disapproved of making
wetlanders gai’shain -most of the Brotherless did-but apparently he still claimed his rights to her.
She was sure she did not need to fear him trying to force her. Rolan had had his chance for that,
when he had her naked and bound, and he could have been looking at a fence post then. Perhaps he did
not like women in that way. In any case, the Brotherless were almost as much outsiders among the
Shaido as the wetlanders. None of the Shaido really trusted them, and the Brotherless themselves often
seemed like men holding their noses, accepting what they considered a lesser wrong rather than embrace
a greater, but no longer truly sure that it was lesser. If she could make a friend of the man, perhaps he
would be willing to help her. Not to escape, certainly-that would asking too much-but. . . .
Or would it? The only way to find out was to try. "Thank you," she said again, and this time she
worked up a smile. Surprisingly, he smiled back. A small smile, barely there at all, but Aiel were not
demonstrative. They could seem stone-faced till you became used to them.
For a few paces they walked along side by side in silence, him carrying the basket in one hand
and her holding up the skirts of her robes. They might have been out for a stroll. If you squinted. Some
of the passing gai’shain looked at them in surprise, but they always put their eyes down again quickly.
She could not think of how to begin-she did not want him to think she was flirting; he might like
women after all-but he took away the necessity.
"I have watched you," he said. "You are strong and fierce, and not afraid, I think. Most of the
wetlanders are frightened half out of their heads. They bluster until they are punished, and then they
weep and cower. I think you are a woman of much ji." "I am frightened," she replied. "I just try not let it
show. Crying never does any good." Most men believed that. Tears could get in your way if you let
them, but a few tears shed at night could help you make it through the next day.
"There are times to weep and times to laugh. I would like to see you laugh."
She did laugh, a dry laugh. "There’s little reason while I wear white, Rolan." She glanced at him
out of the corner of her eye. Was she going too fast? But he only nodded.
"Still, I would like to see it. Smiles suit your face. Laughter would suit it even better. I have no
wife, but I can make a woman laugh, sometimes. I have heard you have a husband?" Startled, Faile
tripped over her own feet and caught herself on his arm. Quickly, she snatched her hand away, studying
him past the edge of her cowl. He paused long enough for her to steady herself, then walked on when
she did. His expression was no more than mildly curious. Despite Nadric, Aiel custom was for a woman
to do the asking, after a man attracted her interest. Giving her gifts was one way. Making her laugh was
another. So much for his not liking women. "I do have a husband, Rolan, and I love him very much.
Very much. I can’t wait to return to him." "What happens while you are gai’shain cannot be held against
you when you put off white," he said calmly, "but perhaps you wetlanders do not see it that way. Still, it
can be lonely when you are gai’shain. Perhaps we can talk sometimes."
The man wanted to see her laugh, and she did not know whether to laugh or cry. He was
announcing that he did not intend to give up trying to attract her interest. Aiel women admired
perseverance in a man. Still, if Chiad and Bain would not, could not, help beyond giving her aid in
reaching the trees, Rolan was her best hope. She thought she could convince him, given time. Of course
she could; faint hearts never succeeded! He was a scorned outcast, accepted only because the Shaido
needed his spear. But she was going to have to give him a reason to persist.
"I would like that," she said carefully. A little flirting might be necessary after all, but she could
not go from telling him how much she loved her husband straight to wide-eyed and breathless. Not that
she had any intention of going that far-she was no Domani!-yet she might need to come close. For
the time being, a little reminder that Sevanna had usurped his "right" would not go amiss. "I have work
to do now, though, and I doubt Sevanna would be pleased if I spent the time talking to you instead."
Rolan nodded again, and Faile sighed. He might know how to make a woman laugh, as he claimed, but
he certainly did not talk very much. She was going to have to work to draw him out if she intended to
get anything more than jokes she did not understand. Even with Chiad and Bain’s help, Aiel humor
remained incomprehensible to her.
They had reached the broad square in front of the fortress at the north end of the city, a towered
mass of gray stone walls that had protected its inhabitants no better than the city walls. Faile thought she
had seen the lady who had ruled Maiden and everything for twenty miles around, a handsome dignified
widow in her middle years, among the gai’shain hauling water. White-clad men and women carrying
buckets crowded the stone-paved square. At the eastern end of the square, what looked like a section of
the city’s outer wall, gray and thirty feet high, was actually the wall of a huge cistern fed by an
aqueduct. Four pumps, each worked by a pair of men, gushed out water to fill the buckets, a good bit
more splashing to the paving stones than the men would have dared allow if they had known Rolan was
close enough to see. Faile had considered crawling through the tunnel-like aqueduct to escape, but they
had no way to keep anything dry, and wherever it let them out, they would be soaking wet and more
likely to freeze to death than make it more than a mile or two in the snow.
There were two other places in the city to get water, both fed by stone conduits underground, but
here a long, lion-footed blackwood table had been placed at the foot of the cistern wall. Once it had been
a banqueting table, the top inlaid with ivory, but the ivory wedges had been pried out and several
wooden washtubs sat on the tabletop now. A pair of wooden buckets stood beside the table, and at one
end a copper kettle steamed over a fire made from broken-up chairs. Faile doubted that Sevanna had her
laundry carried into the city to save her gai’shain the labor of hauling water out to the tents, but
whatever the reason, Faile was grateful. A basket of laundry was lighter than full water buckets. She had
carried enough of them to know. Two baskets stood on the table, but only one woman wearing the
golden belt and collar was at work, the sleeves of her white robe rolled up as high as they would go and
her long dark hair tied with a strip of white cloth to keep it from falling into the washtub’s water.
When Alliandre saw Faile approaching with Rolan, she straightened, drying her bare arms on her
robe. Alliandre Maritha Kigarin, Queen of Ghealdan, Blessed of the Light, Defender of Garen’s Wall
and a dozen more titles, had been an elegant, reserved woman, poised and stately. Alliandre the
gai’shain was still pretty, but she wore a perpetually harried expression. With damp patches on her robes
and her hands wrinkled from long immersion in the water, she could have passed for a pretty
washerwoman. Watching Rolan set down the basket and smile at Faile before striding away, watching
Faile return the smile, she raised a quizzical eyebrow. "He’s the one who captured me," Faile said,
setting pieces of clothing from the basket on the table. Even here among none but gai’shain, it was best
to talk while working. "He’s one of the Brotherless, and I think he doesn’t really approve of making
wetlanders gai’shain. I think he may help us."
"I see," Alliandre said. With one hand she brushed delicately at the back of Faile’s robe.
Frowning, Faile twisted to look over her shoulder. For a moment she stared at the dirt and ash
that covered her back from the shoulders down; then heat flooded her face. "I fell," she said quickly. She
could not tell Alliandre what had happened with Nadric. She did not think she could tell anyone. "Rolan
offered to carry my basket."
Alliandre shrugged. "If he helped me escape, I would marry him. Or not, as he wanted. He’s not
quite pretty, but it wouldn’t be painful, and my husband, if I had one, would never have to know. If he
had any sense, he would be overjoyed to have me back and ask no questions he didn’t want to hear
answers to." Hands tightening on a silk blouse, Faile gritted her teeth.
Alliandre was her liege woman, through Perrin, and she held to that well enough, at least insofar
as obeying commands, but the nature of the relationship had become strained. They had agreed that they
must try to think like servants, try to be servants, if they were to survive, yet that meant that each had
seen the other curtsying and scurrying to obey. Sevanna’s punishments were dealt out by the nearest
gai’shain to hand when she made her decision, and once Faile had been ordered to switch Alliandre.
Worse, Alliandre had been ordered to return the favor twice. Holding back only meant a taste of the
same for yourself plus the other woman having to endure a double dose from someone who would not
spare her arm. It had to make a difference when you had twice made your liege-lady kick and shriek.
Abruptly she realized that the blouse she was gripping was one of those that had picked up extra
dirt when the basket fell. Loosening her grip, she examined the garment anxiously. It did not seem that
she had ground the dirt in. For a moment, she felt relief, and then irritation at being relieved. Even more
irritating, the relief did not go away.
"Arrela and Lacile escaped three days ago," she said in a low voice. "They should be well away
by now. Where is Maighdin?" A worried frown appeared on the other woman’s face. "She is trying to
sneak into Therava’s tent. Therava passed us with a group of Wise Ones, and from what we overheard,
they seemed to be on their way to meet with Sevanna. Maighdin shoved her basket at me and said she
was going to try. I think. . . . I think she’s becoming desperate enough to take too many chances," she
said with a touch of hopelessness in her own voice. "She should have been here by now."
Faile drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. They were all becoming desperate. They had
gathered supplies for their escape-knives and food, boots and men’s breeches and coats that fit near
enough, all carefully hidden in the wagons; the white robes would serve as blankets, and as cloaks to
hide them in the snow-but the chance to use all that preparation seemed no closer now than the day
they were captured. Only two weeks. Twenty-two days to be exact. That should have not been long
enough to change anything, but their pretense of being servants was changing them in spite of all they
could do. Only two weeks, and they found themselves jumping to obey commands without thought,
worrying over punishments and whether they were pleasing Sevanna. The worst of it was, they could see
themselves doing these things, knew some part of them was being molded against their wills. For now,
they could tell themselves they were just doing what was needed to avoid suspicion until they could
escape, yet every day the reactions became more automatic. How long before escape was a pale dream
dreamed in the night after a day of being a perfect gai’shain in thought as well as deed? No one had
dared ask that question aloud, so far, and Faile knew that she herself tried not to think it, but the question
was always on the edge of her consciousness. In a way, she was afraid of it leaving. When it did, would
it already have been answered?
With an effort, she forced herself back from despondency. That was the second trap, and only
willpower held it open. "Maighdin knows she has to be careful," she said in a firm voice. "She will be
here soon, Alliandre."
"And if she is caught?"
"She won’t be!" Faile said sharply. If she was. . . . No. She had to think of victory, not defeat.
Faint hearts never won. Washing the silk was time-consuming. The buckets of water they fetched from
the cistern pumps were icy cold, but hot water scooped from the copper kettle brought the temperature in
the washtubs up to lukewarm. You could not wash silk in hot water. Sinking your hands into the
washtubs felt wonderful in the cold, but you always had to take them out again, and then the cold was
twice as bitter. There was no soap, not that was mild enough anyway, so each skirt and blouse had to be
submersed one by one and delicately scrubbed against itself. Then it was laid on a piece of toweling and
gently rolled up to squeeze out as much water as possible. The damp garment was dipped again, in
another washtub that was filled with a mixture of vinegar and water-that reduced fading and enhanced
the gloss of the silk-then rolled up in toweling again. The wet toweling was wrung out hard and spread
in the sun to dry wherever there was room, while each piece of silk was hung on a horizontal pole, slung
in the shade of a rough canvas pavilion erected at the edge of the square, and smoothed by hand to rub
out wrinkles. With luck, nothing would need ironing. Both of them knew how silk had to be cared for,
but ironing it needed experience neither of them had. None of Sevanna’s gai’shain did, not even
Maighdin, though she had been a lady’s maid even before entering Faile’s service, but Sevanna did not
accept excuses. Every time Faile or Alliandre went to hang another garment, they checked those already
there and smoothed any that seemed to need it.
Faile was adding hot water to a washtub when Alliandre said bitterly, "Here comes the Aes
Sedai."
Galina was Aes Sedai, complete with the ageless face and a golden Great Serpent ring on her
finger, but she wore white gai’shain robes, too-in silk as thick as anyone else’s wool, no less!-along
with a wide, elaborate belt of gold and firedrops that cinched her waist tightly and a tall matching collar
around her neck, jewels fit for a monarch. She was Aes Sedai, and sometimes rode out from the camp
alone, but she always returned, and she jumped when any Wise One crooked a finger, especially
Therava, whose tent she often shared. In a way, that last was the strangest thing of all. Galina knew who
Faile was, knew who her husband was and Perrin’s connection to Rand al’Thor, and she threatened to
reveal it to Sevanna unless Faile and her friends stole something from the very tent she slept in. That
was the third trap lying in wait for them. Sevanna was obsessed with al’Thor, insanely convinced that
she could somehow marry him, and if she learned about Perrin, Faile would never be allowed far enough
out of her sight to think of escape. She would be staked out like a goat to draw a lion.
Faile had seen Galina slinking and cowering, but now the sister glided through the square like a
queen disdaining the rabble around her, an Aes Sedai to the hilt. There were no Wise Ones here for her
simper at. Galina was pretty, but nowhere near beautiful, and Faile did not understand what Therava saw
in her, unless it was simply the pleasure of dominating an Aes Sedai. That still left the question of why
the woman remained when Therava seemed to take every opportunity to humiliate her.
Stopping a pace from the table, Galina surveyed them with a small smile that might have been
called pitying. "You are not progressing very far in your work," she said. She was not speaking of the
laundry.
It was Faile’s place to do the talking, but Alliandre spoke up, even more bitterly than before.
"Maighdin went to fetch your ivory rod this morning, Galina. When will we see some of the help you
promised?" Help in their escape was the carrot Galina offered along with the stick of threatening Faile’s
exposure. So far, however, they had seen only the stick.
"She went to Therava’s tent this morning?" Galina whispered, the blood draining from her face.
It dawned on Faile that the sun was halfway down to the horizon in the west, and her heart began
to thud painfully. Maighdin should have joined them long since.
The Aes Sedai seemed even more shaken than she. "This morning?" Galina repeated, looking
over her shoulder. She gave a start and a cry when Maighdin suddenly appeared out of the throng of
gai’shain crowding the square.
Unlike Alliandre, the golden-haired woman had grown tougher by the day since their capture.
She was no less desperate, but she seemed to focus it all into determination. She always had a presence
that belonged more to a queen than a lady’s maid, though most lady’s maids had it, but now she
stumbled past them, dulleyed, and plunged her hands into a water bucket, cupping a double handful to
her mouth to drink thirstily, then scrubbing the back of a hand across her mouth.
"I want to kill Therava when we go," she said thickly. "I would like to kill her now." Her blue
eyes took on life again, and heat. "You’re safe, Galina. She thought I was there to steal. I hadn’t started
looking. Something. . . . Something happened, and she left. After tying me up. For later." The heat faded
from her gaze to be replaced by puzzlement. "What is it, Galina? Even I feel it, and I have so little
ability these Aiel women decided I was no danger."
Maighdin could channel. Not reliably, though and not very much-from what little Faile knew,
the White Tower would have sent her away in a matter of weeks, and she claimed never to have gone-
so her ability would not be of much use in aiding their escape. Faile would have asked what she was
talking about, but she never got the chance.
Galina’s face was still pale, but otherwise she was all Aes Sedai calm. Except that she seized a
handful of Maighdin’s cowl and the hair beneath and wrenched her head back. "Never you mind what it
is," she said coolly. "Nothing to do with you. All you need worry about is getting me what I want. But
you should worry about that very hard."
Before Faile could move to defend Maighdin, another woman wearing the wide golden belt over
her white robes was there, pulling Galina away and slinging her to the ground. Plump and plain, Aravine
had been weary-eyed and resigned the first time Faile saw her, the day the Amadician woman handed
her the golden belt she wore and told her she was now in the service of "the Lady Sevanna." The
intervening days had stiffened Aravine even more than they had Maighdin, though.
"Are you mad, to lay hands on an Aes Sedai?" Galina snapped, struggling to her feet. Brushing
at the dirt staining her silk robes, she directed all her fury at the plump woman. "I will have you-"
"Shall I tell Therava you were manhandling one of Sevanna’s gai’shain?" Aravine broke in coldly. Her
accents were cultured. She might have been a merchant of some note, or perhaps even a noble, but she
never spoke of what she had been before putting on white. "The last time Therava thought you’d poked
your nose where she didn’t want it, everybody inside a hundred paces could hear you squealing and
begging."
Galina actually quivered with rage, the first time Faile had ever seen an Aes Sedai so outdone.
With a visible effort, she gained control of herself. Just. Her voice dripped acid. "Aes Sedai do what we
do for our own reasons, Aravine, reasons you could not possibly understand. You will regret incurring
this debt when I decide to collect payment. You will regret it to your heart." Giving her robes a last
brush, she stalked away, no longer the queen disdaining rabble but a leopard daring sheep to block her
path.
Watching her go, Aravine seemed unimpressed, and uninclined to chat. "Sevanna wants you,
Faile" was all she said.
Faile did not bother to ask why. She just dried her hands, rolled down her sleeves, and followed
the Amadician woman, after promising Alliandre and Maighdin to return as soon as she could. Sevanna
was fascinated with the three of them. Maighdin, the only true lady’s maid among her gai’shain, seemed
to interest her as much as Queen Alliandre, and Faile herself, a woman powerful enough to have a queen
as her liege woman, and sometimes she summoned one of them by name to help her change clothes or
bathe in the large copper bathtub that she used more often than the sweat tent, or just to pour her wine.
The rest of the time they were given the same chores as her other servants, but she never asked whether
they had already been assigned work or let them off because of it. Whatever Sevanna wanted, Faile
knew she still would be held accountable for the laundry along with the other two. Sevanna wanted what
she wanted when she wanted it, and she did not accept excuses.
There was no need for Faile to be shown the way to Sevanna’s tent, but Aravine led the way
through the throng of water carriers until they reached the first low Aiel tents, and then she pointed in
the opposite direction to Sevanna’s tent and said, "This way, first." Faile stopped where she stood.
"Why?" she asked suspiciously. There were actually men and women among Sevanna’s servants who
were jealous of the attentions she gave Faile, Alliandre and Maighdin, and though Faile had never
detected that in Aravine, some of the rest might well try to get them in trouble by passing on false
instructions.
"You will want to see this before you see Sevanna. Believe me." Faile opened her mouth to
demand more explanation, but Aravine simply turned and walked away. Faile gathered up the skirts of
her robes and followed.
All sorts and sizes of carts and wagons stood among the tents, their wheels replaced by sleds.
Most were piled high with bundles and wooden crates and barrels, with the wheels tied on top of the
loads, but she did not have to follow Aravine far before she saw a flatbed cart that had been emptied.
Except that the cart bed was not empty. Two women lay on the rough wooden planks, naked and cruelly
hogtied, shivering in the cold yet panting as if they were running. Both women’s heads hung tiredly, but
as if they somehow knew Faile was there, both looked up. Arrela, a dark Tairen as tall as most Aiel
women, averted her eyes in embarrassment.
Lacile, slim and pale and Cairhienin, went bright red. "They were brought back this morning,"
Aravine said, watching Faile’s face. "They will be untied before dark, since it’s the first time they’ve
tried to escape, though I doubt they will be in any condition to walk before tomorrow."
"Why did you show me this?" Faile said. They had been so careful to keep the connection
between them a secret. "You forget, my Lady, I was there when you were all put in white." Aravine
studied her a moment, then suddenly took Faile’s hands and turned them so that her own hands were
between Faile’s palms. Bending her knees just short of kneeling, she said quickly, "Under the Light and
by my hope of rebirth, I, Aravine Carnel, do pledge my fealty and obedience in all things to the Lady
Faile t’Aybara."
Only Lacile appeared to have noticed; the Shaido walking past paid no mind to two gai’shain
women. Faile jerked her hands free. "How do you know that name?" She had had to give more of her
name than Faile, of course, but she had chosen Faile Bashere once she realized that none of the Shaido
had a clue who Davram Bashere was. Aside from Alliandre and the others, only Galina knew the truth.
Or so she had thought. "And who have you told?" "I listen, my Lady. I overheard Galina speaking to
you, once." Anxiety touched Aravine’s voice. "And I have told no one." She did not sound surprised
that Faile wanted to hide her name, though clearly t’Aybara meant nothing to her. Perhaps Aravine
Carnel was not her true name, or not all of it. "In this place, secrets must be held as closely as in
Amador. I knew these women were yours, but I told no one. I know you intend to escape. I’ve been
certain since the second or third day, and nothing I’ve seen since convinces me otherwise. Accept my
oath, and take me with you. I can help, and what is more, I can be trusted. I have proved it by keeping
your secrets. Please." The last word came out strained, as if from someone unused to saying it. A
noblewoman, then, rather than a merchant.
The woman had proven nothing beyond that she could spy out secrets, but that in itself was a
useful trait. On the other hand, Faile knew of at least two gai’shain who had tried to escape and been
betrayed by others. Some people really did try to feather their own nests no matter what the
circumstances. But Aravine already knew enough to ruin everything. Faile thought about her hidden
knife again. A dead woman could betray nothing. But the knife was half a mile away, she could think of
no way to hide the body, and besides, the woman could have curried favor with Sevanna just by saying
she thought Faile was planning escape. Taking Aravine’s hands between hers, she spoke as quickly as
the other woman had. "Under the Light, I do accept your pledge and will defend and protect you and
yours through battle’s wrack and winter’s blast and all that time may bring. Now. Do you know anyone
else who can be trusted? Not people you think you can trust, people you know you can."
"Not with this, my Lady," Aravine said grimly. Her face shone with relief, though. She had not
been sure Faile would accept her. That it was relief rather that anything else made Faile tend to believe
in her. Tend to, which was not to say completely. "Half would betray their own mothers in hopes of
buying freedom, and the other half are too afraid to try or too stunned to be trusted not to panic. There
must be some, and I have my eye on one or two, but I want to be very careful. One mistake is one more
than I’ll be allowed."
"Very careful," Faile agreed. "Did Sevanna really send for me?
"If she didn’t-"
It seemed that she had, and Faile was quick about reaching Sevanna’s tent-quicker than she
would have liked, in truth; it was irritating to leap to avoid Sevanna’s displeasure-but no one paid her
the slightest heed when she walked in and stood meekly by the entry flaps.
Sevanna’s tent was no low Aiel structure, but a wall-tent of red canvas large enough to need two
center poles, lit by near a dozen mirrored stand-lamps. Two gilded braziers gave a little warmth,
emitting thin tendrils of smoke that eddied out through the smoke holes in the roof, but the interior was
little warmer than outside. Rich carpets, the snow carefully scraped away before they were laid, made a
floor of reds and greens and blues, Tairen mazes and flowers and animals. Tasseled silk cushions lay
strewn about the carpets, and one chair, a massive thing intricately carved and heavily gilded, sat in a
corner. Faile had never seen anyone sit in it, but its presence was supposed to evoke the presence of a
clan chief, she knew. She was just as happy to stand quietly with her eyes down. Three other gai’shain
with golden belts and collars, one a bearded male, stood along one wall of the tent, in case some service
was needed. Sevanna was there, and so was Therava. Sevanna was a tall woman, a little taller than Faile
herself, with pale green eyes and hair like spun gold. She might have been beautiful except for a strong
hint of avarice around her plump mouth. Little about her really seemed Aiel, beyond her eyes and hair
and sun-dark face. Her blouse was white silk, her skirt divided for riding and also silk, if a dark gray,
and the scarf folded around her temples was a blaze of crimson and gold. Also silk. Red boots peeked
out beneath the hem of her skirt when she moved. Jeweled rings decorated her every finger, and her
necklaces and bracelets of fat pearls and cut diamonds and rubies as large as pigeon’s eggs, sapphires
and emeralds and firedrops, paled anything Someryn had. Not a single one was Aiel-made. Therava, on
the other hand, was all Aiel, in dark wool and white algode, her hands bare and her necklaces and
bracelets gold and ivory. No finger rings or gems for her. Taller than most men, her dark red hair
touched with streaks of white, she was a blue-eyed eagle that it seemed must devour Sevanna like a
crippled lamb. Faile would rather anger Sevanna ten times than Therava once, but the two women faced
another across a table inlaid with ivory and turquoise, and Sevanna met Therava glare for glare.
"What is happening today means danger," Therava said with the air of someone tired of
repeating herself. And perhaps about to draw the knife at her belt. She caressed the hilt as she spoke, and
not entirely absently, Faile thought. "We need to put as much distance between ourselves and whatever
it is as we possibly can, and as soon as we can. There are mountains to the east. Once we reach them, we
can be safe until we gather all the septs together again. Septs that would never have been separated if
you had not been so sure of yourself, Sevanna."
"You speak of safety?" Sevanna laughed. "Have you grown so old and toothless you need to be
fed bread and milk? Look. These mountains of yours are how distant? How many days, or weeks, when
we must crawl through this cursed snow?" She gestured to the table between them where a map lay
spread out, weighted down with two thick golden bowls and a heavy three-pronged golden candlestick.
Most Aiel disdained maps, but Sevanna had taken to them along with other wetland customs. "Whatever
happened is far away, Therava. You agreed it is so, as did every Wise One. This city is full of food,
enough to feed us for weeks, if we remain here. Who is there to challenge us, if we do? And if we do. . .
. You have heard the runners, the messages. In two or three weeks, four at the most, ten more septs will
have joined me. Perhaps more! This snow will have melted by then, if these wetlanders from the city can
be believed. We will travel quickly instead of having to drag everything on sleds." Faile wondered
whether any of the city people had mentioned mud. "Ten more septs will join you" Therava said, her
voice flat except for the last word. Her hand tightened on the knife hilt. "You speak for the clan chief,
Sevanna, and so I was chosen to advise you as a clan chief, who must listen to advice for the good of our
clan. I advise you to move east and keep moving east. The other septs can join us as easily in those
mountains as here, and if we must go a little hungry on the way, who among us is a stranger to
privation?"
Sevanna fingered her necklaces, a large emerald on her right hand like green fire in the light of
the stand-lamps. Her mouth tightened, and seemed hungrier for it. She might have known privation, but
despite the lack of warmth in the tent, she no longer chose to. "I speak for the chief, and I say we will
remain here." There was more than a hint of challenge in her voice, but she did not give Therava a
chance to meet it. "Ah, I see that Faile has come. My good, obedient gai’shain." Taking something
wrapped in a cloth from the table, she stripped away the cloth. "Do you recognize this, Faile Bashere?"
What Sevanna held was a knife with a single-edged blade a hand and a half long, a simple tool of
the sort that thousands of farmers carried. Except that Faile recognized the pattern of rivets in the
wooden handle, and the chip in the edge. It was the knife that she had stolen and hidden away with such
care. She said nothing.
There was nothing to say. Gai’shain were forbidden to possess any weapon, even a knife except
when cutting meat or vegetables for cooking. She could not help jerking when Sevanna went on, though.
"As well Galina brought me this before you could use it. For whatever purpose. If you stabbed
someone, I would have to be very angry with you."
Galina? Of course. The Aes Sedai would not allow them to escape before they did as she wanted.
"She is shocked, Therava." Sevanna’s laughter was amused. "Galina knows what is required of
gai’shain, Faile Bashere. What should I do with her, Therava? That is advice you can give me. Several
wetlanders have been killed for hiding weapons, but I would hate to lose her."
Therava tipped Faile’s chin up with a finger and stared into her eyes. Faile met that gaze without
blinking, but she felt her knees tremble. She did not try telling herself it was only the cold. Faile knew
she was not a coward, but when Therava looked at her, Faile saw herself as a rabbit in that eagle’s
talons, alive and waiting for the beak to descend. It had been Therava who first told her to spy on
Sevanna, and however circumspect the other Wise Ones might have been, Faile had no doubt that
Therava would slit her throat without the slightest qualm if she failed her. There was no use pretending
the woman did not frighten her. She just had to control that fear. If she could.
"I think she was planning to run away, Sevanna. But I think she can learn to do as she is told."
The rough wooden table had been set out between the tents in the nearest open space to
Sevanna’s tent, a hundred paces away. At first, Faile thought that the shame of being naked would be the
worst of it, that and the icy cold that pebbled her skin. The sun sat low in the sky; the air had grown
colder, and it would get much colder before morning. She had to stay there till morning. The Shaido
were good at learning what shamed wetlanders, and they used shame as a punishment. She thought she
would die of blushing whenever anyone looked at her, but the Shaido who passed by did not even pause.
In itself, nudity was no reason for shame among Aiel. Aravine appeared in front of her, but she stopped
only long enough to whisper, "Keep your courage," and then she was gone. Faile understood. Whether
or not the woman was loyal, she did not dare do anything to help.
After a very short time, Faile no longer worried about shame. Her wrists had been tied behind
her, and then her ankles had been doubled back and tied to her elbows. She understood now why Lacile
and Arrela had been panting. Breathing was an effort in this position. The cold bit deeper and deeper,
until she was shivering uncontrollably, but even that soon seemed secondary. Cramps began to burn in
her legs, her shoulders, her sides, bunching muscles that seemed on fire, twisting tighter and tighter and
tighter. She focused on not screaming. That became the center of her existence.
She-would-not-scream. But, oh, Light, she hurt! "Sevanna ordered that you were to remain
here till dawn, Faile Bashere, but she did not say you could not have company." She had to blink several
times before she could see clearly. Sweat stung her eyes. How could she be sweating when she was
frozen to the marrow? Rolan was standing in front of her, and strangely, he was carrying a pair of low
bronze braziers full of glowing coals, with pieces of cloth wrapped around a leg of each to protect his
hands from the heat. Seeing her stare at the braziers, he shrugged. "Once, a night in the cold would not
have bothered me, but I have grown soft since I crossed the Dragonwall." She almost gasped when he
set the braziers beneath the table. Warmth flooded up through the cracks between the planks. Her
muscles still shrieked with cramps, but oh, the blessed warmth. She did gasp when the man put an arm
across her chest and the other across her bent knees. Suddenly she realized the pressure was gone from
her elbows. He had . . . squeezed . . . her. One of his hands began working at her thigh, and she almost
screamed as his fingers dug into knotted muscles, but she felt the knots begin to loosen. They still hurt,
his massaging hurt, but the pain in that one thigh muscle was changing in kind. Not growing less,
exactly, but she knew that it would, if he continued.
"You do not mind if I occupy myself while I try to think of a way to make you laugh, do you?"
he asked. Suddenly she realized that she was laughing, and not hysterically. Well, it was only partly
hysteria. She was trussed like a goose for the oven and being saved from the cold for the second time by
a man she thought maybe she would not stab after all, Sevanna would be watching her like a hawk from
now on, and Therava might be trying to kill her as an example; but she knew she was going to escape.
One door never closed but another opened. She was going to escape. She laughed until she cried.
CHAPTER 10
A Blazing Beacon
The wide-eyed maid was more used to kneading bread dough than doing up rows of tiny buttons,
but eventually she finished buttoning Elayne into her dark green riding dress, curtsied and stepped back
breathing heavily, though whether from the effort of concentration or just from being in the presence of
the Daughter-Heir was hard to tell. The Great Serpent ring on Elayne’s left hand might have had
something to do with it, too. Just over twenty miles in a straight line would take you from the manor of
House Matherin to the River Erinin and all its great commerce, but the distance was far greater in actual
miles to be covered through the Chishen Mountains, and people here were more accustomed to cattle
raids across the border from Murandy than any sort of visitor, especially a visitor who wrapped the
Daughter-Heir and an Aes Sedai into one package. The honor seemed beyond what some of the servants
could bear. Elsie had been painfully conscientious in folding the blue silk gown that Elayne had worn
last night and packing it away in a large leather traveling chest, one of a pair in the apartment’s dressing
room, so conscientious that Elayne had nearly taken over the task herself.
She had slept poorly at first, fitful and waking, then slept late when she could sleep, and she was
beyond chafing to be on her way back to Caemlyn.
This was the fifth time she had spent a night out of Caemlyn since learning the city was
threatened, and on each trip she had given a day to visiting three or four manors, once five, all the
property of men and women bound to House Trakand by blood or oaths, and every visit took time. The
press of time weighed down her bones, yet presenting the proper image was necessary. Riding clothes
were needed to travel from one manor to the next lest she arrived rumpled and looking a fugitive, but
she had to change before settling in whether it was for the night or just a few hours. Half those hours
might be taken up by shifting from riding clothes to a gown and back again, but riding clothes spoke of
haste and need, perhaps of desperation, while the coronet of the Daughter-Heir and an embroidered
gown trimmed with lace, unpacked from a set of traveling cases and donned after washing, portrayed
confidence and strength. She would have brought her own maid to add to the impression if Essande had
been up to keeping the pace in winter, though she suspected the white-haired woman’s slowness would
have had her chewing her tongue in frustration. Still, Essande could not have been as slow as this
goggled-eyed young Elsie.
At last Elsie handed her her fur-lined crimson cloak with a curtsy, and she slung the cloak around
her shoulders hastily. A fire blazed on the stone hearth, but the room was nowhere near warm, and
recently she could not seem to ignore the cold with any reliability.
The girl bobbed as she asked whether she could fetch men to carry down the chests if it pleased
Her Majesty. The first time she had done that, Elayne had gently explained that she was not yet Queen,
but Elsie seemed horrified at the idea of addressing her simply as my Lady, or even as Princess, though
in truth the last was considered very old-fashioned. Proper or not, it usually pleased Elayne to hear
someone acknowledge her right to the throne, but this morning she was too tired to be anything but
anxious to be on the road. Suppressing a yawn, she told Elsie curtly to fetch the men and be quick about
it, and turned for the paneled door. The girl rushed to open it for her, which took longer than if she had
done it herself, with a curtsy before opening and yet another after. Her divided silk skirts whispered
furiously against each other as she strode out of the room tugging on her red riding gloves. If Elsie had
delayed her one more second, she thought she would have screamed.
It was the girl who shrieked, however, before Elayne had gone three paces, a horrified howl that
sounded ripped from her throat. The cloak flared as Elayne spun around, embracing the True Source,
feeling the richness of saidar flood through her. Elsie was standing on the strip of carpet that ran along
the middle of the pale brown floor tiles, staring the other way down the hall with both hands pressed to
her mouth. Two crossing corridors opened in that direction, but there was not another soul in sight.
"What is it, Elsie?" Elayne demanded. She had several weaves already on the edge of forming, ranging
from a simple net of air to a fireball that would have demolished half the walls in front of her, and in her
present humor, she wanted to use one of them, to strike out with the Power. Her moods were uncertain
of late, to say the least.
The girl looked back over one shoulder, trembling, and if her eyes had been wide before, they
bulged now. Her hands remained clamped to mouth as if to prevent another scream. Dark-haired and
dark-eyed, tall and plump-bosomed in House Matherin’s gray-andblue livery, she was not really a girl-
Elsie might be four or five years older than herself-but the way she behaved made it difficult to think
of her any other way.
"What is it, Elsie? And don’t tell me it was nothing. You look as if you’d seen a ghost."
The girl flinched. "I did," she said unsteadily. That she gave Elayne no title showed just how
unsteady she was. "Lady Nelein, as was Lord Aedmun’s grandmother. She died when I was little, but I
remember even Lord Aedmun tiptoed around her temper, and the maids used to jump if she looked at
them, and other ladies who visited, too, and the lords, as well. Everybody was afraid of her. She was
right there in front of me, and she scowled so furious-" She broke off, blushing, when Elayne laughed.
It was more a laugh of relief than anything else. The Black Ajah had not somehow followed her
to Lord Aedmun’s manor.
There were no assassins waiting with knives in their fists, no sisters loyal to Elaida wanting to
whisk her back to Tar Valon. Sometimes she dreamed about those things, about all of them in the same
dream. She released saidar, reluctantly as always, regretful as that fullness of joy and life drained out of
her. Matherin supported her, but Aedmun might have taken it amiss if she had ruined half his home
place.
"The dead cannot harm the living, Elsie," she said gently. The more gently because she had
laughed, not to mention wanting to box the ninny’s ears. "They’re not of this world anymore, and they
can’t touch anything in it, including us." The girl nodded, and dropped another curtsy, but by the size of
her eyes and the trembling of her lips she was unconvinced. Elayne had no time to cosset her, though.
"Fetch the men for my cases, Elsie," she said firmly, "and don’t worry about ghosts." With yet another
curtsy the girl dashed off, her head swiveling anxiously in case the Lady Nelein leaped out of the
paneled walls. Ghosts! The fool girl was a ninny! Matherin was an old House, if not large or strong, and
the main stairs, leading down to the entry hall, were broad and trimmed with marble railings. The entry
hall itself was a generous space, with gray-and-blue floor tiles and mirrored oil lamps hanging on chains
from the ceiling twenty feet above. There was nothing in the way of gilding and little inlay, but ornately
carved chests and cabinets stood along the sides of the hall, and two wall hangings were displayed on
one wall. One showed men hunting leopards from horseback, a chancy business at best, and the other
women of House Matherin presenting a sword to the first Queen of Andor, an event that Matherin
treasured and that might or might not have actually happened.
Aviendha was already down, pacing restlessly in the hall, and Elayne sighed at the sight. They
would have shared a room, if not for the implication that Matherin could not provide adequately for two
visitors of note, but Aviendha did not really understand that the smaller the House, the loftier the pride.
Often, the smaller Houses possessed little more. Pride, she should have understood, since a fierce pride
and strength all but shone from her. Straightbacked and even taller than Elayne, a thick dark shawl
draped over her pale blouse and a folded gray head scarf holding back her long reddish hair, she was the
very picture of a Wise One despite only a year older than Elayne. Wise Ones who could channel often
appeared to be much younger than they were, and Aviendha had the dignity. At this moment she did,
anyway, though the pair of them had giggled together often enough. Of course, her only jewelry was a
long, silver Kandori necklace, an amber brooch in the shape of a turtle and a wide ivory bracelet, and
Wise Ones always wore festoons of necklaces and bracelets, but Aviendha was not a Wise One yet,
merely an apprentice. Elayne never thought of Aviendha as merely anything, but it did present problems
now and then. Sometimes she thought the Wise Ones considered her an apprentice of some sort as well,
or at least a student. A silly thought, to be sure, but sometimes. . . .
As Elayne reached the foot of the stairs, Aviendha adjusted her shawl and asked, "Did you sleep
well?" Her tone was untroubled, but anxiety nestled around her green eyes. "You did not send for wine
to help you sleep, did you? I made sure your wine was watered when we ate, but I saw you looking at
the wine pitcher." "Yes, Mother," Elayne said in a sickly sweet voice. "No, Mother. I was wondering
how Aedmun got his hands on such a fine vintage, Mother. It was a shame to water it. And I drank the
goat’s milk before I went to sleep." If anything brought her to birthing sickness, it would be goat’s milk!
And to think she used to like it. Aviendha planted her fists on her hips, such an embodiment of
indignation that Elayne had to laugh. There were inconveniences to being with child, ranging from
abrupt swings in her temper to tenderness in her breasts to always being tired, but the coddling was the
worst, in some ways. Everyone in the Royal Palace knew she was pregnant-a good many had known
before she did, courtesy of Min’s viewing and Min being too free with her tongue-and she did not
think she could have been so mothered when she was an infant. Still, she put up with all the bother with
as much grace as she could muster. Usually, she did. They were only trying to be helpful. She just
wished every woman she knew did not believe that pregnancy had made her brainless. Nearly every
woman she knew. Those who had never borne a child themselves were the worst.
Thinking of her baby-at times she wished Min had said whether it would be a boy or girl, or
rather that Aviendha or Birgitte could recall exactly what Min actually had said; Min was always right,
but the three of them had consumed a great deal wine that night, and Min had been gone from the palace
long before Elayne herself knew to ask-thinking of the child growing in her always made her think of
Rand, just as thinking of him made her think of the babe. One followed the other as surely as cream rose
in the milkpan. She missed Rand terribly, and yet she could not miss him. A part of him, the sense of
him, rode always in the back of her head unless she masked the bond, right alongside her sense of
Birgitte, her other Warder. The bond had its limits, however. He was somewhere to the west, far enough
that she could tell little more than that he was alive. Nothing more, really, though she thought she would
know if he had been badly injured. She was not sure she wanted to know what he was up to. He had
been far to the south for a long time after leaving her, and now, just this morning, he had Traveled to the
west. It was disconcerting, really, to feel him in one direction and then suddenly have him off in another,
even farther away. He could be pursuing enemies or running from enemies or any one of a thousand
things. She hoped very much it was something innocuous that made him Travel. He was going to die on
her all too soon-men who could channel always died of it-but she wanted so very much to keep him
alive as long as possible.
"He is well," Aviendha said almost as though she could read her mind. They had their own
shared sense of one another since their mutual adoption as first-sisters, but it did not go as far as the
Warder bond they and Min shared with Rand. "If he allows himself to be killed, I will cut off his ears."
Elayne blinked, then laughed again, and after a startled glance, Aviendha joined in. It was not
that funny, except maybe to an Aiel-Aviendha’s sense of humor was very odd-but Elayne could not
stop laughing, and Aviendha seemed as helpless. Shaking with mirth, they hugged one another and hung
on. Life was very strange. Had anyone told her a few years ago that she would share a man with another
woman-with two other women!-she would have called them mad. The very idea would have been
indecent. But she loved Aviendha every bit as much as she did Rand, only in a different way, and
Aviendha loved Rand as much as she did.
Denying that meant denying Aviendha, and she could as easily step out of het skin. Aiel women,
sisters or close friends, often married the same man, and seldom gave him any say in the matter. She was
going to marry Rand, and so was Aviendha, and so was Min. Whatever anyone said or thought, that was
all there was to it. If he lived long enough.
Suddenly she became afraid that her laughter was edging toward tears. Please, Light, let her not
be one of those women who became weepy when they were with child. It was bad enough not knowing
whether she was going to be melancholy or furious from one minute to the next. Hours might pass when
she felt perfectly normal, but then there were hours when she felt like a child’s ball bouncing down an
endless flight of stairs. This morning, she seemed to be on the stairs.
"He is well, and he will be well," Aviendha whispered fiercely, as if she intended to assure his
survival by killing anything that threatened him.
With the tips of her fingers, Elayne brushed a tear from her sister’s cheek. "He is well, and he
will be well," she agreed softly. But they could not kill saidin, and the taint on the male half of the
Power was what was going to kill him.
The lamps overhead flickered as one of the tall doors to the outside opened, letting in a gust of
air even colder than that in the entry hall, and they quickly moved a little apart, just holding hands.
Elayne schooled her face to a serene smoothness fully worthy of an Aes Sedai. She could not afford to
let anyone see her apparently seeking comfort in a hug. A ruler, or one who sought to rule, was not
allowed the slightest suggestion of weakness or tears, not in public. There were rumors enough about her
as it was, as many bad as good. She was benevolent or cruel, fair-minded or arbitrary, generous or
avaricious, all according to which tale you listened to. At least the tales balanced out one another, but
anyone who could say they had actually seen the Daughter-Heir huddling in the arms of her companion
might add a tale of fear to the blend, and if her enemies believed she was afraid, they would only grow
bolder. And stronger. Cowardice was the sort of rumor that stuck like greasy mud; you never could wash
it off completely. History recorded women who had lost their bids for the Lion Throne on no further
discernible grounds. Capability was a requirement for a successful ruler and wisdom was to be hoped
for, though women lacking both had gained the throne and muddled through somehow, but few would
support a coward, and none of those people she wanted on her side.
The man who came in, turning to push the massive door shut behind him, had only one leg and
used a crutch in place of the other. Even with fleece padding, the sleeve of his heavy woolen coat was
worn from it. A heavy-shouldered former soldier, Fridwyn Ros managed Lord Aedmun’s estate, with
the aid of a fat clerk who had blinked at the Daughter-Heir in consternation, gaped at her Great Serpent
ring with something near to awe, and scurried back to his ledgers in relief as soon as he realized she had
no business with him. He had probably feared a levy on the manor’s accounts. Master Ros had stared at
her ring in amazement, to be sure, but he had grinned with delight at the Daughter-Heir and regretted
that he could no longer ride for her with such sincerity that, had he been a liar, he would already have
bilked Aedmun and the clerk of everything they owned between them. She did not fear him carrying the
wrong tales.
His crutch made a rhythmic thump as he came up the hall, and he managed a credible bow in
spite of it, including Aviendha in his courtesy. He had been startled by her at first, but surprisingly quick
to catch their friendship, and if he did not entirely trust an Aiel, it meant he accepted her. You could not
ask for everything. "The men are strapping your cases to the pack animals, my Queen, and your escort is
ready." He was one of those who refused to call her anything except "my Queen" or "Majesty," but a
hint of doubt entered his voice at mention of her escort. He covered it hastily with a cough and hurried
on. "The men we’re sending with you are all mounted as well as I could manage. Young men, mainly,
and a few more experienced, but they all know which end of a halberd has the point. I wish the manor
could give you more, but I explained, when Lord Aedmun heard there were others claiming what’s
yours by right, he decided not to wait for spring, and he called in his armsmen and set out for Caemlyn.
We’ve had a couple of bad snowfalls since, but he might be halfway there by now with luck in the
passes." His gaze carried conviction, but he knew better than she that with the wrong luck Aedmun and
his armsmen might be dead in those passes.
"Matherin has always maintained faith with Trakand," Elayne told him, "and I put my trust that
it always will. I value Lord Aedmun’s loyalty, Master Ros, and yours."
She did not insult Matherin, and him, by promising to remember or offering rewards, yet Master
Ros’ broad smile said she had already given him as much reward as he desired. Matherin would receive
rewards, if they were earned, but they could not be held out as if offering to buy a horse.
Thumping along on his crutch, Master Ros bowed her to the door, and bowed her out onto the
broad granite step where servants wearing heavy coats waited in the bitter cold with a stirrup cup of hot
spiced wine that she rejected with a murmur. Until she had a chance to adjust to the sharp air, she
wanted both hands to hold her cloak closed. Aviendha would probably have found a way to make her
drop it anyway. She took a cup, after wrapping her shawl around her head and shoulders, the only
concession she made to the icy morning. She was ignoring the cold, of course. Elayne was the one who
had taught her how. Elayne tried again to push the cold away, and to her surprise, it receded. Not all the
way-she still felt chilly-but it was better than freezing.
The sky was clear, the sun bright as it sat over the mountains, but storm clouds could come
boiling across the surrounding peaks at any time. It would be best to reach their first destination today as
quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Fireheart, her tall black gelding, was living up to his name, rearing
and snorting gouts of steamy breath as if he had never worn a bridle before, and Aviendha’s leggy archnecked
gray had taken it into her head to imitate him, dancing in the knee-deep snow and trying to go
anywhere except where the groom tried to lead her. She was a more spirited animal than Elayne would
have chosen for her sister, yet Aviendha herself had insisted after learning the mare’s name. Siswai
meant spear, in the Old Tongue. The grooms seemed capable women, but they appeared to think they
needed to calm the animals before handing them over. It was all Elayne could do not to snap at them that
she had managed Fireheart before they ever saw him.
Her escort was already mounted, to avoid standing in the snow, twenty-odd riders in the whitecollared
red coats and brightly burnished breastplates and helmets of the Queen’s Guard. Master Ros’
doubt might be explained by the fact that the riders’ coats were silk, as were their red breeches with the
white stripe up each leg, and by the pale lace they wore at neck and cuff. They certainly appeared more
ceremonial than effective. Or it might have been that they were all women. Women were uncommon in
jobs that required using weapons, just the occasional merchants’ guard or a rare woman who turned up
in an army during time of war, and Elayne had never heard of a group of all-female soldiers before she
created one. Except the Maidens, of course, but they were Aiel and a different matter. She hoped people
would think them an affectation on her part, and largely decorative with all the lace and silk. Men tended
to underestimate a woman carrying weapons until they faced one, and even most other women tended to
think her a brainless fool. Bodyguards usually tried to appear so ferocious that no one would dare trying
to get past them, but her enemies would just find a new way to attack if she stood the whole Queen’s
Guard around her shoulder-to-shoulder. A bodyguard her enemies would dismiss until it was too late for
more than regrets was her aim. She intended to make their uniforms more elaborate, partly to feed those
misconceptions and partly to feed the women’s pride as soldiers marked out from the rest, but she
herself had no doubts. Every one of them, from merchants’ guards to Hunters of the Horn, had been
carefully chosen for her skills, experience and courage. She was ready to put her life in their hands. She
already had.
A lean woman wearing a lieutenant’s two golden knots on the shoulder of her red cloak saluted
Elayne with an arm across her chest, and her roan gelding tossed his head, making the silver bells in his
mane chime faintly, as if he too were saluting. "We are ready, my Lady, and the area is clear." Caseille
Raskovni was one of those who had been a merchant’s guard, and her Arafellin accents were not those
of an educated woman, but her voice was brisk and nononsense. She used the proper form of address,
and would until Elayne was crowned, yet she was ready to fight to gain that crown for Elayne. Very,
very few, male or female, signed the roster of the Queen’s Guard these days unless they were ready for
that. "The men Master Ros handed over are ready, too. As ready as they’ll ever be." Clearing his throat,
the man shifted his crutch and took to studying the snow in front of his boots.
Elayne could see what Caseille meant. Master Ros had scraped together eleven men from the
manor to send to Caemlyn and outfitted them with halberds and short-swords and what armor he could
find, nine antique helmets without faceguards and seven breastplates with dents that made them
vulnerable. Their mounts were not bad, though hairy with their winter coats, but even huddled as their
riders were in thick cloaks, she could see that eight were unlikely to need to shave above once in a week,
if that. The men Master Ros had described as being experienced had wrinkled faces and bony hands and
probably not a full set of teeth between them. He had not been lying or trying to stint; Aedmun would
have gathered all the fit men in the area to take with him and outfitted them in the best he had. The story
had been the same everywhere. Apparently a great number of hale and hearty men scattered the length
of Andor were trying to reach her in Caemlyn. And none of them likely to get into the city until all was
decided, now. She could search every day without finding a single band. Still, this little bunch held their
halberds as if they knew how to use them. Then again, that was not hard to do sitting a saddle at rest
with the halberd’s butt tucked in your stirrup. She could have managed that.
"We have visited nineteen of these manors, sister," Aviendha said softly, moving closer until
their shoulders touched, "and counting these, we have gathered two hundred and five boys too young to
be blooded and old men who should have laid down the spear long ago. I have not asked befote. You
know your people and your ways. Is this worth the time you give it?" "Oh, yes, sister." Elayne kept her
voice just as low, so the onelegged former soldier and the servants could not overhear. The best of
people could turn muleheaded if they realized you wanted them to behave a certain way. Particularly if
they realized that the help they had painfully gathered and offered, and you had accepted, was not what
you were after at all. "Everyone in that village down by the river knows I’m here by now, and so do half
the farms for miles.
By noon, the other half will know, and by tomorrow, the next village over, and more farms.
News travels slowly in winter, especially in this country. They know I’ve spoken my claim to the throne,
yet if I gain the throne tomorrow or die tomorrow, they might not learn of it before the middle of spring,
maybe not even until summer. But today they know that Elayne Trakand is alive that she visited the
manor in silks and jewels and summoned men to her banner. People twenty miles from here will claim
they saw me and touched my hand. Few people can say that without speaking in favor of whoever they
claim to have seen, and when you speak in favor of someone, you convince yourself to favor them.
There are men and women in nineteen places around Andor talking about how they saw the Daughter-
Heir just this last week, and every day the area that talk covers spreads like an inkblot. "If I had time, I’d
visit every village in Andor. It won’t make a hair of difference in what happens in Caemlyn, but it may
make all the difference after I win." She would not admit to any possibility other than winning.
Especially not given who would take the throne if she failed. "Most Queens in our history spent the first
years of their rule gathering the people solidly behind them, Aviendha, and some never did, but harder
times than these are coming. I may not have one year before I need every Andoran to stand behind me. I
can’t wait until I have the throne. Harder times are coming, and I have to be ready. Andor has to be
ready, and I must make it so," she finished firmly.
Smiling, Aviendha touched Elayne’s cheek. "I think I will learn a great deal about being a Wise
One from you." To her mortification, Elayne blushed in embarrassment. Her cheeks felt on fire! Maybe
the swings in humor were worse than the cosseting. Light, she had months of this to look forward to!
Not for the first time, she found a kernel of resentment toward Rand. He had done this to her-all right,
she had helped him, instigated the doing, in fact, but that was beside the point-he had done this and
walked away with a smug grin on his face. She doubted his grin tiad really been smug, but she could
picture it all too easily. Let him dart from giddy to weepy every other hour and see how he liked it! I
can’t think in a straight line, she thought irritably. That was his fault, too.
The grooms finally deemed Fireheart and Aviendha’s Siswai meek enough to be mounted by
ladies, and Aviendha climbed to her saddle from the stone mounting block with a good deal more grace
than she once had shown, arranging her bulky undivided skirts to cover as much of her dark-stockinged
legs as possible. She still believed that her own legs were superior to any horse, yet she had become a
passable rider. Though she did have a tendency to look surprised when the horse did as she wanted.
Fireheart tried to dance once Elayne was on his back, but she reined him in smartly, and a bit more
sharply than she would have normally. Her teetering moods had taken her to a sudden sense of dread for
Rand, and if she could not ensure his safety, there was one male at hand she could make certain did
exactly as he was supposed to. Six of the Guardswomen led the way down the road from the manor at a
slow walk, all the depth of snow would allow, with the rest following her and Aviendha in smart
columns, the last horsewomen in line leading the pack animals. The local men trailed behind raggedly
with their own packhorse, a shaggy creature tied about with cookpots and rough bundles and even half a
dozen live chickens. A few cheers greeted them as they rode through the thatch-roofed village and
across the stone bridge that crossed a snake-curved frozen stream, loud cries of "Elayne of the Lily!"
and "Trakand! Trakand!" and "Matherin stands!" But she saw a woman crying on her husband’s chest,
and tears on his face, too, and another woman who stood with her back to the riders and her head down,
refusing even to look. Elayne hoped she would send their sons home to them. There should be little
fighting at Caemlyn, unless she blundered badly, but there would be some, and once the Rose Crown
was hers, battles lay ahead. To the south lay the Seanchan, and to the north, Myrddraal and Trollocs
waiting to descend for Tarmon Gai’don. Andor would bleed sons in the days to come. Burn her, she was
not going to cry!
Beyond the bridge, the road slanted up again, a steep climb through pine and fir and leatherleaf,
but it was no more than a long mile to the mountain meadow they sought. The snow shining beneath the
midmorning sun still bore the marks of hooves coming from where a gateway had left a deep furrow in
the snow. It could have been nearer the manor, but the possibility of someone standing where your
gateway opened was always the danger.
The glow of saidar surrounded Aviendha as they rode into the meadow. She had made the
gateway to come here from their last stop yesterday afternoon, a manor a hundred miles north, so she
would weave the gateway to go to Caemlyn, but the sight of Aviendha shining with the Power made
Elayne go broody. Whoever made the gateway to leave Caemlyn always ended up making all the others
until they returned, since she learned the ground at each place her gateway touched, but on each of their
five trips, Aviendha had asked to make that first gateway. She might simply have wanted the practice, as
she claimed, though Elayne hardly had more practice than she did, but another possibility had come to
mind. Maybe Aviendha wanted to keep her from channeling, in any considerable amount at least.
Because she was pregnant. The weave that had made them sisters of the same mother could not have
been used if either of them had been with child, because the unborn child would have shared in the
bond, a thing it could not be strong enough to survive, but surely one of the Aes Sedai in the palace
would have said something if channeling was to be avoided in pregnancy. Then again, very few Aes
Sedai ever bore children. They might not know. She was aware there were many things Aes Sedai did
not know, however much they might pretend otherwise to the rest of the world-she herself had taken
advantage of that presumption from time to time-but it seemed very strange that they might be ignorant
of something so important to most women. It was as though a bird knew how to eat every seed and grain
except barley, so supposedly knew, because if it did not know how to eat barley, what else might it be
ignorant of? Wise Ones bore children, though, and they had said nothing about-
Abruptly concerns over her babe and channeling and what Aes Sedai might or might not know
were pushed right out of her head. She could feel someone channeling saidar. Not Aviendha, not
someone on one of the surrounding mountains, not anyone near as close as that. This was distant, like a
beacon blazing on a far mountaintop in the night. A very distant mountain. She could not imagine how
much of the One Power was needed for her to feel channeling at that distance. Every woman in the
world who could channel must be able to sense this. To point straight to it. And the beacon lay to the
west. Nothing had changed in the bond with Rand, she could not have said exactly where he was within
a hundred miles, but she knew.
"He’s in danger," she said. "We must go to him, Aviendha."
Aviendha gave herself a shake and stopped staring westward. The glow remained around her,
and Elayne could feel that she had drawn on the Source as deeply as she could. But even as Aviendha
turned to her, she felt the amount of saidar the other woman held dwindle. "We must not, Elayne."
Aghast, Elayne twisted in Fireheart’s saddle to stare at her. "You want to abandon him? To
that!" No one could handle so much of saidar, not the strongest circle, not unaided. Supposedly a
sa’angreal existed, greater than anything else ever made, and if what she had heard was correct, that
might be able to handle this. Maybe. But from what she had heard, no woman could use it and live, not
without ter’angreal made for the purpose, and no one had ever seen one that she knew of. Surely no
sister would try even if she had found one. That much of the One Power could level mountain ranges at
a stroke! No sister would try except perhaps one of the Black Ajah. Or worse, one of the Forsaken.
Maybe more than one. What else could it be? And Aviendha simply wanted to ignore it, when she must
know that Rand was there?
The Guardswomen, unaware, were still waiting patiently on their horses, keeping watch on the
treeline around the meadow and little concerned with that after their reception at the manor, though
Caseille was watching Elayne and Aviendha, a slight frown visible behind the face-bars of her helmet.
She knew they never delayed at opening a gateway. The men from the manor were gathered around their
packhorse, pawing at the bundles and apparently arguing over whether or not something had been
included. Aviendha still moved her gray closer to Elayne’s black and spoke in a voice that would not
carry.
"We know nothing, Elayne. Not whether he is dancing the spears or this is something else. If he
dances the spears and we rush in, will he attack us before he knows who are? Will we distract him
because he does not expect us, and allow his enemies to win? If he dies, we will find who took his life
and kill them, but if we go to him now, we go blindly, and we may bring disaster on our backs." "We
could be careful," Elayne said sullenly. It infuriated her that she was feeling sullen, and showing it, but
all she could do was ride her moods and try not let them get the upper hand completely. "We don’t have
to Travel right to the spot." Gripping her pouch, feeling the small ivory carving of a seated woman that
nestled inside, she looked pointedly at her sister’s amber brooch. "Light, Aviendha, we have angreal,
and neither of us is exactly helpless." Oh, Light, now she was sounding petulant. She knew very well
that both of them together, angreal and all, would be flies battling a flame against what they could
sense, but even so, a flybite at the right moment might make the difference. "And don’t tell me I’ll
endanger the baby. Min said she will be born strong and healthy. You told me so yourself. That means I
will live at least long enough for my daughter to be born." She hoped for a daughter. Fireheart chose that
moment to nip at the gray, and Siswai nipped back, and for a bit Elayne was occupied with getting her
gelding under control and keeping Aviendha from being thrown and telling Caseille that they did not
need any help, and by the end of it, she was not feeling sullen any longer. She wanted to smack Fireheart
right between his ears.
Aside from making the animal obey the reins, Aviendha behaved as if nothing had happened at
all. She did frown, a little uncertainly, her face framed by the dark wool of her shawl, but her uncertainty
had nothing to do with the horse.
"I have told you about the rings in Rhuidean," she said slowly, and Elayne gave an impatient
nod. Every woman who wanted to become a Wise One was sent through a ter’angreal before she began
training. It was something like the ter’angreal used to test novices for being raised to Accepted in the
White Tower, except that in this one, a woman saw her whole life. All of her possible lives, really, every
decision made differently, an infinite fan of lives based on differing choices. "No one can remember all
of that, Elayne, only bits and pieces. I knew I would love Rand al’Thor . . . " she was still uncomfortable
sometimes about using just his first name in front of others, "and that I would find sister-wives. For most
things, all you retain is a vague impression at best. A hint of warning, sometimes. I think if we go to him
now, something very bad will happen. Maybe one of us will die, maybe both in spite of what Min said."
That she said Min’s name without fumbling was a measure of her concern. She did not know
Min very well, and usually named her formally, as Min Farshaw. "Perhaps he will die. Perhaps
something else. I do not know for sure-maybe we will all survive, and we will sit around a fire with
him roasting pecara when we find him-but the glimmer of a warning is there in my head." Elayne
opened her mouth angrily. Then she closed it again, anger draining away like water down a hole, and her
shoulders slumped. Perhaps Aviendha’s glimmer was true and perhaps not, but the fact was that her
arguments had been good from the start. A great risk taken in ignorance, and taking it might bring
disaster. The beacon had grown brighter still. And he was there, right where the beacon was. The bond
did not tell her so, not at this distance, but she knew. And she knew she had to leave him to take care of
himself while she took care of Andor.
"I don’t have anything to teach you about being a Wise One, Aviendha," she said quietly. "You
are already much wiser than I. Not to mention braver and more coolheaded. We return to Caemlyn."
Aviendha colored faintly under the praise-she could be very sensitive, at times-but she wasted no
time in opening the gateway, a rotating view of a stableyard in the Royal Palace that widened into a hole
in the air and let snow from the meadow fall onto the clean-swept paving stones as near three hundred
miles away as made no difference. The sense of Birgitte, somewhere in the palace, sprang alive in
Elayne’s head. Birgitte had a headache and a sour stomach, not unusual occurrences of late, but they
suited Elayne’s mood all too well.
I must leave him to take care of himself, she thought as she rode through. Light, how often had
she thought that? No matter. Rand was the love of her heart and the joy of her life, but Andor was her
duty.
CHAPTER 11
Talk of Debts
The gateway was positioned so that Elayne seemed to be riding out of a hole in the wall against
the street, into a square marked out for safety by sand-filled wine barrels standing on the paving stones.
Oddly, she could not feel a single woman channeling anywhere in the palace, though it housed more
than a hundred and fifty with the ability. Some would be stationed on the city’s outer walls, of course,
too far for her to sense anything short of a linked circle, and a few would be out of the city altogether,
yet someone in the palace was almost always using saidar, whether to try forcing one of the captive
sul’dam to admit that she really could see weaves of the One Power or simply to smooth the wrinkles
from a shawl without heating an iron. Not this morning, though. Windfinder arrogance often matched
the worst shown by any Aes Sedai, yet even that must be quashed by what they sensed. Elayne thought
that if she climbed to a high window, she must be able to see the weaves of that great beacon, hundreds
of leagues distant as they were. She felt like an ant that had just become aware of mountains, an ant
comparing the Spine of the World to the hills it had always held in awe. Yes, even the Windfinders must
be walking small in the face of that.
On the eastern side of the palace and fronted on north and south by two-story-high stables of
pure white stone, the Queen’s Stableyard traditionally was given over to the Queen’s personal horses
and carriages, and she had hesitated over using it before the Lion Throne was acknowledged hers. The
steps that led to the throne were as delicate as any court dance, and if the dance sometimes came to
resemble a tavern brawl, you still had to make your steps with grace and precision in order to gain your
goal. Claiming the perquisites before being confirmed had cost some women their chance to rule. In the
end, she had decided it was not a transgression that would make her seem over-proud. Besides, the
Queen’s Stableyard was relatively small and had no other use. There were fewer people to keep away
from an opening gateway here. In fact, when she entered it, the stone-paved yard was empty apart from
a single red-coated groom standing in one of the arched stable doorways, but he turned to give a shout
inside, and dozens more came spilling out as she guided Fireheart clear of the marked-off square. After
all, she might have returned with an entourage of powerful lords and ladies, or perhaps they just hoped
she had. Caseille brought the Guardswomen through the gateway, and ordered most to dismount and see
to their animals. She and half a dozen more remained in their saddles, keeping watch over the heads of
the people afoot. Even here, she would not leave Elayne unguarded. Particularly here, where she faced
more danger than in any manor she had visited. The Matherin men milled about, getting in the way of
grooms and Guards while gaping at the white stone balconies and colonnades that overlooked the yard
and the spires and golden domes visible beyond. The cold seemed less here than in the mountains-
refusing to let it touch her, as far as she could at present, did not make her totally unaware-but men and
women and horses all still breathed faint plumes of mist. The odor of horse dung seemed strong, too,
after the clean air of the mountains. A hot bath in front of a roaring fire would be welcome. Afterward,
she would have to plunge back into the business of securing the throne, but right now a long soak would
be just the thing.
A pair of grooms ran to Fireheart. One took his bridle with a hurried curtsy for Elayne, more
concerned with seeing that the tall gelding made no bother while Elayne dismounted than with making
courtesies herself, and another who made his bow and remained bent with his hands making a stirrup for
Elayne. Neither gave more than a glance at the view of a snow-covered mountain meadow where they
would normally see a stone wall. The stableworkers were accustomed to gateways by now. She had
heard that they garnered drinks in the taverns by boasting of how often they saw the Power used and the
things they supposedly had seen done with it. Elayne could imagine what those tales sounded like by the
time they reached Arymilla. She rather enjoyed the thought of Arymilla chewing her fingernails.
As she set foot on the paving stones, a cluster of Guardswomen appeared around her, in crimson
hats with white plumes lying flat on the broad brims, and lace-edged crimson sashes, embroidered with
the White Lion, that slanted across their bright breastplates. Not until then did Caseille take the
remainder of Elayne’s escort to the stable. Their replacements were just as wary, eyes watching every
direction, hands hovering near their sword hilts, except for Deni, a wide, placid-faced woman who
carried a long brassstudded cudgel. They were only nine in number-Only nine, Elayne thought bitterly.
I need only nine bodyguards in the Royal Palace itself!-yet every one who carried a sword was expert.
Women who followed the "trade of the sword," as Caseille called it, had to be good, or else sooner or
later they were cut down by some fellow whose only advantage was strength enough to batter her down.
Deni possessed no facility with a sword at all, but the few men who had tested her cudgel regretted
doing so. Despite her bulk, Deni was very quick, and she had no concept of fighting fair, or of practice,
for that matter.
Rasoria, the stocky under-lieutenant in charge, seemed relieved when the grooms led Fireheart
off. If Elayne’s bodyguard had their way, no one except themselves would have been allowed within
arm’s reach. Well, maybe they were not quite that bad, but they looked with suspicion at almost
everyone except Birgitte and Aviendha. Rasoria, a Tairen despite her blue eyes and the yellow hair she
wore cut short, was among the worst in that regard, even insisting on watching the cooks make Elayne’s
meals and having everything tasted before it was brought up. Elayne had not protested, however overzealous
they might be. One experience of drugged wine was more than enough, even when she knew she
would live at least long enough to bear her child. But it was neither the Guardswomen’s mistrust nor the
need for it that tightened her mouth. It was Birgitte, weaving her way through the crowded stableyard,
but not toward her.
Aviendha was last to appear out of the gateway, of course, after she was sure that everyone was
through, and before she let the gateway wink out of existence, Elayne started in her direction, striding
off so suddenly that her escort had to leap to maintain their guarding ring around her. As quickly as she
moved, though, Birgitte, with her thick golden braid hanging to her waist, was there first, helping
Aviendha down and handing the gray mare over to a long-faced groom who seemed almost as leggy as
Siswai. Aviendha always had more difficulty getting off a horse than getting on, but Birgitte had more
than assistance in mind. Elayne and her escort arrived just in time to hear the woman say to Aviendha in
a low, hurried voice, "Did she drink her goat’s milk? Did she get enough sleep? She feels. . . ." Her
voice trailed off at the end, and she drew a deep breath before turning to face Elayne, outwardly calm,
and unsurprised to find her right there. The bond did work both ways.
Birgitte was not a big woman, though she stood taller than Elayne in her heeled boots, as tall as
Aviendha, but she usually had a presence that was only heightened by the uniform of the Captain-
General of the Queen’s Guards, a short red coat with a high white collar worn over baggy blue trousers
tucked into gleaming black boots, four golden knots on her left shoulder and four bands of gold on each
white cuff. After all, she was Birgitte Silverbow, a hero out of legend. She remained wary of trying to
live up to those legends; she claimed that the stories were grossly inflated where they were not complete
fabrications. Yet she was still the same woman who had done every one of the things that formed the
heart of those legends and more besides. Now, despite her apparent composure, unease tinged the
concern for Elayne that flowed through the bond along with her headache and her sullen stomach. She
knew very well that Elayne hated for them to check on her behind her back. That was not the whole
reason for Elayne’s irritation, but the bond let Birgitte know just how upset she was. Aviendha, calmly
unwrapping her shawl from around her head and draping it over her shoulders, attempted the gaze of a
woman who had done nothing wrong and certainly was not involved with anyone else who had done
anything wrong. She might have managed it if she had not widened her eyes for an added touch of
innocence. Birgitte was a bad influence on her in some ways. "I drank the goat’s milk," Elayne said in a
level voice, all too conscious of the Guardswomen ringing the three of them. Facing outward, eyes
scanning the yard and the balconies and the rooftops, nearly every one was certainly listening. "I got
enough sleep. Is there anything else you want to ask me?" Aviendha’s cheeks colored faintly.
"I think I have all the answers I need for the moment," Birgitte replied without a hint of the blush
Elayne had been hoping for. The woman knew she was tired, knew she had to be lying about the sleep.
The bond was decidedly inconvenient at times. She had drunk nothing but half a cup of
extremely well watered wine last night, but she was beginning to have Birgitte’s morning-after head and
her sour stomach. None of the other Aes Sedai she had spoken to about the bond had mentioned
anything of the kind, but she and Birgitte all too often mirrored one another, physically and emotionally.
The last presented real problems when her moods were on a seesaw. Sometimes she managed to shrug it
off, or fight it off, but today she knew she was going to have to suffer until Birgitte was Healed. She
thought the mirroring must occur because they were both women. No one had heard of anyone bonding
another woman before. Few had heard of it now, to tell the truth, and some of them seemed to believe it
could not be true. A Warder was male as surely as a bull was male. Everyone knew that, and not many
stopped to think that anything that "everyone knew" deserved close examination.
Being caught in a lie, when she was trying to follow Egwene’s dictate about living as if she had
already taken the Three Oaths, made Elayne defensive, and that made her blunt. "Is Dyelin back?" "No,"
Birgitte said just as bluntly, and Elayne sighed. Dyelin had left the city days before Arymilla’s army
appeared, taking Reanne Corly with her to make gateways and speed her travel, and a great deal
depended on Dyelin’s return. On what news she brought back. On whether she brought anything besides
news. Choosing who would be Queen of Andor was quite simple, boiled down to essentials. There were
over four hundred Houses in the realm, but only nineteen strong enough that others would follow where
they led. Usually, all nineteen stood behind the Daughter-Heir, or most of them, unless she was plainly
incompetent. House Mantear had lost the throne to Trakand when Mordrellen died only because
Tigraine, the Daughter-Heir, had vanished and Mantear had begun running heavily to boy children. And
because Morgase Trakand had gathered thirteen Houses in her support. Only ten of the nineteen were
necessary to ascend the throne, by law and custom. Even claimants who still thought they should have
the throne themselves usually fell in with the rest, or at least fell silent and gave up their pursuit, once
another woman had ten Houses at her back.
Things had been bad enough when she had three declared rivals, but now Naean and Elenia were
united behind Arymilla Marne, of all people, the least likely of the three to have succeeded, and that
meant she had two Houses-two large enough to count;
Matherin and those eighteen others she had visited were too small-her own Trakand and
Dyelin’s Taravin, to face six. Oh, Dyelin insisted that Carand, Coelan and Renshar would come to
Elayne, and Norwelyn and Pendar and Traemane besides, but the first three wanted Dyelin herself on the
throne, and the last three seemed to have gone into hibernation. Dyelin was firm in her loyalty, though,
and tireless on Elayne’s behalf. She persisted in her belief that some of the Houses that were keeping
silent could be convinced to support Elayne. Of course, Elayne could not approach them herself, but
Dyelin could. And now the situation verged on desperate. Six Houses supporting Arymilla, and only a
fool would think she had not sent feelers out toward the others. Or that some might listen just because
she did have six already.
Despite the fact that Caseille and her Guards had vacated the courtyard, Elayne and the others
had to thread their way across the paving stones though a crowd. The men from Matherin were finally
down off their horses, but they were still moiling about, dropping their halberds and picking them up
only to drop them again, trying to unload their packhorse there in the stableyard. One of the boys was
chasing a chicken that somehow had gotten loose and was scuttling between the horses’ legs, while one
of the wrinkled old men shouted encouragement, though whether for the boy or the chicken was unclear.
A leather-faced bannerman with the merest fringe of white hair remaining, in a faded red coat that
strained across his belly, was trying to establish order with the help of an only slightly younger
Guardsman, both of them likely returned from their pensions, as a good many had, but another of the
boys seemed about to lead his shaggy horse into the palace itself, and Birgitte had to order him out of
the way before Elayne could enter. The boy, a fuzz-cheeked lad who could not have been above
fourteen, gaped at Birgitte as widely as he had at the palace. She was certainly more picturesque in her
uniform than the Daughter-Heir in a riding dress, and he had already seen the Daughter-Heir. Rasoria
gave him a shove back toward the old bannerman, shaking her head.
"I don’t naming know what I can do with them," Birgitte grumbled as a maid liveried in red-andwhite
took Elayne’s cloak and gloves in the small entry hall. Small in terms of the Royal Palace. With
gilded stand-lamps flickering between narrow, fluted white columns, it was half again the size of
Matherin’s main entry hall, though the ceiling was not so high. Another maid with the White Lion on the
left breast of her dress, a girl not that much older than the boy who had tried to bring his horse inside,
offered a ropework silver tray with tall cups of steaming spiced wine before simultaneous frowns from
Aviendha and Birgitte made her shy back. "The flaming boys fall asleep if they’re put on guard,"
Birgitte went on, scowling at the retreating maid. "The old men stay awake, but half can’t remember
what they’re flaming supposed to do if they see somebody trying to scale the bloody wall, and the other
half together couldn’t fight off six shepherds with a dog." Aviendha raised an eyebrow at Elayne and
nodded.
"They aren’t here to fight," Elayne reminded them as they started down a blue-tiled corridor
lined with mirrored stand-lamps and inlaid chests, Birgitte and Aviendha on either side of her and the
Guardswomen spreading out a few paces ahead of them and behind. Light, she thought, I wouldn’t have
taken the wine! Her head pounded in rhythm with Birgitte’s, and she touched her temple, wondering
whether she should order her Warder to go find Healing immediately.
Birgitte had other ideas, though. She eyed Rasoria and the others in front, then looked over her
shoulder and motioned those following to fall back a little more. That was strange. She had handpicked
every last woman in the Guards, and she trusted them. Even so, when she spoke it was in a hurried nearwhisper,
bending her head close to Elayne. "Something happened just before you returned. I was asking
Sumeko if she’d Heal me before you got back, and she suddenly fell over in a faint. Her eyes just rolled
up in her head, and down she went. It isn’t only her. Nobody will admit a flaming thing, not to me, but
the other Kin I’ve seen have been jumping out of their bloody skins, and the Windfinders, too. Not one
of them could spit if she had to. You were back before I could find a sister, but I suspect they’d give me
the fish eye, too. They’ll tell you, though."
The palace required the population of a large village to keep running, and servants had begun to
appear, liveried men and women scurrying along the corridors, flattening themselves against the walls or
ducking into crossing hallways to make room for Elayne’s escort, so she explained the little she knew in
as soft a voice and as few words as possible. Some rumors she did not mind reaching the streets, and
inevitably Arymilla, but tales of Rand could be as bad as tales of the Forsaken by the time they were
twisted through a few retellings. Worse, in a way. No one would believe the Forsaken were trying to put
her on the throne as a puppet. "In any event," she finished, "it’s nothing to do with us here."
She thought she sounded very convincing, very cool and detached, but Aviendha reached out to
squeeze her hand, for an Aiel as much as a comforting hug with so many people to see, and Birgitte’s
sympathy flooded through the bond. It was more than commiseration; it was the shared feeling of a
woman who had already suffered the loss she herself feared and more. Gaidal Cain was lost to Birgitte
as surely as if he were dead, and on top of that, her memories of her past lives were fading. She
remembered almost nothing clearly before the founding of the White Tower, and not all of that. Some
nights, the fear that Gaidal would fade from her memory, too, that she would lose any remembrance of
actually having known and loved him, left her unable to sleep until she drank as much brandy as she
could hold. That was a poor solution, and Elayne wished she could offer a better, yet she knew her own
memories of Rand would not die until she did, and she could not imagine the horror of knowing those
memories might leave her. Still, she hoped someone Healed Birgitte’s morning-after head soon, before
her own split open like an over-ripe melon. Her ability with Healing fell short of the task, and
Aviendha’s was no stronger. Despite the emotion she could feel in Birgitte, the other woman kept her
face smooth and unconcerned. "The Forsaken," she muttered dryly. And softly. That was not a name to
bandy about. "Well, as long as it has nothing to do with us, we’re bloody all right." A grunt that might
have been a laugh gave her the lie. But then, although Birgitte said she had never been a soldier before,
she had a soldier’s view. Long odds were usually the only odds you could find, but you still had to get
the job done. "I wonder what they think of it?" she added, nodding toward the four Aes Sedai who had
just stepped out of a crossing corridor down the hallway.
Vandene, Merilille, Sareitha and Careane had their heads together as they walked, or rather, the
last three were clustered around Vandene, leaning toward her and talking with urgent gestures that made
the fringes on their shawls sway. Vandene glided along slowly as if she were alone, paying no heed. She
had always been slender, but her dark green dress, embroidered with flowers on the sleeves and
shoulders, hung on her as though made for a stouter woman, and the white hair gathered at the nape of
her neck seemed in need of a brush. Her expression was bleak, but that might have had nothing to do
with whatever the other sisters were saying. She had been joyless ever since her sister’s murder. Elayne
would have wagered that dress had belonged to Adeleas. Since the murder, Vandene wore her sister’s
clothes more often than her own. Not that that accounted for the fit. The two women had been of a size,
but Vandene’s appetite for food had died with her sister. Her taste for most things seemed to have died
then.
Sareitha, a Brown whose dark square face was not yet touched with agelessness, saw Elayne just
then, and put a hand on Vandene’s arm as if to draw her up the corridor. Vandene brushed the Tairen
woman’s hand away and glided on with the merest glance at Elayne, disappearing on along the hallway
they had come out of. Two women in novice white, who had been following the others at a respectful
distance, offered quick curtsies to the remaining sisters and hastened after Vandene. Merilille, a tiny
woman in dark gray that made her Cairhienin paleness seem like ivory, stared as if she might follow.
Careane adjusted her green-fringed shawl on shoulders wider than those of many men and exchanged
quiet words with Sareitha. The pair of them turned to meet Elayne as she approached, making her
curtsies almost as deep as the novices had given them. Merilille noticed the Guardswomen and blinked,
then noticed Elayne and gave a start. Her curtsy matched the novices’. Merilille had worn the shawl for
over a hundred years, Careane for more than fifty, and even Sareitha had worn it longer than Elayne
Trakand, but standing among Aes Sedai went with strength in the Power, and none of these three was
more than middling strong among sisters. In Aes Sedai eyes, increased strength gave, if not increased
wisdom, at least increased weight to your opinions. With a sufficient gap, those opinions became
commands. Sometimes, Elayne thought the Kin’s way was better.
"I don’t know what it is," she said before any of the other Aes Sedai could speak, "but there is
nothing we can do about it, so we might as well quit worrying. We have enough right in front of us
without fretting over things we can’t affect."
Rasoria half-turned her head, frowning and plainly wondering what she had missed, but the
words smoothed the anxiety from Sareitha’s dark eyes. Perhaps not from the rest of her, since her hands
moved as if she wanted to smooth her brown skirts, yet she was willing to follow the lead of a sister who
stood as high as Elayne. Sometimes, there were advantages to standing high enough that you could quell
objections with a sentence. Careane had already regained serenity, if she had ever lost it. It sat easily on
her, though she looked more like a wagon driver than an Aes Sedai despite her beryl-slashed silks and
smooth, ageless coppery face.
But then, Greens usually were made of tougher stuff than Browns. Merilille did not look at all
serene. Wide eyes and half-parted lips gave her the appearance of startlement. That was usual for her,
though.
Elayne continued along the hallway, hoping they would go about their business, but Merilille fell
in beside Birgitte. The Gray should have taken primacy among the three, but she had developed a
tendency to wait for someone to tell her what to do, and she shifted over without a word when Sareitha
politely asked Birgitte to give her room. The sisters were unfailingly courteous to Elayne’s Warder when
she was acting as Captain-General. It was Birgitte as Warder they tried to ignore. Aviendha received no
such civility from Careane, who elbowed in between her and Elayne. Anyone not trained in the White
Tower was a wilder by definition, and Careane despised wilders. Aviendha pursed her lips though she
did not draw her belt knife or even suggest that she might, for which Elayne was grateful. Her first-sister
could be . . . precipitate, at times. On second thought, she would have forgiven a little hastiness from
Aviendha right then. Custom forbade rudeness toward another Aes Sedai under any circumstances, but
Aviendha could have growled threats and waved her knife to her heart’s content. That might have been
enough to make the threesome leave, even if in a tizzy. Careane did not seem to notice the cool green
gaze marking her.
"I told Merilille and Sareitha it was nothing we could do anything about," she said calmly. "But
shouldn’t we be ready to flee if it comes closer? There’s no shame flying from that. Even linked, we
would be moths fighting a forest fire. Vandene wouldn’t bother to listen."
"We really should make some sort of preparations, Elayne," Sareitha murmured absently, as if
making lists in her head. "It’s when you don’t make plans that you wish you had. There are a number of
volumes in the library here that mustn’t be left behind. I believe several can’t be found in the Tower
library." "Yes." Merilille’s voice was breathless, and as anxious as her large dark eyes. "Yes, we really
should be ready to go. Perhaps. . . . Perhaps we should not wait. Surely going from necessity would not
violate our agreement. I am sure it would not." Only Birgitte as much as glanced at her, but she flinched.
"If we do go," Careane said as if Merilille had not spoken, "we’ll have to take all of the Kin with
us. Allow them to scatter, and the Light only knows what they’ll do or when we will ever catch them
again, especially now that some have learned to Travel." There was no bitterness in her voice, though
only Elayne among the sisters in the palace could Travel. It seemed to make a difference to Careane that
the Kinswomen had begun in the White Tower, even if most had been put out and a few had run away.
She had identified no fewer than four of them herself, including one runaway. At least they were not
wilders.
Sareitha’s mouth tightened, though. It weighed on her that several Kinswomen could weave
gateways, and she had very different notions of the Kin. Normally, she limited her objections to the
occasional frown or disparaging grimace, since Elayne had made her own views clear, but the stress of
the morning seemed to have loosened her tongue. "We do indeed need to take them with us," she said in
a cutting tone, "else they’ll all be claiming to be Aes Sedai as soon as they’re out of our sight. Any
woman who maintains she was put out of the Tower over three hundred years ago will claim anything!
They need to be kept under a close watch, if you ask me, instead of going about as they please, most
especially those who can Travel. They may have gone where you told them and come back so far,
Elayne, but how long before one of them doesn’t return? Mark my words, once one of them escapes,
others will follow, and we will have a mess on our hands we’ll never clean up."
"There is no reason for us to go anywhere," Elayne said firmly, as much for the Guards as for the
sisters. That distant beacon was still in the same spot where she had first sensed it, and if it did move, the
chance seemed small that it would move toward Caemlyn, much less actually come there, but a rumor
that Aes Sedai were planning flight might be enough to engender a stampede, mobs clawing to reach the
gates ahead of whatever could frighten Aes Sedai. An army sacking the city would not kill as many. And
these three chattered away as if there were no one to hear but the wall hangings! There was some excuse
for Merilille, but not the others. "We will remain here, as the Amyrlin Seat has commanded, until the
Amyrlin commands otherwise. The Kinswomen will continue to receive every courtesy until they are
welcomed back into the Tower, and that is the Amyrlin’s command, too, as you very well know. And
you will continue teaching the Windfinders and go about your lives as Aes Sedai should. We are
supposed to deal with people’s fears and soothe them, not spread senseless gossip and panic."
Well, perhaps she had been a touch more than firm. Sareitha put her gaze on the floor tiles like a
rebuked novice. Merilille flinched again at mention of the Windfinders, but that was to be expected. The
others gave lessons, but the Sea Folk held Merilille as tightly as they did one of their apprentices. She
slept in their quarters and normally was not seen without two or three of them, and her trailing meekly at
their heels. They refused to accept anything less than meekness from her.
"Of course, Elayne," Careane said hastily. "Of course. None of us would suggest disobeying the
Amyrlin." Hesitating, she adjusted her green-fringed shawl over her arms, seemingly occupied with
setting it just so. She did spare a pitying look for Merilille. "But speaking of the Sea Folk, could you tell
Vandene to take her share of the lessons?" When Elayne said nothing, her voice took on an edge that
would have been called sullen in anyone not Aes Sedai. "She says she’s too busy with those two
runaways, but she finds enough time to keep me talking some nights until I’m half asleep. That pair is
already so cowed they wouldn’t squeak if their dresses caught fire. They don’t need her attention. She
could take her portion of teaching those cursed wilders. Vandene needs to start behaving as an Aes
Sedai, too!"
Standing or no, rebuke or no, she gave Elayne a baleful glare that took her a moment to smother.
Elayne had been the one who made the bargain that led to Aes Sedai having to teach Windfinders, but so
far she herself had managed to miss giving more than a handful of lessons, claiming the press of other,
more important duties. Besides, the Sea Folk saw a shorebound teacher as a hireling, even an Aes Sedai,
and a hireling with less standing than a scullion at that. A scullion who might try to cheat on her labor.
She still thought Nynaeve had gone away just to avoid giving those lessons. Certainly no one expected
to end up in Merilille’s state, but even a few hours at a time was bad enough.
"Oh, no, Careane," Sareitha put in, still avoiding Elayne’s eye. And Merilille’s. In her opinion,
the Gray had gotten herself into this fix and thus deserved what came of it, but she did try not to rub salt
in the wounds. "Vandene is distraught over her sister, and Kirstian and Zarya help her occupy her
mind." Whatever she thought of the other Kin, she accepted that Zarya was a runaway, as she had to,
since Zarya was one of those Careane had recognized, and if Kirstian must be a liar, her own lie would
make her pay in full for that. Runaways were not treated kindly. "I spend hours with her, too, and she
almost never talks of anything but Adeleas. It’s as if she wants to add my memories to her own. I think
she needs to be allowed as much time as she needs, and those two keep her from being alone too often."
Giving Elayne a sidelong glance, she drew breath. "Still, teaching the Windfinders is certainly . . .
challenging. Perhaps an hour now and then would help pull her out of despondency, if only by making
her angry. Don’t you agree, Elayne? Just an hour or two, now and then."
"Vandene will be allowed as much time to grieve for her sister as she needs or wants," Elayne
said in level tones. "And there will be no more discussion of it."
Careane sighed heavily and rearranged her shawl again. Sareitha sighed faintly and began
twisting the Great Serpent ring on the forefinger of her left hand. Perhaps they had sensed her mood, or
perhaps it was just that neither looked forward to another session with the Windfinders. Merilille’s
permanently surprised expression did not change, but then, her sessions with the Sea Folk lasted all day
and all night unless Elayne managed to pry her away, and the Windfinders were becoming less and less
willing to let her go no matter how Elayne pried.
At least she had managed to avoid being curt with the three. It took an effort, especially with
Aviendha there. Elayne did not know what she would do if she ever lost her sister. Vandene was not
only grieving for a sister, she was searching for Adeleas’s murderer, and there could be no doubt that the
killer was Merilille Ceandevin, Careane Fransi or Sareitha Tomares. One of them, or worse, more than
one. The charge was hard to believe of Merilille, in her present condition, but it was not easy to believe
of any sister. As Birgitte had pointed out, one of the worst Darkfriends she had ever met, during the
Trolloc Wars, was a mild-as-milk lad who jumped at loud noises. And poisoned an entire city’s water
supply. Aviendha’s suggestion was to put all three to the question, which had horrified Birgitte, but
Aviendha was considerably less in awe of Aes Sedai than she once had been. The proper courtesies must
be maintained, until there was evidence to convict. Then there would be no courtesy at all.
"Oh," Sareitha said, brightening suddenly. "Here’s Captain Mellar. He was a hero again while
you were gone, Elayne." Aviendha gripped the hilt of her belt knife, and Birgitte stiffened. Careane’s
face went very still, very cold, and even Merilille managed a disapproving hauteur. Neither sister made
any secret of her dislike for Doilan Mellar.
With a narrow face, he was not pretty, or even handsome, yet he moved with a swordsman’s lithe
grace that spoke of physical strength. As Captain of Elayne’s bodyguard, he rated three golden knots of
rank, and he wore them soldered to each shoulder of his brightly burnished breastplate. An ignorant
observer might have thought he outranked Birgitte. The falls of snow-white lace at his throat and wrists
were twice as thick and twice as long as those worn by any of the Guardswomen, but he had left off the
sash again, perhaps because it would have obscured one set of golden knots. He claimed that he wanted
nothing more in life than to command her bodyguard, yet he frequently talked of battles he had fought as
a mercenary. It seemed he had never been on the losing side, and victory had often come from his
unsung efforts on the field. He swept off his white-plumed hat in a deep, flourishing bow, managing his
sword deftly with one hand, then offered a slightly lesser to Birgitte with an arm across his chest in
salute. Elayne arranged a smile on her face. "Sareitha says you were a hero again, Captain Mellar. How
so?"
"Nothing more than my duty to my queen." Despite a voice thick with self-deprecation, his
answering smile was warmer than it should have been. Half the palace thought him the father of
Elayne’s child. That she had not crushed that rumor seemed to make him believe he had prospects. The
smile never reached his dark eyes, though. They remained as cold as death. "My duty to you is my
pleasure, my Queen."
"Captain Mellar led another sortie without orders yesterday," Birgitte said in a carefully even
voice. "This time the righting almost spilled into the Far Madding Gate, which he had ordered left open
against his return." Elayne felt her face growing hard. "Oh, no," Sareitha protested. "It wasn’t like that at
all. A hundred of Lord Luan’s armsmen tried to reach the city in the night, but they left it too late, and
sunrise caught them. So did three times their number of Lord Nasin’s men. If Captain Mellar hadn’t
opened the gates and led a rescue, they’d have been cut to pieces in sight of the walls. As it was, he
managed to save eighty for your cause." Smiling, Mellar basked in the Aes Sedai’s praise as if he had
not heard Birgitte’s criticism. Of course, he seemed unaware of Careane and Merilille’s disapproving
stares, too. He always managed to ignore disapproval.
"How did you know they were Lord Luan’s men, Captain?" Elayne asked quietly. A small smile
that should have given Mellar warning appeared on Birgitte’s face. But then, he was one of those who
seemed not to believe she was a Warder. Even if he did, few except Warders and Aes Sedai knew what
the bond entailed. If anything, Mellar’s expression grew more smug. "I didn’t go by banners, my Queen.
Anybody can carry a banner. I recognized Jurad Accan through my looking glass. Accan is Luan’s man
to his toenails. Once I knew that. . . . " He made a dismissive gesture in a flurry of lace. "The rest was no
more than taking a little exercise."
"And did this Jurad Accan bring any message from Lord Luan? Anything signed and sealed,
affirming House Norwelyn’s support for Trakand?"
"Nothing in writing, my Queen, but as I said-" "Lord Luan has not declared for me, Captain."
Mellar’s smile faded somewhat. He was unused to being cut short. "But, my Queen, Lady Dyelin says
that Luan is as good as in your camp right now. Accan showing up is proof of-"
"Of nothing, Captain," Elayne said coldly. "Perhaps Lord Luan will be in my camp eventually,
Captain, but until he declares, you’ve given me eighty men who need to be watched." Eighty out of a
hundred. And how many of hers had he lost? And he had risked Caemlyn doing it, burn him! "Since you
can find time in your duties commanding my bodyguard to lead sorties, you can find time to arrange for
watching them. I won’t spare anyone from the walls for it. Set Master Accan and his fellows to drilling
the men I’ve brought in from the manors. That will keep them all busy and out of trouble most of each
day, but I leave it to you how to keep them away from the walls the rest of the time. And I do expect
them kept away from the walls and out of trouble, Captain. You may see to it now."
Mellar stared at her, stunned. She had never taken him to task before, and he did not like it,
particularly in front of so many witnesses. There were no over-warm smiles now. His mouth twitched,
and a sullen heat grew in his eyes. But there was nothing for him to do except to jerk another bow,
murmur "As my Queen commands" in a hoarse voice, and leave with as good a grace as he could
muster. Before he had gone three paces he was striding down the hall as if to trample anyone who got in
his way. She would have to tell Rasoria to take care. He might try to soothe his bile by taking it out on
those who had seen and heard. Merilille and Careane gave almost identical nods; they would have seen
Mellar called down, and preferably put out of the palace, long since.
"Even if he did wrong," Sareitha said carefully, "and I am not convinced that he did, Captain
Mellar saved your life at risk to his own, Elayne, your life and that of the Lady Dyelin. Was there really
need to embarrass him in front of the rest of us?" "Never think I avoid paying my debts, Sareitha."
Elayne felt Aviendha grip one of her hands, and Birgitte the other. She gave each of them a light
squeeze. When you were surrounded by enemies, it was good to have a sister and a friend close by. "I
am going to find a hot bath now, and unless one of you wishes to scrub my back . . . ?"
They could recognize a dismissal, and they departed more gracefully than Captain Mellar,
Careane and Sareitha already discussing whether or not the Windfinders would actually want lessons
today, Merilille trying to look every direction at once in hope of avoiding any Windfinders. What would
they talk of later, though? Whether Elayne was having a spat with the father of her child? Whether they
had successfully hidden their guilt in killing Adeleas?
I always pay my debts, Elayne thought, watching them go. And I help my friends pay theirs.
CHAPTER 12
A Bargain
A bath was not hard to find, though Elayne had to wait in the hall frowning at the lion-carved
doors of her apartments, drafts flickering the mirrored stand-lamps while Rasoria and two of the
Guardswomen went in to search. Once they were sure there were no assassins lying in wait, and guards
had been arrayed in the corridor and outer room, Elayne entered to find white-haired Essande waiting in
the bedchamber with Nans and Sephanie, the two young tirewomen she was training. Essande was slim,
with Elayne’s Golden Lily embroidered over her left breast and a very great dignity emphasized by her
deliberate way of moving, though some of that came from age and aching joints she refused to
acknowledge. Naris and Sephanie were sisters, fresh-faced, sturdy and shy-eyed, proud of their livery
and happy to have been chosen out for this rather than cleaning hallways but almost as much in awe of
Essande as of Elayne. There were more experienced maids available, women who had worked years in
the palace, but sadly, girls who had come seeking any sort of work they could find were safer.
Two copper bathtubs sat on thick layers of toweling laid atop the rose-colored floor tiles where
one of the carpets had been rolled up, evidence that word of Elayne’s arrival had flown ahead of her.
Servants had a knack for learning what was happening that the Tower’s eyes-and-ears might envy. A
good blaze in the fireplace and tight casements in the windows made the room warm after the corridors,
and Essande waited only to see Elayne enter the room before sending Sephanie off at a run to fetch the
men with the hot water. That would be brought up in double-walled pails with lids to keep it from
getting cold on the way from the kitchens, though it might be delayed a little by Guardswomen checking
to make sure there were no knives hidden in the water.
Aviendha eyed the second bathtub almost as doubtfully as Essande eyed Birgitte, the one still
uneasy about actually stepping into water and the other still not accepting that anyone more than
necessary should be present during a bath, but the white-haired woman wasted no time before quietly
bustling Elayne and Aviendha both into the dressing room, where another fire on a wide marble hearth
had taken the chill from the air. It was a great relief to have Essande help her out of her riding clothes,
knowing that she had more ahead of her than a hasty wash and a show of ease while worrying about how
quickly she could move on to her next destination. Other pretenses awaited, the Light help her, and other
worries, but she was home, and that counted for much. She could almost forget about that beacon
shining in the west. Almost. Well, not at all, really, but she could manage to stop fretting over it as long
as she did not dwell on the thing.
By the time they had been undressed-with Aviendha slapping Naris’ hands away and removing
her own jewelry, doing her best to pretend that Naris did not exist and her garments were somehow
removing themselves-by the time they had been bundled into embroidered silk robes and had their hair
tied up in white toweling-Aviendha tried to wrap the towel around her own head three times, and only
after the construction collapsed down her neck for the third time did she allow Naris to do it, muttering
about getting so soft that she soon would need someone to lace up her boots until Elayne began laughing
and she joined in, throwing her head back so that Naris had to start over again-by the time all that was
done and they had returned to the bedchamber, the bathtubs were full and the scent of the rose oil that
had been added to the water filled the air. The men who had brought up the water were gone, of course,
and Sephanie was waiting with her sleeves pushed above her elbows in case someone wanted her back
scrubbed. Birgitte was sitting on the turquoise-inlaid chest at the foot of the bed, her elbows on her
knees.
Elayne allowed Essande to help her off with her pale green, swallow-worked robe and sank into
her tub immediately, submerging herself to her neck in water just a hair short of too hot. That left her
knees poking up, but it immersed most of her in the warmth, and she sighed, feeling weariness leach out
of her and languor creep in. Hot water might have been the greatest single gift of civilization.
Staring at the other tub, Aviendha gave a start when Naris attempted to remove her robe,
lavender and embroidered with flowers on the wide sleeves. Grimacing, she finally allowed it, and
stepped gingerly into the water, but she snatched the round soap out of Sephanie’s hand and began
washing herself vigorously. Vigorously, but very careful not to slop so much as a spoonful of water over
the tub’s rim. The Aiel did use water for washing, as well as in the sweat tents, especially for rinsing out
the shampoo they made from a fat leaf that grew in the Waste, yet the dirty water was conserved and
used for watering crops. Elayne had shown her two of the great cisterns beneath Caemlyn, fed by a pair
of underground rivers and large enough that the far side of each was lost in a forest of thick columns and
shadows, but the arid Waste was in Aviendha’s bones.
Ignoring Essande’s pointed looks-she seldom said two words more than necessary, and thought
baths no time to say anything-Birgitte talked while they bathed, though she took care of what she said
in front of Naris and Sephanie. It was unlikely they were in the pay of another House, but maids
gossiped almost as freely as men-it seemed almost a tradition. Some rumors were worth fostering,
nonetheless. Mostly Birgitte talked of two huge merchants’ trains that had arrived yesterday from Tear,
the wagons heavy with grain and salted beef, and another from Illian with oil and salt and smoked fish.
It was always worthwhile reminding people that food continued to flow into the city. Few merchants
braved the roads of Andor in winter, none carrying anything as cheap as food, but gateways meant that
Arymilla could intercept all the merchants she wished and her forces still would starve long before
Caemlyn felt the first pangs of hunger. The Windfinders, who were making most of those gateways,
reported that the High Lord Darlin-claiming the title of Steward in Tear for the Dragon Reborn, of all
things!-was besieged in the Stone of Tear by nobles who wanted the Dragon Reborn out of Tear
completely, but even they were unlikely to try stopping a rich trade in grain, particularly since they
believed the Kin who accompanied the Windfinders were Aes Sedai. Not that any real attempt was made
at deception, but Great Serpent rings had been made for Kinswomen who had passed their tests for
Accepted before being put out of the Tower, and if anyone drew the wrong conclusion, no one actually
lied to them. The water was going to shed its heat if she waited much longer, Elayne decided, so she
took a rose-scented soap from Sephanie and allowed Naris to begin scrubbing her back with a longhandled
brush. If there had been news of Gawyn or Galad, Birgitte would have mentioned it straight off.
She was as eager to hear as Elayne, and she could not have held it back. Gawyn’s return was one rumor
they dearly wanted to reach the streets. Birgitte performed her duties well as Captain-General, and
Elayne meant her to keep the position, if she could be convinced, but having Gawyn there would allow
both women to relax a little. Most of the soldiers in the city were mercenaries, and only enough of them
to man the gates strongly and make a display along the miles of wall surrounding the New City, but they
still numbered more than thirty companies, each with its own captain who inevitably was full of pride,
obsessed with precedence, and ready to squabble over any imagined slight from another captain at the
drop of a straw. Gawyn had trained his whole life to command armies. He could deal with the
squabblers, leaving her free to secure the throne. Apart from that, she simply wanted him away from the
White Tower. She prayed that one of her messengers had gotten through and that he was well downriver
by this time. Egwene had been besieging Tar Valon with her army for more than a week, now, and it
would be the cruelest spinning of fate for Gawyn to be caught between his oaths to defend the Tower
and his love for Egwene.
Worse, he had already broken that oath once, or at least bent it, for love of his sister and perhaps
his love of Egwene. If Elaida ever suspected that Gawyn had aided Siuan’s escape, whatever credit he
had gained by helping her replace Siuan as Amyrlin would evaporate like a dewdrop, and if he was still
within Elaida’s reach when she learned, he would find himself in a cell, and lucky to avoid the
headsman. Elayne did not resent his decision to aid Elaida; he could not have known enough then to
make any other choice. A good many sisters had been confused over what was happening, too. A good
many still seemed to be. How could she ask Gawyn to see what Aes Sedai could not?
As for Galad. . . . She had grown up unable to like the man, sure he must resent her, and resent
Gawyn most of all. Galad had to have thought he would be First Prince of the Sword one day, until
Gawyn was born. Her earliest memories of him were of a boy, a young man, already behaving more like
a father or uncle than a brother, giving Gawyn his first lessons with a sword. She remembered being
afraid he would break open Gawyn’s head with the practice blade. But he had never given more than the
bruises any youth expected in learning swords. He knew what was right, Galad did, and he was willing
to do what was right no matter the cost to anyone, including himself. Light, he had started a war to help
her and Nynaeve escape from Samara, and it was likely he had known the risk from the start! Galad
fancied Nynaeve, or had for a time-it was hard to imagine he still felt that way, with him a Whitecloak,
the Light only knew where and doing what-but the truth was, he had started that war to rescue his
sister. She could not condone him being a Child of the Light, she could not like him, yet she hoped that
he was safe and well. She hoped he found his way home to Caemlyn, too. News of him would have been
nearly as welcome as news of Gawyn. That surprised her, but it was true. "Two more sisters came while
you were away. They’re at the Silver Swan." Birgitte made it sound as though they were merely
stopping at an inn because every bed in the palace was taken. "A Green with two Warders and a Gray
with one. They came separately. A Yellow and a Brown left the same day, so there are still ten
altogether. The Yellow went south, toward Far Madding. The Brown was heading east."
Sephanie, waiting patiently beside Aviendha’s tub with nothing to do, exchanged a glance with
her sister over Elayne’s head and grinned. Like many in the city, they knew for a fact that the presence
of Aes Sedai at the Silver Swan signified White Tower support for Elayne and House Trakand.
Watching the two girls like a hawk, Essande nodded; she knew it, too. Every streetsweeper and
ragpicker was aware that the Tower was divided against itself, but even so, the name still carried weight,
and an image of strength that never failed. Everyone knew the White Tower had lent support to every
rightful Queen of Andor. In truth, most sisters looked forward to a sitting monarch who was also Aes
Sedai, the first in a thousand years and the first since the Breaking of the World to be openly known as
Aes Sedai, but Elayne would not be surprised to find there was a sister in Arymilla’s camp, keeping
discreetly out of notice. The White Tower never placed all of its coin on one horse unless the race was
fixed.
"That’s enough of the brush," she said, irritably twisting away from the bristles. Well trained, the
girl laid the brush down on a stool and handed her a large Illianer sponge that she used to begin sluicing
off soap. She wished she knew what those sisters meant. They were like a grain of sand in her slipper, so
tiny a thing that you could hardly imagine it being a discomfort, but the longer it remained, the larger it
seemed. The sisters at the Silver Swan were becoming a sizable stone just by being there.
Since before she arrived in Caemlyn the number at the inn had been changed frequently, a few
sisters leaving every week and a few coming to replace them. The siege had not changed anything; the
soldiers surrounding Caemlyn were no more likely to try stopping an Aes Sedai from going where she
wanted than were the rebellious nobles in Tear. There had been Reds in the city too, for a while, asking
after men heading for the Black Tower, but the more they learned, the more they had let their
disgruntlement show, and the last pair had ridden out of the city the day after Arymilla appeared before
the walls. Every Aes Sedai who entered the city was carefully watched, and none of the Reds had gone
near the Silver Swan, so it seemed unlikely the sisters there had been sent by Elaida to kidnap her. For
some reason she imagined little groups of Aes Sedai scattered from the Blight to the Sea of Storms, and
constant streams of sisters flowing between, gathering information, sharing information. A peculiar
thought. Sisters used eyes-and-ears to watch the world, and rarely shared what they learned unless it was
a threat to the Tower itself. Likely those at the Swan were among the sisters sitting out the Tower’s
troubles, waiting to see whether Egwene or Elaida would end with the Amyrlin Seat before they
declared themselves. That was wrong-an Aes Sedai should stand for what she thought was right
without worrying over whether she was choosing the winning side!-but these made her uneasy for
another reason.
Recently one of her watchers at the Swan had overheard a disturbing name, murmured and
quickly shushed, as if in fear of eavesdroppers. Cadsuane. Not a common name, that. And Cadsuane
Melaidhrin had meshed herself closely with Rand while he was in Cairhien. Vandene did not think much
of the woman, calling her opinionated and muleheaded, but Careane had almost fainted in awe at
hearing her name. It seemed the stories surrounding Cadsuane amounted to legends. Trying to deal with
the Dragon Reborn single-handed was just the sort of thing Cadsuane Melaidhrin might do. Not that
Elayne had concerns about Rand and any Aes Sedai, except that he might outrage her beyond her
control-the man was too pigheaded himself sometimes to see where his own good lay!-but why
would a sister in Caemlyn mention her name? And why had another hushed her? Despite the hot
bathwater, she shivered, thinking of all the webs the White Tower had spun through the centuries, so
fine that none could see them except the sisters who did the spinning, so convoluted that none but those
sisters could have unraveled them. The Tower spun webs, the Ajahs spun webs, even individual sisters
spun webs. Sometimes those schemes blended into one another as though guided by a single hand. Other
times they had pulled one another apart. That was how the world had been shaped for three thousand
years. Now the Tower had divided itself neatly into rough thirds, one third for Egwene, one for Elaida,
and one that was standing aside. If those last were in contact with one another, exchanging
information-forming plans?-the implications. . . . A sudden tumult of voices, dimmed by the closed
door, made her sit up straight. Naris and Sephanie squealed and leaped to clutch one another, staring
wide-eyed at the door.
"What in the bloody flaming . . . ?" Snarling, Birgitte hurled herself off the chest and out of the
room, slamming the door behind her. The voices rose higher.
It did not sound as if the Guardswomen were fighting, just arguing at the tops of the lungs, and
the bond carried mainly anger and frustration, along with her bloody headache, but Elayne climbed out
of the bathtub, holding out her arms for Essande to slip her robe on. The white-haired woman’s
calmness, and perhaps Elayne’s, soothed the two maids enough that they blushed when Essande looked
at them, but Aviendha leaped from her tub, splashing water everywhere, and dashed dripping into the
dressing room. Elayne expected her to return with her belt knife, but instead she came back surrounded
by the glow oisaidar and holding the amber turtle in one hand. With the other she handed Elayne the
angreal that had been in her belt pouch, an aged ivory carving of a woman clothed only in her hair.
Excepting the towel atop her head, Aviendha wore only a wet sheen, and she angrily waved Sephanie
away when the woman tried to put her robe on her. Knife or no knife, Aviendha still tended to think as if
she were going to fight with a blade and might need to move suddenly. "Put this back in the dressing
room," Elayne said, handing the ivory angreal to Essande. "Aviendha, I really don’t think we need The
door opened a crack, and Birgitte put her head in, scowling. Naris and Sephanie jumped, not so soothed
as they had seemed.
"Zaida wants to see you," Birgitte growled at Elayne. "I told her she’d have to wait, but-" With
a sudden yelp, she staggered into the room, catching her balance after two steps and whirling to face the
woman who had pushed her.
The Wavemistress of Clan Catelar did not look as though she had pushed anyone. The ends of
her intricately knotted red sash swirling about her knees, she entered the room calmly, followed by two
Windfinders, one of whom shut the door in Rasoria’s angry face. All three swayed when they moved
nearly as much as Birgitte did in her heeled boots. Zaida was short, with streaks of gray in her tightly
curled hair, but her dark face was one of those that grew more beautiful with the years, and her beauty
only seemed magnified by the golden chain, heavy with small medallions, that connected one of her fat
golden earrings to her nose ring. More importantly, her air was one of command. Not of arrogance, but
of the knowledge that she would be obeyed. The Windfinders eyed Aviendha, still glowing with the
Power, and Chanelle’s angular face tightened, yet aside from a murmur from Shielyn that "the Aiel girl"
was ready to weave, they remained silent and waited. The eight earrings in Shielyn’s ears marked her as
Windfinder to a Clan Wavemistress, and Chanelle’s honor-chain carried nearly as many golden
medallions as that of Zaida herself. Both were women of authority, and it was plain in the way they held
themselves and moved, yet one needed to know nothing of the Atha’an Miere to know as soon as one
saw them that Zaida din Parede held the first spot.
"Your boots must have tripped you, Captain-General," she murmured with a small smile on her
full lips, one dark tattooed hand toying with the golden scent-box that dangled on her chest. "Clumsy
things, boots." She and the two Windfinders were barefoot as always. The soles of the Atha’an Miere’s
feet were as tough as shoe-soles, unbothered by rough decks or cold floor tiles. Strangely, in addition to
their blouses and trousers of brightly colored silk brocades, each woman wore a wide stole of plain
white that hung below her waist and almost hid her multitude of necklaces. "I was taking a bath," Elayne
said in a tight voice. As if they could not see that with her hair done up and her robe clinging to her
damply. Essande was almost quivering with indignation, which meant she must be beside herself with
fury. Elayne felt close to it herself. "I will be taking a bath again as soon as you go. I will speak with you
when I have finished taking my bath. If it pleases the Light." There! If they were going to shove into her
rooms, let them chew on that for ceremony!
"The grace of the Light be upon you also, Elayne Sedai," Zaida replied smoothly. She raised an
eyebrow at Aviendha, though neither at the continuing light of saidar, since Zaida could not channel,
nor at her nudity, since the Sea Folk were quite casual about that, at least out of sight of landmen. "You
have never invited me to bathe with you, though it would have been courteous, but we will not speak of
that. I have learned that Nesta din Reas Two Moons is dead, killed by the Seanchan. We mourn her
loss." All three women touched their white stoles and touched fingertips to lips, yet Zaida seemed as
impatient with formality as Elayne. Without raising her voice or speeding its pace, she merely pushed
on, almost shockingly abrupt and to the point for one of the Sea Folk.
"The First Twelve of the Atha’an Miere must meet to choose another Mistress of the Ships.
What is happening to the west makes it clear there can be no delay." Shielyn’s mouth tightened, and
Chanelle raised her pierced scent box to her nose as if to drown the smell of something. Its spicy
perfume was sharp enough to slice through the scent of rose oil in the room. However they had
described what they sensed to Zaida, she displayed no unease, or anything but certainty. Her gaze held
steady on Elayne’s face. "We must be ready for whatever comes, and for that we need a Mistress of the
Ships. In the name of the White Tower, you promised twenty teachers. I cannot take Vandene in her
grief, or you, but I will take the other three with me. The rest, the White Tower owes, and I will expect
prompt payment. I have sent to the sisters at the Silver Swan to see whether some of them will meet the
Tower’s debt, but I cannot wait on their reply. If it pleases the Light, I will bathe with the other
Wavemistresses tonight at the harbor of Illian."
Elayne fought very hard to keep her own face smooth. The woman just announced that she
intended to scoop up every Aes Sedai lying around loose in Caemlyn and carry them off? And it
sounded very much as if she did not intend to leave any of the Windfinders behind. That made Elayne’s
heart sink. Until Reanne returned, there were seven of the Kin with sufficient strength to weave a
gateway, but two of those could not make one large enough to admit a horse cart. Without the
Windfinders, plans for keeping Caemlyn supplied from Tear and Illian became problematical at best.
The Silver Swan! Light, whoever Zaida had sent would reveal every line of the bargain she had made!
Egwene was not going to thank her for spilling that mess out into the open. She did not think she had
ever had so many problems dropped in her lap in the course of one short statement.
"I regret your loss, and the Atha’an Miere’s loss," she said, thinking fast. "Nesta din Reas was a
great woman." She had been a powerful woman, anyway, and a very strong personality. Elayne had felt
happy to walk away with more than her shift after her one meeting with her. Speaking of shifts, she
could not afford time to dress. Zaida might not wait. She belted her robe tighter. "We must talk. Have
wine brought for our guests, Essande, and tea for me. Weak tea," she sighed at a burst of caution
through the bond to Birgitte. "In the smaller sitting room. Will you join me, Wavemistress?"
To her surprise, Zaida merely nodded as if she had expected this. That started Elayne thinking
about Zaida’s side of the bargain between them. The bargains; there were two, really, and that might be
a key point.
No one had expected the smaller sitting room to be used for some time, so the air held a chill
even after Sephanie rushed with a spark-wheel to light the kindling laid beneath split oak on the wide
white hearth and scurried out of the room. Flames leapt up from the fatwood, catching on the log atop
the fire-irons as the women arrayed themselves in the lightly carved low-backed chairs arranged in a
semicircle in front of the fireplace. Well, Elayne and the Sea Folk women arrayed themselves, Elayne
arranging her robe carefully over her knees and wishing Zaida had delayed just an hour so she could be
properly dressed, the Windfinders coolly waiting for the Wavemistress to take a chair, then sitting to
either side of her. Birgitte stood in front of the writing table with her hands on her hips and her feet
apart, her face a thunderhead. The bond carried a clear desire to wring an Atha’an Miere neck. Aviendha
leaned casually against one of the sideboards, and even when Essande brought her robe and pointedly
held it out for her, she merely put it on and resumed her pose with her arms folded beneath her breasts.
She had released saidar, but the turtle was still in her hand, and Elayne suspected she was ready to
embrace the Power again in an instant. Neither Aviendha’s cold green-eyed stare nor Birgitte’s scowl
affected the Sea Folk in the least, however. They were who they were, and they knew who they were.
"The Atha’an Miere were promised twenty teachers," Elayne said, emphasizing slightly. Zaida had said
that she had been promised, that she would collect payment, but that bargain had been made with Nesta
din Reas. Of course, Zaida might believe she would become the new Mistress of the Ships herself.
"Proper teachers, to be selected by the Amyrlin Seat. I know that the Atha’an Miere pride themselves on
meeting their bargains in full, and the Tower will meet its side, too. But you knew when sisters here
agreed to teach, that it was temporary. And a bargain quite apart from that made with the Mistress of the
Ships. You admitted as much when you agreed for Windfinders to weave gateways to bring supplies to
Caemlyn from Illian and Tear. Surely you would not have gotten involved in the affairs of the
shorebound for any reason other than paying off a bargain. But if you are leaving, your help is at an end,
and so is our requirement to teach. I fear you will harvest no teachers at the Silver Swan, either. The
Atha’an Miere will have to wait until the Amyrlin sends teachers. According to the bargain made with
the Mistress of the Ships." A pity she could not demand they stay away from the inn, but it might
already be too late for that, and every reason she could think of sounded hollow. An argument that
shattered for lack of a center would only embolden Zaida.. The Atha’an Miere were ferocious hagglers.
Scrupulous, but ferocious. She had to go very slowly, very carefully. "My sister has you by the ear,
Zaida din Parede," Aviendha chortled, slapping her thigh. "Hung up by the ankles, in fact." That was a
Sea Folk punishment that she found incredibly amusing, for some reason.
Elayne stifled a burst of irritation. Aviendha enjoyed chances to tweak the Sea Folk’s noses-she
had begun while they were fleeing Ebou Dar and never really stopped-but this was no time for it.
Chanelle stiffened, her calm face sinking into a glare. The lean woman had been the butt of Aviendha’s
nose-tweaking more than once, including a regrettable episode involving oosquai, a very potent Aiel
drink. The glow of saidar actually surrounded her! Zaida could not see that, but she knew about the
oosquai and Chanelle being carried to her bed, sicking up the whole way, and she raised a peremptory
hand toward the Windfinder. The glow faded, and Chanelle’s face darkened. It might have been a blush
or anger.
"All that you say may be so," Zaida said, which was not far from insulting, especially said to an
Aes Sedai. "In any event, Merilille was not part of that. She agreed to be one of the teachers long before
she reached Caemlyn, and she will go with me to continue her teaching."
Elayne drew a long breath. She could not even try to argue Zaida out of this. A great part of the
White Tower’s influence rested on the fact that the Tower kept its word as surely as the Sea Folk. That it
was known to keep its word. Oh, people said you had to listen carefully to be sure an Aes Sedai had
promised what you thought she had, and that was often true, but once the promise was clear, it was as
good as an oath under the Light. At least the Windfinders were not likely to let Merilille get away. They
hardly let her out of their sight. "You may have to return her to me, if I have particular need of her." If
Vandene and the two helpers found proof that she was Black Ajah. "If that happens, I will arrange a
replacement." And who that could be, she had no idea. "She has the rest of her year to serve. At least a
year, by the bargain." Zaida gestured as if making a concession. "But so long as you understand that her
replacement must come before she leaves. I will not let her go without another in her place." "I suppose
that will do," Elayne replied calmly. It would bloody well have to, since she had no other choice!
Zaida smiled faintly and let the silence stretch. Chanelle shifted her feet, but more in impatience
than as if to rise, and the Wavemistress did not stir. Plainly she wanted something more, intended
another bargain, and plainly she wanted Elayne to speak first. Elayne set herself to outwait the other
woman. The fire had begun to blaze and crackle, sending sparks up the chimney and radiating a fine
warmth into the room, but her damp robe absorbed the chill in the air and transferred it to her skin.
Ignoring the cold was all very well, but how were you supposed to ignore being cold and wet? She met
Zaida’s gaze levelly and matched her tiny smile. Essande returned, followed by Naris and Sephanie
carring ropework trays, the one with a silver teapot in the shape of a lion and thin green cups of Sea Folk
porcelain, the other hammered silver cups and a tall-necked wine pitcher that gave off the aroma of
spices. Everyone took wine, except for Elayne, who was never offered the choice. Peering into her tea,
she sighed. She could see the bottom of the cup quite clearly. If they made it any weaker, they might as
well give her water!
After a moment, Aviendha strode across the room to set her winecup back on the tray atop one of
the sideboards and pour herself a cup of tea. She gave Elayne a nod and a smile combining sympathy
with a suggestion that she really preferred watery tea to wine. Elayne smiled back in spite of herself.
First-sisters shared the bad as well as the good. Birgitte grinned over the top of her silver cup, and
proceeded to empty half of it in a gulp. The bond carried her amusement at the grumpiness she felt from
Elayne. And it still carried her headache, in no way reduced. Elayne rubbed her temple. She should have
insisted that Merilille Heal the woman as soon as she had seen her. A number of the Kin outstripped
Merilille when it came to Healing, but she was the only sister in the palace with a halfway decent ability.
"You have great need of women to make these gateways," Zaida said suddenly. Her full mouth
was no longer smiling. She disliked having spoken first.
Elayne sipped her wretched excuse for tea and said nothing. "It might please the Light that I
could leave one or two Windfmders here," Zaida went on. "For a set time." Elayne wrinkled her brow as
though considering. She needed those bloody women, and more than one or two. "What would you ask
in return?" she said finally.
"One square mile of land on the River Erinin. Good land, mind. Not marshy or boggy. It is to be
Atha’an Miere land in perpetuity. Under our laws, not Andor’s," she added as if that were a small
afterthought hardly worth mentioning.
Elayne choked on her tea. The Atha’an Miere hated leaving the sea, hated being out of sight of it.
And Zaida was asking for land a thousand miles from the nearest salt water? Asking for it to be ceded
absolutely, at that. Cairhienin and Murandians and even Altarans had bled trying to take bits of Andor,
and Andorans had bled to keep them out. Still, one square mile was a small bit, and a small price to keep
Caemlyn supplied. Not that she would let Zaida know that. And if the Sea Folk began trading directly
into Andor, then Andoran goods would be able to move in Sea Folk bottoms everywhere the Sea Folk
sailed, and that was everywhere. Zaida surely knew that already, but there was no point in letting her
know that Elayne had thought of it. The Warder bond urged caution, yet there were times for boldness,
as Birgitte should know better than anyone.
"Sometimes tea goes down the wrong way." Not a lie; merely an evasion. "For a square mile of
Andor, I deserve more than two Windfinders. The Atha’an Miere got twenty teachers and more for help
using the Bowl of the Winds, and when they go you will have twenty to replace them. You have twentyone
Windfinders with you. For a mile of Andor, I should have all twenty-one, and twenty-one more in
their places when they leave, for as long as Aes Sedai teach Sea Folk." Best not to let the woman think
that was her way of rejecting the offer out of hand. "Of course, the normal customs duties would apply
to any goods moving off this land into Andor."
Zaida raised her silver cup to her mouth, and when she lowered it, she wore the tiniest smile. Yet
Elayne thought it was a smile of relief rather than triumph. "Goods moving into Andor, but not goods
coming from the river onto our land. I might leave three Windfinders. For half a year, say. And they
must not be used in fighting. I will not have my people die for you, and I will not have other Andorans
angry at us because Sea Folk have killed some of them."
"They will be asked only to make gateways," Elayne said, "though they must make them
wherever I require." Light! As if she intended using the One Power as a weapon! The Sea Folk did so
without a second thought, but she was trying very hard to behave as Egwene demanded, as though she
had already taken the Three Oaths. Besides, if she blasted those camps outside the walls with saidar, or
allowed anyone else to, not a House in Andor would stand with her. "They must stay until my crown is
secure, whether that is half a year or longer." The crown should be hers in much less time, but as her old
nurse Lini used to say, you counted your plums in the basket, not on the tree. Once the crown was hers,
though, she would not need Windfinders to supply the city, and in all truth, she would be happy to see
their backs. "But three is not nearly enough. You will want Shielyn, since she is your Windfinder. I will
keep the rest."
The medallions on Zaida’s honor-chain swayed gently as she shook her head. "Talaan and
Metarra are apprentices still. They must return to their training. The others have duties, too. Four might
be spared until your crown is secure."
From there it was just a matter of bargaining. Elayne had never expected to keep the apprentices,
and Windfinders to Clan Wavemistresses could not be spared either, which she had expected. Most
Wavemistresses used their Windfinders and Swordmasters as close advisors, and would be parted from
one as easily as she would be parted from Birgitte. Zaida tried to exclude others as well, such as
Windfinders who served on large vessels like rakers and skimmers, but that would have disqualified the
greater number right there, and Elayne refused, and refused to come down in her demands unless Zaida
came up in her offers. Which the woman did slowly, grudging every concession. But not so slowly as
Elayne might have expected. Clearly, the Wavemistress needed this bargain as much as she herself
needed women who could weave gateways. "Under the Light, it is agreed," she was able to say at last,
kissing the fingertips of her right hand and leaning forward to press them to Zaida’s lips. Aviendha
grinned, obviously impressed. Birgitte kept a smooth face, but the bond said she found it hard to believe
Elayne had come out so well.
"It is agreed, under the Light," Zaida murmured. Her fingers on Elayne’s lips were hard and
callused, though she could not have hauled on a rope herself in many years. She looked quite satisfied
for a woman who had yielded nine of the fourteen Windfinders who had been on the table. Elayne
wondered how many of those nine would be women whose ships had been destroyed by the Seanchan in
Ebou Dar. Losing a ship was a serious matter among the Atha’an Miere, whatever the reason, and
maybe cause enough to want to stay away from home a little longer. No matter.
Chanelle looked glum, her tattooed hands tight on the knees of her red brocaded trousers, yet not
so glum as might be expected from a Sea Folk woman who would have to remain ashore a while longer.
She was to command the Windfinders who stayed, and she did not like it that Zaida had acceded to her
being under Elayne’s authority, and Birgitte’s. There were to be no more Sea Folk striding about the
palace as if they owned it and making demands left and right. But then, Elayne suspected that Zaida had
come to this meeting knowing she would leave some of her party behind, and Chanelle had come
knowing she would command them. That hardly mattered, either, nor did it matter what advantage Zaida
hoped to gain toward becoming Mistress of the Ships. That she saw some was clear as good glass. All
that mattered was that Caemlyn would not go hungry. That and the . . . the bloody beacon still blazing in
the west. No, she would be a queen, and she could not be a moonstruck girl. Caemlyn and Andor were
all that could matter.
CHAPTER 13
High Seats
Zaida and the two Windfinders departed from Elayne’s apartments, graceful and outwardly
unhurried but with almost as little ceremony as they had entered, a bare wish that the Light illumine
Elayne and see her safe. For Atha’an Miere, that was almost rushing off without a word. Elayne decided
that if Zaida did indeed want to be the next Mistress of the Ships, the woman had a rival she hoped to
steal a march on. It might be well for Andor if Zaida did attain the Atha’an Miere throne, or whatever
the Sea Folk called it; bargain or no bargain, she would always be aware that Andor had helped her, and
that had to be for the good. Though if she failed, her rival would be aware of where Andor’s favor had
gone, too. Still, it was all if and maybe. Here and now was another thing altogether.
"I do not expect anyone to manhandle an ambassador," she said quietly once the doors had
closed behind them, "but in the future I do expect the privacy of my rooms. Even ambassadors are not to
be allowed simply to wander in. Am I understood?"
Rasoria nodded, her face wooden, but by the color that flashed into her cheeks, she felt the
mortification of having let the Sea Folk pass as keenly as Birgitte, and the bond . . . writhed. . . until
Elayne felt her own face growing red with a stinging embarrassment. "You did nothing wrong, exactly,
but don’t let it happen again." Light, now she sounded a dolt! "We will speak no more of it," she said
stiffly. Oh, burn Birgitte and the bond! They would have had to wrestle with Zaida to stop her, but
adding bone-deep humiliation to the other woman’s headache was piling insult on injury! And Aviendha
had no call to grin in that . . . that smarmy way. Elayne did not know when or how her sister had learned
that she and Birgitte sometimes reflected one another, but Aviendha found the whole thing vastly
amusing. Her sense of humor could be rough at times.
"I think you two will make each other melt, one day," she said, laughing. "But then, you already
played that joke, Birgitte Trahelion." Birgitte scowled at her, sudden alarm crushing embarrassment in
the bond, and she returned such a look of innocence it seemed her eyes might fall out of her face.
Better not to ask, Elayne decided. When you ask questions, Lini used to say, then you have to
hear the answers whether you want to or not. She did not want to hear, not with Rasoria studiously
examining the floor tiles in front of her boots and the rest of the Guardswomen in the anteroom failing to
pretend not to be listening. She had never realized how precious privacy was until she lost it completely.
Near enough completely, anyway. "I am going to finish my bath now," she said calmly. Blood and
ashes, what joke had Birgitte played on her? Something that made her . . . melt? It could not have been
much if she still did not know what it was.
Unfortunately, the bath water had gone cold. Tepid, anyway. Hardly anything she wanted to sit
in. A little while longer soaking would have been wonderful, but not at the expense of waiting while the
tubs were emptied bucket by bucket and more hot water brought up. The entire palace must know she
was back by now, and the First Maid and the First Clerk would be anxious to make their daily reports.
Daily when she was in the city, and doubly anxious because she had been gone for a day. Duty came
before pleasure, if you were going to rule a country. And that went doubly for trying to gain the throne
in the first place.
Aviendha pulled the towel from her head and shook down her hair, appearing relieved that she
would not have to climb into water again. She started for the dressing room, shedding her robe before
she reached the door, and had donned most of her garments when Elayne and the maids entered. With
only a few mutters, she let Naris complete the job, although little remained beyond stepping into her
heavy woolen skirt. She slapped the maid’s hands away and tightened the laces of her soft knee-high
boots herself.
For Elayne, it was not so easy. Unless some emergency loomed, Essande felt slighted when she
did not discuss her choice of dresses. With close servants, there was always a delicate balance to
maintain. Without exception a bodyservant knew more of your secrets than you thought she did, and she
saw you at your worst, grumpy, tired, weeping in your pillow, in rages and sulks. Respect had to go both
ways, or the situation became impossible. So Aviendha was sitting on one of the padded benches,
allowing Naris to comb out her hair, before Elayne could conclude on a simple gray in fine wool,
embroidered in green on the high neck and the sleeves and trimmed with black fox. It was not so much
that she had difficulty deciding, but that Essande kept putting forward silks sewn with pearls or
sapphires or firedrops, each more ornately embroidered than the last. No matter that the throne was not
yet hers, Essande wanted to dress her every day as a queen readying for an audience. There had been a
point to that, back when every day brought delegations of merchants to offer petitions or make their
respects, especially outlanders hoping the troubles in Andor would not affect their trade. The old saying
that who held Caemlyn held Andor had never really been true, and in merchant eyes, the chances she
would actually gain the throne had diminished with the arrival of Arymilla’s army outside the gates.
They could count the Houses arrayed on either side as easily as they could count coin.
Even Andoran merchants avoided the Royal Palace now, keeping out of the Inner City as much
as possible so no one would think they had gone to the palace, and bankers came well hooded, in
anonymous carriages. None wished her ill, that she knew, and certainly none wanted to anger her, but
neither did they want to anger Arymilla, not now. Still, the bankers did come, and so far she had not
heard of any merchants presenting petitions to Arymilla.
That would be the first sign that her cause was lost. Getting into the dress took twice as long as it
should have, since Essande allowed Sephanie to help Elayne. The girl breathed heavily the whole time,
unaccustomed as yet to dressing someone else and fearful of making a mistake under Essande’s eye.
Much more than of making one in front of her mistress, Elayne suspected. Apprehension made the
sturdy young woman clumsy, clumsiness made her more painstaking, and taking pains made her worry
more about mistakes, so the result was that she moved more slowly than the frail older woman ever had.
Finally, however, Elayne found herself seated facing Aviendha, letting Essande draw an ivory comb
through her curls. In Essande’s view, allowing one of the girls to slip a shift over Elayne’s head or fasten
her buttons was one thing, but risking either of them making a tangle in her hair quite another. Before
the comb had made two dozen strokes, though, Birgitte appeared in the doorway. Essande sniffed, and
Elayne could all but see the woman grimace behind her back. Essande had given way on Birgitte being
present at baths, however reluctantly, but the dressing room was sacrosanct.
Surprisingly, Birgitte let the maid’s disapproval slide past without so much as a placating look.
Usually, she refrained from pushing Essande an inch further than Elayne required. "Dyelin has returned,
Elayne. She’s brought company. The High Seats of Mantear, Haevin, Gilyard and Northan." For some
reason, the bond carried streaks of puzzlement and annoyance. Shared headache or no, Elayne could
have jumped for joy. If Essande had not had the comb deep in her hair, she might have. Four! She had
never expected Dyelin to accomplish so much. Hoped for it, prayed for it, but never expected it,
certainly not in one short week. In truth, she had been sure Dyelin would return empty-handed. Four
gave her an equal footing with Arymilla. It was galling to think of being on "an equal footing" with that
foolish woman, but truth was truth. Mantear, Haevin, Gilyard and Northan. Why not Candraed? That
was the fifth House Dyelin had gone to approach. No. She had four more Houses, and she was not going
to fret over the lack of one.
"Entertain them in the formal sitting room until I can come, Birgitte." The small sitting room had
been sufficient for Zaida-she hoped the Wavemistress had not noticed the slight-but four High Seats
required more. "And ask the First Maid to arrange apartments." Apartments. Light! The Atha’an Miere
would have to be hurried out of theirs to make room. Until they left, most beds that did not have two
occupants had three. "Essande, the green silk with the sapphires, I think. And sapphires for my hair, too.
The large sapphires."
Birgitte left still feeling puzzled and upset. Why? Surely she could not think she should have left
Dyelin cooling her heels because of Zaida? Oh, Light, now she was feeling puzzled over Birgitte feeling
puzzled; if that was allowed to feed on itself, they would both end up dizzy! As the door closed, Essande
moved to the nearest wardrobe wearing a smile that might have been called triumphant.
Looking at Aviendha, who had motioned Naris and her comb away and was folding a dark gray
scarf to tie her hair back, Elayne smiled herself. She needed something to take her out of that spinning
loop. "Maybe you should wear silks and gems just this once more, Aviendha," she said in a gently
teasing tone. "Dyelin won’t mind, of course, but the others aren’t used to Aiel. They might think I’m
entertaining a stablehand."
She meant it for a joke-they twitted one another about clothes all the time, and Dyelin looked
askance at Aviendha whatever she wore-but her sister frowned at the wardrobes lining the wall, then
nodded and set the scarf down beside her on the tufted cushion. "Just so these High Seats will be
properly impressed. Do not think I will do this all the time. It is a favor to you." For someone just doing
a favor, she pored over the clothes that Essande pulled out with a great deal of interest before deciding
on a dark blue velvet slashed with green, and a silver net to catch her hair. They were her clothes, made
for her, but since reaching Caemlyn she had avoided them as if they were crawling with death’shead
spiders. Stroking the sleeves, she hesitated as if she might change her mind, but finally she let Naris do
up the tiny pearl buttons.
She declined Elayne’s offer of emeralds that would have suited the gown admirably, keeping her
silver snowflake necklace and heavy ivory bracelet, but at the last minute she did pin the amber turtle to
her shoulder.
"You can never tell when it might be needful," she said. "Better safe than sorry," Elayne agreed.
"Those colors look beautiful on you." It was true, but Aviendha blushed. Compliment her on how well
she shot a bow or how fast she could run, and she took it as no more than her due, but she had difficulty
coming to grips with the fact that she was beautiful. That was a part of herself she had managed to
ignore, till recently.
Essande shook her head in disapproval, unaware that the brooch was an angreal. Amber did not
go with blue velvet. Or maybe it was Aviendha’s horn-hilted knife, which she tucked behind her green
velvet belt. The white-haired woman made sure that Elayne wore a small dagger with sapphires on the
scabbard and pommel, hanging from a belt of woven gold. Everything had to be just so to gain
Essande’s approbation.
Rasoria gave a start when Aviendha entered the anteroom in her high-necked velvets. The
Guardswomen had never seen her in anything but Aiel garb before. Aviendha scowled as if they had
laughed, and gripped her belt knife firmly, but luckily her attention was diverted by a cloth-covered tray
sitting on the long side table against the wall. Elayne’s midday meal had been delivered while they were
dressing. Whisking the blue-striped cloth aside, Aviendha tried to interest Elayne in eating, smiling and
pointing out how sweet the stew of dried plums would be and exclaiming over the pieces of pork in the
grainy mush. Slivers, they looked like. Rasoria cleared her throat and mentioned that a fire was burning
nicely in the apartment’s larger sitting room. She would be more than happy to carry the tray in for the
Lady Elayne. Everyone tried to make sure Elayne ate properly, however they saw "properly," but this
was ridiculous. The tray had been sitting there some time. The mush was a congealed mass that would
have stuck in the bowl if she turned it upside down!
She had the High Seats of four Houses waiting on her, and they had waited long enough. She
pointed that out, but offered to let the two of them eat if they were hungry. In fact, she implied that she
might insist on them eating. That was enough to make Aviendha drop the cloth back over the tray with a
shudder, and Rasoria wasted no more time, either.
It was only a short walk down the icy hallway to the formal sitting room, and the only things that
moved, aside from them, were the bright winter wall hangings that stirred in the corridor’s drafts, but the
Guardswomen formed a ring around Elayne and Aviendha and kept watch as if they expected Trollocs.
It was only with an effort that Elayne convinced Rasoria there was no need to search the sitting room
before she entered. The Guardswomen served her and obeyed her, but they also were pledged to keep
her alive, and they could be as muley over that last duty as Birgitte was over deciding whether she was
Warder, Captain-General or elder sister at any given moment. Likely, following on the heels of the
incident with Zaida, Rasoria would have wanted the lords and ladies waiting inside to surrender their
weapons! The threat with the mush might have had its part, too. After a short argument, however,
Elayne and Aviendha swept in through the wide doorway together, and alone. Elayne’s feeling of
satisfaction did not last, though. The sitting room was large, meant to accept dozens of people
comfortably, a dark-paneled space with layered carpets covering the floor tiles and a horseshoe arch of
high-back chairs in front of a tall fireplace of white marble with fine red veins. Here, important
dignitaries could be received with more honor than an audience before the throne, because it was more
intimate. The blaze dancing along the logs on the hearth had barely had time to take an edge off the chill
in the air, but that certainly was not the reason Elayne felt as if she had been struck in the stomach. She
understood Birgitte’s puzzlement, now.
Dyelin turned from warming her hands at the fire as they entered. A strong-faced woman with
fine lines at the corners of her eyes and hints of gray in her golden hair, she had not waited to change on
reaching the palace, and still wore a riding dress of deep gray that showed a few travel stains on the
hem. Her curtsy was the merest bend of her neck, the slightest dip of her knees, but she intended no
discourtesy. Dyelin knew who she was as surely as Zaida did-her only jewelry was a small golden pin
in the shape of Taravin’s Owl and Oak on her shoulder, a clear statment that High Seat of Taravin
needed nothing more-yet she had almost died to prove her loyalty to Elayne. "My Lady Elayne," she
said formally, "it gives me honor to present to you Lord Perival, High Seat of House Man tear."
A pretty, golden-haired boy in a plain blue coat jerked away from peering through the fourbarreled
kaleidoscope on a gilded stand taller than he was. He had a silver cup in his hand that Elayne
hoped very much did not contain wine, or at least extremely well watered if it did. One of the side tables
held several trays laden with pitchers and cups. And an ornate teapot she knew might as well be filled
with water. "My pleasure, my Lady Elayne," he piped, blushing and managing a credible bow despite a
little clumsiness in handling the sword belted to his waist. The weapon looked much too long for him.
"House Mantear stands with House Trakand." She returned his courtesy in a daze, spreading her skirts
mechanically.
"Lady Catalyn, High Seat of House Haevin," Dyelin continued. "Elayne," a dark-eyed young
woman at her side murmured, touching her dark green divided skirts and making a fractional dip that
might possibly have been intended for a curtsy, though perhaps she just meant to imitate Dyelin. Or
perhaps she wanted to avoid poking her chin against the large enameled brooch on the high neck of her
dress, the Blue Bear of Haevin. Her hair was caught in a silver net worked with the Blue Bear, too, and
she wore a long ring with the sigil as well. A touch too much pride of House, perhaps. Despite her cool
haughtiness, she was a woman only by courtesy, her cheeks still round with baby fat. "Haevin stands
with Trakand, obviously, or I would not be here." Dyelin’s mouth tightened slightly, and she gave the
girl a hard glance that Catalyn seemed not to see. "Lord Branlet, High Seat of House Gilyard."
Another boy, this one with unruly black curls, in green embroidered with gold on the sleeves,
who hastily set his winecup down on a side table as if uneasy at being seen with it. His blue eyes were
too big for his face, and he nearly tripped himself with his sword, bowing. "It is my pleasure to say that
House Gilyard stands for Trakand, Lady Elayne." Halfway through, his voice broke from treble to bass,
and he blushed even harder than Perival.
"And Lord Conail, High Seat of House Northan." Conail Northan grinned over the rim of his
silver cup. Tall and lean, in a gray coat with sleeves just too short to cover his bony wrists, he had an
engaging grin, merry brown eyes, and an eagle’s beak for a nose. "We drew straws for the order to be
introduced, and I drew short. Northan stands with Trakand. Can’t let a ninny like Arymilla take the
throne." He managed his sword smoothly, and he at least had reached his majority, but if he was many
months past sixteen, Elayne would eat his turned-down boots and his silver-knot spurs.
Their youth was no surprise, of course, but she had expected Conail to have a graying head at his
side to advise him and the others to have their guardians looking over their shoulders. There was no one
else in the room aside from Birgitte, standing in front of the tall arched windows with her arms folded
beneath her breasts. Bright midday sunlight flooding through the clear glass set in the casements made
her a silhouette of displeasure. "Trakand welcomes all of you, and I welcome all of you," Elayne said,
suppressing her dismay. "I will not forget your support, and Trakand will not forget." Something of her
consternation must have crept through, because Catalyn’s mouth compressed and her eyes glittered.
"I am past my guardianship, as you must know, Elayne," she said in a stiff voice. "My uncle,
Lord Arendor, said at the Feast of Lights that I was as ready as I would ever be and might as well have
free rein then as in a year. Truth, I think he wanted more time to go hunting while he still can. He has
always loved hunting, and he’s quite old." Once again she failed to see Dyelin’s frown. Arendor Haevin
and Dyelin were roughly of an age.
"I have no guardian either," Branlet said uncertainly, his voice nearly as high-pitched as
Catalyn’s.
Dyelin gave him a sympathetic smile and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It promptly
fell forward again. "Mayv was riding alone, as she liked to do, and her horse stepped into a gopher
hole," she explained quietly. "By the time anyone found her, it was too late. There has been some . . .
discussion . . . over who’s to take her place."
"They’ve been arguing for three months," Branlet muttered For a moment he looked younger
than Perival, a boy trying to find his way with no one to show him the path. "I’m not supposed to tell
anyone that, but I can tell you. You’re going to be the Queen." Dyelin put a hand on Perival’s shoulder,
and he stood up straighter, though he still was shorter than she. "Lord Willin would be here with Lord
Perival, but the years have him bedridden. Age creeps up on us all, eventually." She shot another look at
Catalyn, but the girl was studying Birgitte, now, her lips pursed. "Willin said I was to tell you that he
sends his good wishes and also one he considers a son."
"Uncle Willin told me to uphold the honor of Mantear and of Andor," Perival said, intent as only
a child being serious could be. "I will try, Elayne. I will try very hard."
"I’m sure you will succeed," Elayne told him, managing to put at least a little warmth into her
tone. She wanted to chase them all out and ask Dyelin some very pointed questions, but that could not
be, not right away. Whatever their ages, they were all the High Seats of powerful Houses, and she had to
offer refreshment and at least a modicum of conversation before they went to change from their journey.
"Is she really the Captain-General of the Queen’s Guards?" Catalyn asked as Birgitte handed
Elayne a thin blue porcelain cup of slightly darkened hot water. The girl spoke as though Birgitte was
not there. Birgitte raised an eyebrow before leaving, but Catalyn seemed practiced in not seeing what
she did not want to see. The winecup in her plump hand gave off the sharply sweet aroma of spices.
There was not so much as a drop of honey in Elayne’s miserable excuse for tea.
"Yes, and my Warder, too," she said. Politely. As ready as she would ever be! The girl probably
thought it a compliment. She deserved a switching for pure rudeness, yet you could not switch a High
Seat. Not when you needed her support.
Catalyn’s eyes flashed to Elayne’s hands, but the Great Serpent ring did nothing to alter the
coolness of her expression. "They gave you that? I had not heard you had been raised Aes Sedai. I
thought the White Tower had sent you home. When your mother died. Or perhaps because of the
troubles in the Tower we hear about. Imagine, Aes Sedai squabbling like farmwives at market. But how
can she be a general or a Warder without a sword? In any case, my aunt Evelle says a woman should
leave swords to men. You don’t shoe your own horse when you have a farrier, or grind your own grain
when you have a miller." A quote from Lady Evelle, no doubt. Elayne schooled her face, ignoring the
only slightly buried insults. "An army is a general’s sword, Catalyn. Gareth Bryne says a general who
uses another blade is mistaking the job." The name seemed to make no impression on her, either.
Miners’ children in the Mountains of Mist knew Gareth Bryne’s name! Aviendha appeared at Elayne’s
side, smiling as though delighted at the opportunity to talk with the girl. "Swords are no use at all," she
said sweetly. Sweetly! Aviendha! Elayne had never realized her sister could dissemble so skillfully. She
had a cup of mulled wine, too. It would have been too much to expect her to continue drinking bitter tea
out of sisterly affection. "You should learn the spear. Also the knife, and the bow. Birgitte Trahelion
could shoot your eyes out at two hundred paces with her bow. Maybe at three hundred."
"The spear?" Catalyn said faintly. And then, in a slightly incredulous tone, "My eyes?"
"You have not met my sister," Elayne said. "Aviendha, Lady Catalyn Haevin. Catalyn, Aviendha
of the Nine Valleys Taardad." Perhaps she should have done that the other way around, but Aviendha
was her sister, and even a High Seat must settle for being introduced to the sister of the Daughter-Heir.
"Aviendha is Aiel. She’s studying to become a Wise One."
The fool girl’s mouth dropped open at the start, her chin falling more and more with each
pronouncement until she was gaping like a fish. Very satisfying. Aviendha gave Elayne a smaller smile,
her green eyes sparkling with approbation above her winecup. Elayne kept her own face smooth, but she
wanted to grin back.
The others were much more easily handled, much less infuriating. Perival and Branlet were shy
their first time in Caemlyn much less in the Royal Palace, hardly saying two words unless someone drew
them out. Conail did think the claim that Aviendha was Aiel must be a joke, and nearly got her belt knife
in his brisket for laughing raucously, but luckily, he thought that was a joke as well Aviendha adopted
an icy composure that might have made her seem a Wise One in her usual clothes; in velvets, she
appeared even more a lady of the court no matter how she fingered her knife. And Branlet did keep
sneaking sidelong peaks at Birgitte. It took Elayne a little while to realize that he was watching her walk
in her heeled boots-those wide trousers were actually quite snug over the hips-but she only sighed.
Fortunately, Birgitte never noticed, and the bond would have let Elayne know even if she tried to hide it.
Birgitte liked having men look at her. Grown men. It would have done Elayne’s cause no good if her
Warder smacked young Branlet’s bottom.
Mainly they wanted to know whether Reanne Corly was an Aes Sedai. None of the four had ever
seen a sister before, but they thought she must be, since she could channel, and carry them and their
armsmen across hundreds of miles in a step. It was a good opportunity to practice evasion without
actually lying, helped by the Great Serpent ring on her own finger. A lie would taint her relations with
these four at the start, but it would hardly do to hope that rumors of Aes Sedai aid would filter out to
Arymilla while spreading the truth about freely. Of course, all four were eager to let her know how
many armsmen they had brought, a total of just over three thousand, nearly half of them crossbowmen
or halberdiers who would be especially useful on the walls. That was a sizable force for four Houses to
have had ready to hand when Dyelin came calling, but then, no House wanted its High Seat unguarded
in these times. Kidnapping was not unheard of when (he throne sat in question. Conail said as much,
with a laugh; he seemed to find everything worth a laugh. Branlet nodded and scrubbed a hand through
his hair. Elayne wondered how many of his numerous aunts, uncles and cousins knew he was gone, and
what they would do when they learned.
"If Dyelin had been willing to wait a few days," Catalyn said, "I could have brought more than
twelve hundred men." That was the third time in as many sentences that she had managed to point out
that she had brought the largest contingent by a considerable margin. "I have sent to all of the Houses
pledged to Haevin."
"And I to every House pledged to Northan," Conail added. With a grin, of course. "Northan may
not summon as many swords as Haevin or Trakand - or Mantear," he put in with a bow to Perival, "but
whoever rides when the Eagles call will be riding for Caemlyn." "They will not ride very fast in winter,"
Perival said quietly. And astonishingly, since no one had spoken to him. "I think that whatever we do,
we will have to do it with who we have now." Conail laughed and cuffed the lad’s shoulder and told him
to buck up his spirits, because every man with a heart was on his way to Caemlyn to support the Lady
Elayne, but Elayne studied Perival more closely. His blue eyes met hers for a moment without blinking
before he shyly lowered his gaze. A boy, but he knew what he had ridden into better than Conail or
Catalyn, who proceeded to tell them yet again how many armsmen she had brought, and how many
Haevin could call on, as if everyone there except Aviendha did not know exactly how many rode to each
House’s summons, in trained soldiers and farmers who had carried a halberd or pike in some war and
village men who could be drafted at need. Close enough to exactly, anyway. Lord Willin had done good
work with young Perival. Now she had to keep it from going to waste. Eventually it was time to
exchange kisses, with Branlet blushing to his hair, and Perival blinking bashfully when Elayne bent to
him, and Conail vowing never to wash his cheek. Catalyn returned a surprisingly hesitant peck to Elayne
‘s cheek, as if it had just occurred to her that she had consented to placing Elayne above her, but after a
moment she nodded to herself, cool pride settling back on her like a mantle. Once the four were handed
over to the maids and serving men who would take them to the apartments that Elayne hoped the First
Maid had had time to ready, Dyelin refilled her winecup and settled herself in one of the tall, carved
chairs with a weary sigh.
"As fine a week’s work as I’ve ever done, if I do say so myself. I got Candraed out of the way
straight off. I never thought Danine would be able to make up her mind, and it only took an hour to
prove me right, though I had to stay three to keep from offending her. The woman must keep in bed till
noon from being unable to decide to which side of the mattress to climb down from! The rest were ready
to see sense with only a little convincing. No one with any sense wants to risk Arymilla gaining the
throne."
For a moment, she frowned at her wine, then fixed Elayne with a steady look. She never
hesitated to speak her mind, whether or not she thought Elayne would agree, and plainly she intended to
do so now. "It may have been a mistake to pass these Kinswomen off as Aes Sedai, however sidemouthed
we’ve been about it. The strain may be too much to ask of them, and it puts us all at risk. This
morning, for no reason I could make out, Mistress Corly was staring and gaping like a goose-girl come
to the city. I think she almost failed at weaving the gateway to bring us here. That would have been
wonderful, everyone lined up to ride through a miraculous hole in the air that never materialized. Not to
mention that it would have stuck me in Catalyn’s company for the Light knows how long. Odious child!
There’s a good mind there, if someone took her in hand for a few years, but she has a double dose of the
viperous Haevin tongue."
Elayne gritted her teeth. She knew how cutting Haevins could be. The whole family took, pride
in it! Catalyn obviously did. And she was tired of explaining what on this day could frighten any woman
who could channel. She was tired of being reminded of what she was trying to ignore. That bloody
beacon was still blazing in the west, an utter impossibility both for its size and its duration. The thing
had been unchanging for hours! Anyone who channeled for this long without a rest must have fallen over
with exhaustion by now. And Rand bloody al’Thor was right there, in the heart of it. She was certain of
that! He was alive, but that only made her want to slap his face for putting her through this. Well, his
face was not there, but-
Birgitte slammed her silver cup down on a side table so hard that wine flew everywhere. Some
laundress was going to sweat to take that stain out of her coatsleeve. A maid would labor for hours to
restore the side table’s polish. "Children!" she barked. "People are going to die because of the decisions
they make, and they’re flaming children, Conail worst of all! You heard him, Dyelin. He wants to
challenge Arymilla’s champion like Artur bloody Hawkwing! Hawkwing never fought anybody’s
flaming champion, and he knew when he was younger than Lord Northan that it was a fool’s game to
rest so much on a flaming duel, but Conail thinks he can win Elayne the flaming throne with his flaming
sword!" "Birgitte Trahelion is right," Aviendha said fiercely. Her hands were fists gripping her skirts.
"Conail Northan is a fool! But how could anyone follow those children into the dance of spears? How
could anyone ask them to lead?"
Dyelin regarded them both, and chose to answer Aviendha first. She was plainly bemused by
Aviendha’s garb. But then, she was bemused by Aviendha and Elayne adopting one another as sisters,
by Elayne having an Aiel friend in the first place. That Elayne chose to include that friend in their
counsels was something she tolerated. Though not without letting her toleration show. "I became High
Seat of Taravin at fifteen, when my father died in a skirmish on the Altaran Marches. My two younger
brothers died fighting cattle raiders out of Murandy that same year. I listened to advisors, but I told
Taravin riders where to strike, and we taught the Altarans and the Murandians to look elsewhere for
their thieving. The times choose when children must grow up, Aviendha, not we, and in these times, a
High Seat who is a child cannot be a child any longer. "As for you, Lady Birgitte," she went on in a
drier voice. "Your language is, as ever . . . pungent." She did not ask how Birgitte presumed to know so
much of Artur Hawkwing, things no historian knew, but she studied her appraisingly. "Branlet and
Perival will take guidance from me, and so will Catalyn, I think, much as I regret the time I’ll have to
spend with the girl. As for Conail, he’s hardly the first young man to think he’s invincible and immortal.
If you can’t keep him reined in as Captain-General, I suggest you try walking for him. The way he was
eyeing those breeches of yours, he’ll follow anywhere you lead."
Elayne . . . shrugged off. . . the pure fury welling up in her. Not her fury, any more than it had
been her anger at Dyelin in the first place, or her anger at Birgitte splashing wine about. It was
Birgitte’s. She did not want to slap Rand’s face. Well, she did, but that was beside the point. Light,
Conail had been looking at Birgitte, too? "They are the High Seats of their Houses, Aviendha. No one in
their Houses would thank me for treating them as less; far from it. The men who ride for them will fight
to keep them alive, but it is Perival and Branlet, Conail and Catalyn they ride for, not me. Because they
are the High Seats." Aviendha frowned, and folded her arms as though pulling a shawl around herself,
but she nodded. Abruptly, and reluctantly-no one rose to such prominence among the Aiel without
years of experience, and the approval of the Wise Ones-but she nodded. "Birgitte, you will have to
deal with them, Captain-General to High Seat. White hair wouldn’t necessarily make them any wiser,
and it definitely wouldn’t make them any easier to deal with. They’d still have their own opinions, and
with years of experience to give them weight, most likely they’d be ten times as certain they knew what
needs to be done better than you do. Or than I do." She made a great effort to keep her tone clear of
sharpness, and no doubt Birgitte felt the effort. At least, the flow of rage through the bond suddenly
diminished. It was only tamped down, not gone-Birgitte enjoyed having men look, at least when she
wanted them to look, but she very much did not like anyone saying she was trying to attract their
attention-yet even so, she knew the danger to both of them of letting their emotions run too free.
Dyelin had begun sipping at her wine, still studying Birgitte. Only a bare handful knew the truth that
Birgitte desperately wanted to keep hidden, and Dyelin was not among them, yet Birgitte had been
careless enough, a slip of the tongue here, a slip there, that the older woman was certain that some
mystery hid behind Birgitte’s blue eyes. The Light only knew what she would think if she solved that
riddle. As it was, the two were oil and water. They could argue over which way was up, and certainly
over everything else. This time, Dyelin clearly thought she had won, foot and horse. "Be that as it may,
Dyelin," Elayne continued, "I would have been more pleased if you had brought their advisors with
them. What’s done is done, but Branlet troubles me in particular. If Gilyard accuses me of kidnapping
him, matters become worse than they were, not better."
Dyelin waved that away. "You don’t know the Gilyards well, do you? The way they squabble
among themselves, they may not notice the boy is gone before summer, and if they do, none will
repudiate what he’s done. None of them will admit they were so busy in arguing over who’s to be his
guardian that they forgot to keep an eye on him. And second, none of them will admit they weren’t
consulted beforehand. In any event, Gilyard would stand for Zaida before standing for Marne, and they
don’t like Arawn or Sarand much better."
"I hope you’re right, Dyelin, because I’m appointing you to deal with any angry Gilyards who
appear. And while you’re advising the other three, you can keep a thumb on Conail so he doesn’t do
anything completely harebrained."
For all her talk, the first suggestion made Dyelin wince slightly. The second made her sigh.
It made Birgitte laugh out loud. "If you have any problems, I’ll lend you a pair of breeches and
some boots, and you can walk for him."
"Some women," Dyelin murmured into her wine, "can make a fish bite by crooking a finger,
Lady Birgitte. Other women have to drag their bait all over the pond." Aviendha laughed at that, but
Birgitte’s anger began to edge upward in the bond. A wave of cold air swept into the room as the door
opened, and Rasoria entered, coming to a stiff attention. "The First Maid and the First Clerk have come,
my Lady Elayne," she announced. Her voice faltered at the end, as she caught the mood in the room. A
blind goat could have caught it, with Dyelin smug as a cat in the creamery, and Birgitte scowling at her
and Aviendha both, and Aviendha choosing this moment to remember that Birgitte was Birgitte
Silverbow, which on this occasion made her stare at the floor, as abashed as if she had been laughing at
a Wise One. Now and again Elayne wished her friends could all get on as well as she and Aviendha did,
but somehow they managed to rub on together, and she supposed that was really all she could ask from
real people. Perfection was a thing for books and gleemen’s stories. "Send them in," she told Rasoria.
"And don’t disturb us unless the city is under attack. Unless it is important," she amended. In stories,
women who gave orders like that were always setting themselves up for disaster. Sometimes, there were
lessons in stories, if you looked for them.
CHAPTER 14
What Wise Ones Know
alwin Norry, the First Clerk, and Reene Harfor, the First Maid, entered together, him making a
jerky, unpracticed bow, and her a graceful curtsy that was neither too low nor too shallow. They could
not have been more different. Mistress Harfor was round-faced and regally dignified, her hair in a neat
gray bun atop her head, Master Norry tall and gawky as a wadingbird, with his little remaining hair
sticking up behind his ears like sprays of white feathers. Each carried an embossed leather folder stuffed
with papers, but she held hers at her side as if not to rumple her formal scarlet tabard, unwrinkled as it
always seemed to be, no matter the hour or how long she had been on her feet, while he clutched his
folder to his narrow chest as if to hide old inkstains, of which several spotted his tabard, including a
large blot that made the White Lion’s tail end in a black tuft. Courtesies done, they immediately put a
little distance between them, each not quite watching the other.
As soon as the door closed behind Rasoria, the glow of saidar sprung up around Aviendha, and
she wove a ward against eavesdropping that clung to the walls of the room. What was said between
them was now as safe as they could make it, and Aviendha would know if anyone even tried to listen
with the Power. She was very good with this sort of weave.
"Mistress Harfor," Elayne said, "if you will begin." She did not offer wine or seats, of course.
Master Norry would have been shocked to his toenails by such a lapse in the proprieties, and Mistress
Harfor might well have been offended. As it was, Norry twitched and glanced sideways at Reene, and
her mouth thinned. Even after a week’s meetings, their dislike for giving their reports where the other
could hear was palpable. They were jealous of their fiefs, the more so since the First Maid had moved
into territory that once might have been considered Master Norry’s responsibility. Of course, running the
Royal Palace had always been the First Maid’s charge, and it might be said that her new duties were
only an extension of that. It would not be said by Halwin Norry, though. The blazing logs settled in the
fireplace with a loud crack, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
"I am convinced the Second Librarian is . . . a spy, my Lady," Mistress Harfor said finally,
ignoring Norry as if to make him disappear. She had resisted letting anyone else know that she was
searching out spies in the palace, yet the First Clerk knowing seemed to grate on her worst of all. His
only authority over her, if such it was, came from paying the palace accounts, and he never questioned
an expenditure, but even that little was more than she wished. "Every three or four days Master Harnder
visits an inn called the Hoop and Arrow, supposedly for the ale made by the innkeeper, one Millis
Fendry, but Mistress Fendry also keeps pigeons, and whenever Master Harnder visits, she sends off a
pigeon that flies north. Yesterday, three of the Aes Sedai staying at the Silver Swan found reason to visit
the Hoop and Arrow, though it caters to a much poorer crowd than the Swan. They came and went
hooded, and were closeted with Mistress Fendry in private for over an hour. All three are Brown Ajah. I
fear that indicates Master Harnder’s employer."
"Hairdressers, footmen, cooks, the master cabinetmaker, no fewer than five of Master Norry’s
clerks, and now one of the librarians."
Leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, Dyelin glowered sourly. "Is there anyone we
won’t eventually learn is a spy, Mistress Harfor?" Norry stretched his neck uncomfortably; he took the
malfeasance of his clerks as a personal affront. "I have hopes I may be reaching the bottom of that
barrel, my Lady," Mistress Harfor said complacently. Neither spies nor the High Seats of powerful
Houses ruffled her. Spies were pests she intended to rid the palace of as surely as she kept it clear of
fleas and rats-though she had been forced to accept Aes Sedai aid with rats recently-while powerful
nobles were like rain or snow, facts of nature to be endured until they went away, but nothing to get
flustered over. "There are only so many people who can be bought, and only so many can afford to buy,
or want to." Elayne tried to picture Master Harnder, but all she could bring up in her mind was vague, a
chubby, balding man who blinked incessantly. He had served her mother, and as she recalled, Queen
Mordrellen before that. No one commented on the fact that it seemed he also served the Brown Ajah.
Every ruler’s palace between the Spine of the World and the Aryth Ocean contained the Tower’s eyesand-
ears. Any ruler with half a brain expected it. Doubtless the Seanchan would soon be living under the
White Tower’s gaze, too, if they were not already. Reene had discovered several spies for the Red Ajah,
assuredly legacies of Elaida’s time in Caemlyn, but this librarian was the first for another Ajah. Elaida
would not have liked other Ajahs knowing what went on in the palace while she was advisor to the
Queen.
"A pity we have no false stories we want the Brown Ajah to believe," she said lightly. A great
pity they, and the Reds, knew about the Kin. At best, they had to know there were a large number of
women in the palace who could channel, and it would not take them long to figure out who they were.
That would create any number of problems down the road, yet those difficulties did lie somewhere in the
future. Always plan ahead, Lini used to say, but worry too hard over next year, and you can trip over
tomorrow. "Watch Master Harnder and try to find out his friends. That will have to suffice for the time
being." Some spies depended on their ears, either to hear gossip or listen at doors; others lubricated
tongues with a few friendly cups of wine. The first part of counteracting a spy was to find out how he
learned what he sold.
Aviendha snorted loudly and, spreading her skirts, started to sit down on the carpet before
realizing what she wore. With a warning glance at Dyelin, she perched stiffly on the front edge of a
chair instead, the picture of a court lady with her eyes flashing. Except that a lady of the court would not
have checked the edge of her belt knife with a thumb. Left to her own devices, Aviendha would slit
every spy’s throat as soon as it could be stretched for the knife. Spying was a vile business, in her view,
no matter how often Elayne explained that every spy found was a tool that could be used to make her
enemies believe what she wanted. Not that every spy necessarily worked for an enemy. Most of those
the First Maid had uncovered took money from more than one source, and among those she had
identified were King Roedran of Murandy, various Tairen High Lords and Ladies, a handful of
Cairhienin nobles, and a fair number of merchants. A good many people were interested in what
happened in Caemlyn, whether for its effect on trade or other reasons. Sometimes it seemed that
everyone spied on everyone else.
"Mistress Harfor," she said, "you haven’t found any eyes-andears for the Black Tower."
Like most people who heard the Black Tower mentioned, Dyelin shivered, and took a deep drink
of her wine, but Reene just grimaced faintly. She had decided to ignore the fact that they were men who
could channel, since she could not change matters. To her, the Black Tower was . . . an annoyance.
"They haven’t had time, my Lady. Give them a year, and you’ll find footmen and librarians taking their
coin, too."
"I suppose I will." Dreadful thought. "What else do you have for us today?"
"I’ve had a word with Jon Skellit, my Lady. A man who turns his coat once is often amenable to
turning it again, and Skellit is." Skellit, a barber, was in the pay of House Arawn, which for the present
made him Arymilla’s man.
Birgitte bit off an oath in midword-for some reason, she tried to watch her language around
Reene Harfor-and spoke in a pained voice. "You had a word with him? Without asking anyone?"
Dyelin was under no compunctions regarding the First Maid, and she muttered, "Mother’s milk
in a cup!" Elayne had never heard her use an obscenity before. Master Norry blinked and almost
dropped his folder, and busied himself with not looking at Dyelin. The First Maid, however, merely
paused until sure she and Birgitte were done, then went on calmly.
"The time seemed ripe, and so did Skellit. One of the men he hands his reports to left the city and
hasn’t returned yet, while it appears the other broke his leg. The streets are always icy where a fire has
been put out." She said that so blandly, it seemed more than likely she had engineered the man’s fall
somehow. Hard times uncovered hard talents in the most surprising people. "Skellit is quite agreeable to
carrying his next communication out to the camps himself. He saw a gateway made, and he won’t have
to pretend terror." You would have thought she herself had been seeing merchants’ wagons rumble out
of holes in the air for her entire life. "What’s to stop this barber keeping on running once he’s outside
the fla . . . uh . . . the city?" Birgitte demanded irritably, beginning to pace in front of the fire with her
hands clasped behind her. Her heavy golden braid should have been bristling. "If he goes, Arawn will
hire somebody else, and you’ll have to hunt him out all over again. Light, Arymilla must have heard of
the gateways almost as soon as she arrived, and Skellit has to know it." It was not the thought of Skellit
escaping that irritated her, or not only that. The mercenaries thought they had been hired to stop soldiers,
but for a few silvers they would allow one or two to slip through the gates by night in either direction.
One or two could do no harm, as they saw matters. Birgitte did not like being reminded of that.
"Greed will stop him, my Lady," Mistress Harfor replied calmly. "The thought of earning gold
from the Lady Elayne as well as from Lady Naean is enough to make the man breathe hard. It’s true,
Lady Arymilla must already have heard of the gateways, but that only adds credit to Skellit’s reason for
going in person." "And if his greed is great enough for him to try earning still more gold by turning his
coat a third time?" Dyelin said. "He could cause a great deal of . . . mischief, Mistress Harfor."
Reene’s tone became a little crisper. She would never step over the boundaries, but she disliked
anyone thinking her careless. "Lady Naean would have him buried under the nearest snowdrift, my
Lady, as I made certain he is aware. She has never been patient. As I am sure you are aware. In any case,
the news we get from the camps is quite sparse, to say the least, and he might see a few things we would
like to know."
"If Skellit can tell us which camp Arymilla, Elenia and Naean will be in and when, I’ll give him
his gold with my own hand," Elayne said deliberately. Elenia and Naean stayed close to Arymilla, or she
kept them close, and Arymilla was much less patient than Naean, much less willing to believe that
anything could function without her presence. She spent half of each day riding from camp to camp, and
never slept in the same two nights running, as far as anyone could learn. "That is the only thing he can
tell us of the camps that I want to know." Reene inclined her head. "As you say, my Lady. I will see to
it." She too often tried not to say things straight out in front of Norry, but she gave no sign that she had
heard any reproof. Of course, Elayne was not sure she actually would rebuke the woman openly.
Mistress Harfor would continue to perform her duties properly if she did, and she certainly would
continue hunting spies with undiminished ardor, if for no other reason than their presence in the palace
offended her, yet Elayne might find a dozen inconveniences in every day, a dozen small discomforts that
added up to misery, and not a one that she could directly attribute to the First Maid.
We must follow the steps of the dance as surely as our servants, her mother had told her once.
You can keep hiring new servants, and spend all your time training them and suffering till they learn,
only to find yourself back where you started, or you can accept the rules as they do, and live
comfortably while you use your time to rule.
"Thank you, Mistress Harfor," she said, for which she received another precise curtsy. Reene
Harfor was another who knew her own worth. "Master Norry?"
The heron-like man gave a start and stopped frowning at Reene. In some ways, he saw the
gateways as his, and not to be trifled with. "Yes, my Lady. Of course." His voice was a dusty monotone.
"I trust the lady Birgitte already has informed you of the merchants’ trains from Illian and Tear. I
believe that is . . . um . . . her usual custom when you return to the city." For a moment, his eyes rested
reproachfully on Birgitte. He would never think of causing Elayne the smallest irritation even if she
shouted at him, but he lived by his own set of rules, and, in a mild fashion, he resented Birgitte stealing
his chance to enumerate the wagons and casks and barrels that had arrived. He did love his numbers. At
least, Elayne supposed it was in a mild fashion. There seemed to be very little heat in Mister Norry.
"She did," she told him, with just a hint of apology, not enough to embarrass him. "I fear some
of the Sea Folk are leaving us. We’ll only have half the number to make gateways after today." His
fingers spidered across the leather folder against his chest as though feeling the papers within. She had
never seen him consult one. "Ah. Ah. We shall . . . cope, my Lady." Halwin Norry always coped. "To
continue, there were nine arsons yesterday and last night, slightly more than usual. Three attempts were
made to fire warehouses storing food. None successful, I hasten to add." He might hasten to add, yet he
did it in that same drone. "If I may say so, the Guards patrolling the streets are having an effect-the
number of assaults and thefts has declined to little more than normal for this time of year-but it seems
evident that some hand is directing the arsons. Seventeen buildings were destroyed, all save one
abandoned," his mouth narrowed in disapproval; it would take far more than a siege to make him leave
Caemlyn, "and in my opinion, all of the fires were placed so as to draw the water-wagons as far as
possible from the warehouses where attempts were made. I now believe that pattern holds for every fire
we’ve seen these past weeks."
"Birgitte?" Elayne said.
"I can try plotting the warehouses on a map," Birgitte replied doubtfully, "and put extra Guards
on the streets that seem to be farthest away, but it’s still leaving a lot to fla . . . uh . . . to chance." She
did not look toward Mistress Harfor, but Elayne felt a faint hint of a blush from her. "Anybody can have
flint and steel in a belt pouch, and it only takes a minute with some dry straw to start a fire."
"Do what you can," Elayne told her. It would be pure luck if they caught an arsonist in the act,
and beyond luck if the arsonist could say more than that she had been handed coin by someone with a
hood hiding her face. Tracing that gold back to Arymilla or Elenia or Naean would require Mat
Cauthon’s luck. "Have you anything more, Master Norry?"
Knuckling his long nose, he avoided her gaze. "It has . . . uh . . . come to my attention," he said
hesitantly, "that Marne, Arawn and Sarand have all recently taken very large loans against the revenues
of their estates." Mistress Harfor’s eyebrows climbed before she got them under control.
Peering into her teacup, Elayne discovered that she had actually emptied it. Bankers never told
anyone how much they had loaned to whom, or against what, but she did not ask how he knew. It would
be . . . embarrassing. For both of them. She smiled when her sister took the cup, then grimaced when
Aviendha returned with it filled again. Aviendha seemed to think she should drink weak tea till her eyes
floated! Goat’s milk was better, but dishwater for tea would do. Well, she would hold the bloody cup,
but she did not have to drink.
"The mercenaries," Dyelin growled, the heat in her eyes enough to make a bear back up. "I’ve
said it before, and I’ll say it again; the trouble with sell-swords is they don’t always stay bought." She
had opposed hiring mercenaries to help defend the city from the start, though the fact was that without
them, Arymilla could have ridden in with her army by any gate she picked, or near enough. There
simply had not been enough men to guard every gate properly otherwise, much less man the walls.
Birgitte had opposed the mercenaries, too, yet she had accepted Elayne’s reasons, if reluctantly. She still
distrusted them, but now she shook her head. Sitting on the arm of a chair near the fire, she rested her
spurred boot on the seat. "Mercenaries have a concern for their reputations if not their honor. Changing
sides is one thing; actually betraying a gate is something else entirely. A company that did that would
never be hired again, anywhere. Arymilla would have to offer enough for a captain to live the rest of his
life like a lord, and at least convince his men they’d be able to, as well." Norry cleared his throat. Even
that sounded dusty, somehow. "It seems they may have borrowed against the same revenues twice or
even three times. The bankers, of course, are . . . unaware . . . of this, as yet."
Birgitte began to curse, then cut herself off. Dyelin scowled at her wine hard enough to make it
turn sour. Aviendha squeezed Elayne’s hand, just a quick pressure quickly released. The fire crackled in
a shower of sparks, some nearly reaching the carpets. "The mercenary companies will have to be
watched." Elayne raised a hand to forestall Birgitte. The other woman had not opened her mouth, but the
bond shouted volumes. "You will have to find the men for it somewhere." Light! They seemed to be
guarding against as many people inside the city as outside! "It shouldn’t take that many, but we need to
know if they start to act strangely, or secretively, Birgitte. That might be our only warning." "I was
thinking what to do if one of the companies does sell out," Birgitte said wryly. "Knowing won’t be
enough unless I have men to rush to any gate I think is going to be betrayed. And half the soldiers in the
city are mercenaries. Half the rest are old men who were living on their pensions a few months gone. I’ll
shift the mercenaries’ postings at irregular intervals. It will be harder for them to betray a gate if they
can’t be sure where they’ll be tomorrow, but that doesn’t make it impossible." Protest how she would
that she was no general, she had seen more battles and sieges than any ten generals living, and she knew
very well how these matters unfolded.
Elayne almost wished she had wine in her cup. Almost. "Is there any chance the bankers will
learn what you have, Master Norry? Before the loans come due?" If they did, some might decide they
preferred Arymilla on the throne. She could strip the country’s coffers to repay those loans, then. She
might even do it. Merchants rode the political winds, whichever way they blew. Bankers had been
known to attempt to influence events. "In my opinion, it is unlikely, my Lady. They would have to . . .
um . . . ask the right questions of the right people, but bankers are normally . . . um . . . closemouthed . . .
with one another. Yes, I think it unlikely. For the time being."
There was nothing to be done in any case. Except to tell Birgitte there might be a new source for
assassins and kidnappers. Only given her hard expression and a sudden grimness in the bond, she had
already realized that. There would be little chance of keeping the bodyguard under a hundred women,
now. If there ever had been.
"Thank you, Master Norry," Elayne said. "You’ve done well, as always. Let me know
immediately if you see any indications that the bankers have asked those questions."
"Of course, my Lady," he murmured, ducking his head like an egret darting after a fish. "My
Lady is very kind." When Reene and Norry left the room, him holding the door for her and making a
bow that was a hair more graceful than usual and her giving him a slight bow of her head as she glided
past him into the corridor, Aviendha did not release the ward she was holding. As soon as the door
closed, its solid sound swallowed by the ward, she said, "Someone tried to listen."
Elayne shook her head. There was no way to tell who-a Black sister? A curious Kinswoman?-
but at least the eavesdrop had failed. Not that there was much chance of anyone getting past one of
Aviendha’s wards, maybe not even the Forsaken, but she would have spoken up right away if someone
had.
Dyelin took Aviendha’s announcement with less aplomb, muttering about the Sea Folk. She had
not turned a hair at hearing that half the Windfinders were leaving, not in front of Reene and Norry, but
now she demanded to know the whole story. "I never did trust Zaida," she grumbled when Elayne
finished. "This agreement sounds good for trade, I suppose, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she had one of
the Windfinders try to listen in. She struck me as a woman who wants to know everything, just in case it
might be useful one day." There was very little hesitant about Dyelin, yet she hesitated now, rolling her
winecup between her palms. "Are you certain this . . . this beacon . . . can’t harm us, Elayne?" "As
certain as I can be, Dyelin. If it was going to crack open the world, I think it would have by now."
Aviendha laughed, but Dyelin turned quite pale. Really! Sometimes you had to laugh if only to keep
from crying.
"If we tarry much longer now that Norry and Mistress Harfor are gone," Birgitte said,
"somebody might start wondering why." She waved a hand at the walls, indicating the ward she could
not see. She knew it was still in place, though. The daily meetings with the First Maid and the First
Clerk always concealed a little something more.
Everyone gathered around her as she moved a pair of golden Sea Folk porcelain bowls on one of
the side tables and pulled a muchfolded map from inside her short coat. It rode there always, except
when she slept, and then it resided beneath her pillow. Spread out, with empty winecups at the corners to
hold it flat, the map displayed Andor from the River Erinin to the border between Altara and Murandy.
In truth, it could have been said to show all of Andor, since what lay farther west had been only half
under Caemlyn’s control for generations. It had hardly been a masterpiece of the mapmaker’s art to
begin with, and creases obscured much of the detail, but it showed the terrain well enough, and every
town and village was marked, every road and bridge and ford. Elayne set her teacup down at arm’s
length from the map to avoid spilling on it and adding more stains. And to rid herself of the wretched
excuse for tea.
"The Borderlanders are moving," Birgitte said, pointing to the forests north of Caemlyn, to a spot
above Andor’s northmost border, "but they haven’t covered much ground. At this rate, they’ll be well
over a month getting close to Caemlyn." Swirling her silver cup, Dyelin peered into the dark wine, then
looked up suddenly. "I thought you northerners were used to snow, Lady Birgitte." Even now she had to
probe, and telling her not to would only make her ten times as certain that Birgitte was hiding secrets,
and twenty times as determined to learn them. Aviendha scowled at the older woman-when she was
not in awe of Birgitte, sometimes she became fiercely protective of Birgitte’s secrets-but Birgitte
herself met Dyelin’s gaze levelly, with no hint of alarm in the bond. She had become quite comfortable
with the lie about her origins. "I haven’t been back to Kandor in a long time." That was simple truth,
though it had been far longer than Dyelin could have imagined. The country had not even been called
Kandor, then. "But no matter what you’re used to, moving two hundred thousand soldiers, not to
mention the Light alone knows how many camp followers, is slow going in winter. Worse, I sent
Mistress Ocalin and Mistress Fote to visit some of the villages a few miles south of the border." Sabeine
Ocalin and Julanya Fote were Kinswomen who could Travel. "They say the villagers think the
Borderlanders are camped for the winter."
Elayne tsked, frowning at the map as she traced distances with a finger. She was counting on
news of the Borderlanders, if not on the Borderlanders themselves. Word of an army that size entering
Andor should be leaping ahead of it like wildfire in dry grass. No one but a fool could believe they had
marched all those hundreds of leagues to try conquering Andor, but everyone who heard would be
speculating on their intentions and what to do about them, a different opinion on every tongue. Once the
news began to spread, anyway. When it did, she had an advantage over everyone else. She had arranged
for the Borderlanders to cross into Andor into the first place, and she had already arranged for them to
leave. The choice had not been very difficult. Stopping them would have been a bloody affair, if it could
have been managed at all, and they wanted no more than the width of a road to march onward into
Murandy, where they thought they would find the Dragon Reborn. That was her doing, as well. They hid
their reason for seeking Rand, and she was not about to give them a true location, not when they had as
many as a dozen Aes Sedai with them and hid that fact, too. But once news of them reached the High
Seats. . . . "It should work," she said softly. "If necessary, we can plant rumors of the Borderlanders
ourselves."
"It should work," Dyelin agreed, then added in a dark voice, "As long as Bashere and Bael keep
a close rein on their men. It’s going to be a volatile mix, with Borderlanders, Aiel and the Legion of the
Dragon all within a few miles of one another. And I can’t see how we can be sure the Asha’man won’t
do something mad." She ended with a sniff. In her book, a man had to be mad in the first place, or he
would never have chosen to become an Asha’man. Aviendha nodded. She disagreed with Dyelin almost
as frequently as Birgitte did, but for the most part, the Asha’man were one thing they agreed on.
"I’ll make sure the Borderlanders stay well clear of the Black Tower," Elayne reassured them,
though she had done the same before. Even Dyelin knew that Bael and Bashere would hold their forces
in check - neither man wanted a battle he did not need, and Davram Bashere certainly would not fight
his own countrymen - but anyone had a right to be uneasy about the Asha’man and what they might
do. She slid her finger from the six-pointed star identifying Caemlyn across the few miles to the ground
the Asha’man had usurped. The Black Tower was not marked, but she knew all too well exactly where it
lay. At least that was well away from the Lugard Road. Sending the Borderlanders south into Murandy
without upsetting the Asha’man would not be difficult. Her mouth compressed at the thought that she
must not upset the Asha’man, but there was nothing to be done about it any time soon, so she mentally
shifted the black-coated men to one side. What could not be dealt with now, had to be dealt with later.
"And the others?" She did not have to say more. Six major Houses remained uncommitted-at least to
her or Arymilla. Dyelin claimed they would all come to Elayne eventually, but they showed no sign of it
so far. Sabeine and Julanya had been looking for word of those six, too. Both women had spent the last
twenty years as peddlers, accustomed to hard journeys, sleeping in stables or under the trees, and
listening to what people did not say as much as to what they said. They made perfect scouts. It would be
a great loss if they had to be shifted to helping keep the city supplied. "Rumor has Lord Luan a dozen
places, east and west." Frowning at the much-creased map as though Luan’s position should have been
marked on it, Birgitte muttered a curse, much viler than called for, now that Reene Harfor was absent.
"Always the next village over, or the one beyond that. Lady Ellorien and Lord Abelle seem to have
vanished completely, difficult as that has to be for a High Seat. At least, Mistress Ocalin and Mistress
Fote haven’t been able to find a whisper of them, or of any House Pendar or House Traemane armsmen,
either. Not a man or a horse." That was very unusual. Someone was exerting great effort. "Abelle was
always a ghost when he wanted to be," Dyelin muttered, "always able to catch you wrong-footed.
Ellorien. . . ." Brushing fingers against her lips, she sighed. "The woman’s too flamboyant to disappear.
Unless she’s with Abelle or Luan. Or both of them." She was not happy with that idea, no matter what
she said.
"As for our other "friends’," Birgitte said, "Lady Arathelle crossed out of Murandy five days
ago, here." She touched the map lightly, some two hundred miles south of Caemlyn. "Four days ago,
Lord Pelivar crossed about five or six miles west of that, and Lady Aemlyn here, another five or six
miles."
"Not together," Dyelin said, nodding. "Did they bring any Murandians? No? Good. They could
be moving to their estates, Elayne. If they move further apart, we’ll know for certain." Those three
Houses made her most anxious of all. "They could be heading home," Birgitte agreed, reluctantly as
always when agreeing with Dyelin. Drawing her intricate braid over her shoulder, she gripped it in a fist
almost the way Nynaeve did. "The men and horses must be worn out, after marching into Murandy in
winter. But all we can be sure of is that they’re on the move."
Aviendha snorted. With her in elegant velvets, it was a startling sound. "Always assume your
enemy will do what you do not want. Decide what you least want them to do, and plan on that."
"Aemlyn, Arathelle and Pelivar aren’t enemies," Dyelin protested weakly. Wherever she believed their
allegiance would fall in time, those three had announced their support of Dyelin herself for the throne.
Elayne had never read of any queen being forced onto the throne-that sort of thing might not
have made it into the histories in any case-yet Aemlyn, Arathelle and Pelivar seemed willing to try,
and not for hope of power for themselves. Dyelin did not want the throne, but she would hardly be a
passive ruler. The simple fact was that Morgase Trakand’s final year had been marred by blunder after
blunder, and few knew or believed that she had been a captive of one of the Forsaken during that time.
Some Houses wanted anyone except another Trakand on the throne. Or thought they did.
"What is the last thing we want them to do?" Elayne said. "If they disperse to their estates, then
they are out of it until spring at the earliest, and everything will be decided by then." The Light willing,
it would. "But if they continue on to Caemlyn?" "Without the Murandians, they don’t have enough
armsmen to challenge Arymilla." Studying the map, Birgitte rubbed her chin.
"If they don’t know by now that the Aiel and the Legion of the Dragon are staying out of this,
they’ll have to learn of it soon, but they’ll want to be careful. None of them seems foolish enough to
provoke a fight they can’t win when they don’t have to. I’d say they’ll camp somewhere to the east or
southeast, where they can keep an eye on events and maybe influence what happens." Downing the last
of her wine, which must have been cold by now, Dyelin exhaled heavily and walked over to fill her cup
again. "If they come to Caemlyn," she said in a leaden tone, "then they are hoping that Luan or Abelle
or Ellorien will join them. Perhaps all three."
"Then we must figure out how to stop them reaching Caemlyn before our plans come to fruit,
without making them permanent enemies." Elayne worked to make her voice as sure and firm as
Dyelin’s was dull. "And we must plan what to do in case they arrive here too early. If that happens,
Dyelin, you will have to convince them the choice is between me and Arymilla. Otherwise, we’ll be in a
tangle we may never straighten out, and all of Andor in it with us."
Dyelin grunted as if she had been punched. The last time the great Houses split evenly among
three claimants for the Lion Throne had been nearly five hundred years ago, and seven years of open
war followed before a queen was crowned. The original claimants were all dead by that point.
Without thinking, Elayne picked up her teacup and took a sip.
The tea had gone cold, but honey exploded on her tongue. Honey! She looked at Aviendha in
astonishment, and her sister’s lips quirked in a small smile. A conspiratorial smile, as if Birgitte did not
know exactly what had happened. Even their strangely enhanced bond did not extend to her tasting what
Elayne did, yet she had surely felt Elayne’s surprise and pleasure on tasting the tea. Planting fists on
hips, she adopted a censorious look. Or rather, she tried to; despite all she could do, a smile crept onto
her face, too. Abruptly, Elayne realized that Birgitte’s headache was gone. She did not know when it had
vanished, but it certainly was not there any longer.
"Hope for the best and plan for the worst," she said. "Sometimes, the best actually happens."
Dyelin, unaware of the honey or anything except that they were all three grinning, harrumphed loudly.
"And sometimes it doesn’t happen. If your clever scheme comes off exactly as planned, Elayne, we
won’t have any need for Aemlyn or Ellorien or the others, but it’s a terrible gamble. All it takes to go
wrong is - " The left-hand door opened to admit a wave of cold and an apple-cheeked woman with icy
eyes and the golden knot of an under-lieutenant on her shoulder. She might have knocked first, but if so,
the ward had sealed off the sound. Like Rasoria, Tzigan Sokorin had been a Hunter for the Horn before
joining Elayne’s bodyguard. It seemed the guard had changed. "The Wise One Monaelle wishes to see
the Lady Elayne," Tzigan announced, drawing herself up rigidly. "Mistress Karistovan is with her."
Sumeko could be put off, but not Monaelle. Arymilla’s people would as soon interfere with Aes Sedai as
with the Aiel, yet only something important would have brought a Wise One into the city. Birgitte knew
that, too; she immediately began folding the map up again. Aviendha let the warding dissipate and
released the Source.
"Ask them to come in," Elayne said.
Monaelle did not wait on Tzigan, gliding into the room as soon as the ward vanished, her
multitude of gold and ivory bracelets rattling as she lowered her shawl from shoulders to elbows in the
comparative warmth. Elayne did not know how old Monaelle was - Wise Ones were not as reticent
about age as Aes Sedai, but they were oblique - yet she appeared not far into her middle years. There
were hints of red in her waist-long yellow hair, but not a touch of gray. Short for an Aiel, shorter than
Elayne, with a mild, motherly face, she was barely strong enough in the Power to have been accepted in
the White Tower, but strength did not count among Wise Ones, and among them, she stood very high.
More importantly for Elayne and Aviendha, she had been the midwife at their rebirth as first-sisters.
Elayne offered her a curtsy, ignoring Dyelin’s disapproving sniff, and Aviendha made a deep bow,
folding herself over her hands. Aside from the duties owed to her midwife under Aiel customs, she was
still only an apprentice Wise One, after all.
"I assume your need for privacy is ended, since you lowered the ward," Monaelle said, "and it is
time I checked on your condition, Elayne Trakand. It should be done twice in the month until full term."
Why was she frowning at Aviendha? Oh, Light, the velvets!
"And I have come to see what she does," Sumeko added, following the Wise One into the room.
Sumeko was imposing, a stout woman with confident eyes, in well-cut red-belted yellow wool, with
silver combs in her straight black hair, and a red-enameled silver circle-pin on the high neck of her
dress. She might have been a noblewoman or a successful merchant. Once she had shown a certain
diffidence, at least around Aes Sedai, but no longer. Not with Aes Sedai or soldiers of the Queen’s
Guards. "You may go," she told Tzigan. "This doesn’t concern you." Or with nobles, for that matter.
"You may leave, too, Lady Dyelin, and you, Lady Birgitte." She studied Aviendha as if considering
adding her to the list. "Aviendha may remain," Monaelle said. "She is missing a great many lessons, and
she must learn this sooner or later." Sumeko nodded in acceptance of Aviendha, but she kept a coolly
impatient gaze on Dyelin and Birgitte.
"Lady Dyelin and I have matters to discuss," Birgitte said, stuffing the folded map back under
her red coat as she started for the door. "I’ll tell you tonight what we’ve thought of, Elayne." Dyelin
gave her a sharp look, almost as sharp as the one she had given Sumeko, but she set her winecup on one
of the trays and made her courtesies to Elayne, then waited with visible impatience while Birgitte bent to
murmur at length in Monaelle’s ear and the Wise One replied briefly, but just as quietly. What were they
whispering about? Probably goat’s milk.
Once the door closed behind Tzigan and the other two women, Elayne offered to send for more
wine, since what was in the pitchers was cold, but Sumeko declined curtly, and Monaelle politely if
rather absently. The Wise One was studying Aviendha with such intensity that the younger woman
began to redden and looked away, gripping her skirts.
"You mustn’t take Aviendha to task about her clothes, Monaelle," Elayne said. "I asked her to
wear them, and she did as a favor to me."
Pursing her lips, Monaelle thought before answering. "Firstsisters should give one another
favors," she said finally. "You know your duty to our people, Aviendha. So far, you have done well at a
difficult task. You must learn to live in two worlds, so it is fitting that you become comfortable in those
clothes." Aviendha began to relax. Until Monaelle continued. "But not too comfortable. From now on,
you will spend every third day and night in the tents. You can return with me tomorrow. You have a
great deal to learn yet before you can become a Wise One, and that is as much your duty as is being a
binding cord."
Elayne reached out and took her sister’s hand, and when Aviendha tried to let go after one
squeeze, she held on. After a brief hesitation, Aviendha clung, too. In a strange way, having Aviendha
there had comforted Elayne for the loss of Rand; she was not only a sister but a sister who also loved
him. They could share strength and make each other laugh when they wanted to cry, and they could cry
together when that was needed. One night in three alone very likely meant one night in three weeping
alone. Light, what was Rand doing? That awful beacon to the west was still blazing as strongly as ever,
and she was certain that he was in the heart of it. Not one particle had changed in the bond with him, but
she was certain. Suddenly she realized that she had a crushing grasp on Aviendha’s hand, and Aviendha
was holding hers as fiercely. They loosened their grips at the same instant. Neither let go, however.
"Men cause trouble even when they are elsewhere," Aviendha said softly.
"They do," Elayne agreed.
Monaelle smiled at the exchange. She was among the few who knew about the bonding of Rand,
and who the father of Elayne’s baby was. None of the Kinswomen did, though. "I’d think you’ve let a
man cause you all the trouble he could, Elayne," Sumeko said primly. The Kin’s Rule followed the rules
for novices and Accepted, forbidding not only children but anything that might lead to them, and they
held to it strictly. Once, a Kinswoman would have swallowed her tongue before suggesting an Aes Sedai
fell short of their Rule. Much had changed since then, however. "I’m supposed to travel to Tear today so
I can bring back a shipment of grain and oil tomorrow, and it is growing late, so if you are done talking
about men, I suggest you let Monaelle get on with what she came for."
Monaelle positioned Elayne in front of the fireplace, close enough that the heat from the nearly
consumed logs was near to uncomfortable-it was best if the mother was very warm, she explained-
then the glow of saidar surrounded her, and she began to weave threads of Spirit and Fire and Earth.
Aviendha watched almost as avidly as Sumeko.
"What is this?" Elayne asked as the weave settled around her and sank into her. "Is it like
Delving?" Every Aes Sedai in the palace had Delved her, though only Merilille had sufficient skill with
Healing for it to be much use, but neither they nor Sumeko had been able to say much more than that she
was with child. She felt a faint tingling, a sort of hum inside her flesh. "Don’t be silly, girl," Sumeko
said absently. Elayne raised an eyebrow, and even thought of waving her Great Serpent ring under
Sumeko’s nose, but the round-faced woman did not appear to notice. She might not have noticed the
ring, either. She was leaning forward, peering as though she could see the weave inside Elayne’s body.
"The Wise Ones learned about Healing from me. And from Nynaeve, I suppose," she allowed after a
moment. Oh, Nynaeve would have gone up like an Illuminator’s firework, hearing that. But then,
Sumeko had outstripped Nynaeve long since. "And they did learn the simple form from Aes Sedai." A
snort like ripping canvas showed what Sumeko thought of the "simple" form, the only sort of Healing
Aes Sedai had known for thousands of years. "This is something of the Wise Ones’ own." "It is called
Caressing the Child," Monaelle said in an abstracted voice. Most of her attention was focused on the
weave. A simple Delving to learn what ailed someone-it was simple, come to think-would have been
finished by now, but she altered the flows, and the hum inside Elayne changed pitch, sinking deeper. "It
may be some part of Healing, a sort of Healing, but we have known this since before we were sent to the
Three-fold Land. Some of the ways the flows are used are similar to what Sumeko Karistovan and
Nynaeve al’Meara showed us. In Caressing the Child, you learn the health of mother and child, and by
changing the weaves, you can cure some problems of either, but they will not work on a woman who is
not with child. Or on a man, of course." The hum grew louder, until it seemed everyone must be able to
hear it. Elayne thought her teeth were vibrating.
An earlier thought returned to her, and she said, "Will channeling hurt my child? If I channel, I
mean."
"No more than breathing does." Monaelle let the weave vanish with a grin. "You have two. It is
too early to say whether they are girls are boys, but they are healthy, and so are you." Two! Elayne
shared a wide smile with Aviendha. She could almost feel her sister’s delight. She was going to have
twins. Rand’s babies. A boy and a girl, she hoped, or two boys. Twin girls would present all manner of
difficulties for the succession. No one ever gained the Rose Crown with everyone behind her. Sumeko
made an urgent sound in her throat, gesturing toward Elayne, and Monaelle nodded. "Do exactly as I
did, and you will see." Watching Sumeko embrace the Source and form the weave, she nodded again,
and the round Kinswoman let it sink into Elayne, letting out a gasp as if she felt the humming herself.
"You will not have to worry about birthing sickness," Monaelle went on, "but you will find that you
have difficulty in channeling sometimes. The threads may slip away from you as though greased or fade
like mist, so you will have to try again and again to make the simplest weave or hold it. This may grow
worse as your pregnancy progresses, and you will not be able to channel at all while in labor or giving
birth, but it will come right after the children are born. You soon will become moody, too, if that has not
already started, weepy one minute and snarling the next. The father of your child will be wise to step
warily and keep his distance as much as he can."
"I hear she’s already snapped his head off once this morning," Sumeko muttered. Releasing the
weave, she straightened and adjusted her red belt around her girth. "This is remarkable, Monaelle. I
never thought of a weave that could only be used on a pregnant woman."
Elayne’s mouth tightened, but what she said was "You can tell all of that with this weave,
Monaelle?" It was best that people thought her babes were Doilan Mellar’s. Rand al’Thor’s children
would be targets, stalked for fear or advantage or hatred, but no one would think twice about Mellar’s,
perhaps not even Mellar. It was for the best, and that was that.
Monaelle threw back her head, laughing so hard that she had to wipe a corner of her eyes with
her shawl. "I know this from bearing seven children and having three husbands, Elayne Trakand. The
ability to channel shields you from the birthing sickness, but there are other prices to pay. Come,
Aviendha, you must try, too. Carefully, now. Exactly as I did."
Eagerly, Aviendha embraced the Source, but before she had begun to weave a thread, she let
saidar go and turned her head to stare toward the dark-paneled wall. Toward the west. So did Elayne,
and Monaelle, and Sumeko. The beacon that had been burning for so long had just vanished. One instant
it had been there, that raging blaze of saidar, and then it was gone as if it had never existed.
Sumeko’s massive bosom heaved as she drew a deep breath. "I think something very wonderful
or very terrible has happened today," she said softly. "And I think I am afraid to learn which."
"Wonderful," Elayne said. It was done, whatever it was, and Rand was alive. That was wonderful
enough. Monaelle glanced at her quizzically. Knowing about the bond, she could puzzle out the rest, but
she only fingered one of her necklaces in a thoughtful manner. In any case, she would pry it out of
Aviendha soon enough.
A knock at the door made them all start. All but Monaelle, anyway. Pretending not to see the
other women jump, she focused a little too intently on adjusting her shawl which made the contrast all
the greater. Sumeko coughed to hide her embarrassment. "Come," Elayne said loudly. A half-shout was
necessary to be heard through the door even without a ward.
Caseille put her head into the room, plumed hat in hand, then came in the rest of the way and
closed the door carefully behind her. The white lace at her neck and wrists was fresh, the lace and lions
on her sash gleamed, and her breastplate sparkled as if freshly burnished, but obviously she had gone
right back on duty after cleaning up from their overnight trip. "Forgive me for interrupting, my Lady,
but I thought you should know right away. The Sea Folk are in a frenzy, those that are still here. It seems
one of their apprentices has gone missing."
"What else?" Elayne said. A missing apprentice might be bad enough, but something in
Caseille’s face told her there was more.
"Guardswoman Azeri happened to tell me that she saw Merilille Sedai leaving the palace about
three hours ago," Caseille said reluctantly. "Merilille and a woman who was cloaked and hooded. They
took horses, and a loaded pack mule. Yurith said the second woman’s hands were tattooed. My Lady, no
one had any reason to be looking for-" Elayne waved her to silence. "No one did anything wrong,
Caseille. No one will be blamed." Not among the Guards, anyway. A fine pickle this was. Talaan and
Metarra, the two apprentice Windfinders, were very strong in the Power, and if Merilille had been able
to talk either one into trying to become Aes Sedai, she might have been able to convince herself that
taking the girl where she could be entered into the novice book was reason enough to evade her own
promise to teach the Windfinders. Who would be more than upset over losing Merilille, and more than
furious over the apprentice. They would blame everyone in sight, and Elayne most of all.
"Is this general knowledge about Merilille?" she asked. "Not yet, my Lady, but whoever saddled
their horses and loaded that mule won’t hold their tongues. Stablehands don’t have much to gossip
about." More of a brush fire than a pickle, then, and small chance of putting it out before it reached the
barns. "I hope you will dine with me later, Monaelle," Elayne said, "but you must forgive me, now."
Duty to her midwife or no, she did not wait for the other woman’s assent. Trying to douse the fire might
be enough to stop the barns from catching. Maybe. "Caseille, inform Birgitte, and tell her I want an
order sent to the gates immediately to watch for Merilille. I know; I know; she may be out of the city
already, and the gate guards won’t stop an Aes Sedai, anyway, but maybe they can delay her, or frighten
her companion into scuttling back into the city to hide. Sumeko, would you ask Reanne to assign every
Kinswoman who can’t Travel to start searching through the city. It’s a small hope, but Merilille may
have thought it was too late in the day to start out. Check every inn, including the Silver Swan, and. . . ."
She hoped Rand had done something wonderful today, but she could not waste time even
thinking about that now. She had a throne to gain and angry Atha’an Miere to deal with, before they
could vent their anger on her, it was to be hoped. In short, it was a day like every other since she
returned to Caemlyn, and that meant her hands were quite full enough.
CHAPTER 15
Gathering Darkness
The evening sun was a ball of blood on the treetops, casting a lurid light across the camp, a
widely spaced sprawl of horselines and canvas-covered wagons and high-wheeled carts and tents in
every size and sort with the snow between trampled to slush. Not the time of day or sort of place that
Elenia wished to be on horseback. The smell of boiling beef wafting from the big black iron cookpots
was enough to turn her stomach. The cold air frosted her breath and promised a bitter night to come, and
the wind cut through her best red cloak without regard for the thick lining of plush white fur. Snowfox
was supposed to be warmer than other furs, but she had never found it so. Holding the cloak closed with
one gloved hand, she rode slowly and tried very hard, if not very successfully, not to shiver. Given the
hour, it seemed more than likely she would be spending the night here, but as yet, she had no idea where
she would sleep.
Doubtless in some lesser noble’s tent, with the lord or lady shuffled off to find haven elsewhere
and trying to put the best face on being evicted, but Arymilla liked leaving her on tenterhooks until the
very last, about beds and everything else. One suspense was no sooner dispelled than another replaced it.
Plainly the woman thought the constant uncertainty would make her squirm, perhaps even strive to
please. That was far from the only miscalculation Arymilla had made, beginning with the belief that
Elenia Sarand’s claws had been clipped.
She had just four men with the two Golden Boars on their cloaks as escort-and her maid, Janny,
of course, huddling in her cloak till she seemed a bundle of green wool piled on her saddle-and she had
not seen a single fellow more in the camp who she could be sure held a scrap of loyalty to Sarand. Here
and there one of the clumps of men huddled around the campfires with their laundresses and
seamstresses displayed House Anshar’s Red Fox, and a double column of horsemen wearing Baryn’s
Winged Hammer passed her heading in the opposite direction at a slow walk, hard-faced behind the bars
of their helmets. They were of little real account, in the long run. Karind and Lir had gotten singed badly
by being slow when Morgase took the throne. This time they would take Anshar and Baryn wherever the
advantage lay the instant they saw it clearly, abandoning Arymilla with as great an alacrity as they had
leapt to join her. When the time came. Most of the men trudging through the muddy slush or peering
hopefully into those disgusting cookpots were levies, farmers and villagers gathered up when their lord
or lady marched, and few wore any sort of House badge on their shabby coats and patched cloaks. Even
separating putative soldiers from farriers and fletchers and the like was near impossible, since nearly all
had belted on a sword of some description, or an axe. Light, a fair number of the women wore knives
large enough to be called short-swords, but there was no way to tell some conscripted farmer’s wife
from a wagon driver. They wore the same thick wool and had the same rough hands and weary faces. It
did not really matter, in any case. This winter siege was a dire mistake-the armsmen would begin
going hungry long before the city did-but it gave Elenia an opportunity, and when an opening
presented itself, you struck. Keeping her hood back far enough to show her features clearly in spite of
the freezing wind, she nodded graciously to every unwashed lout who so much as looked in her
direction, and ignored the surprised starts that some gave at her condescension.
Most would remember her affability, remember the Golden Boars her escort wore, and know that
Elenia Sarand had taken notice of them. On such a foundation power was built. A High Seat as much as
a queen stood atop a tower built of people. True, those at the bottom were bricks of the basest clay, yet if
those common bricks crumpled in their support, the tower fell. That was something Arymilla appeared
to have forgotten, if she had ever known. Elenia doubted that Arymilla spoke to anyone lower than a
steward or a personal servant. Had it been . . . prudent . . . she herself would have passed a few words at
every campfire, perhaps grasping a grubby hand now and then, remembering people she had
encountered before or at least dissembling well enough to make it seem she did. Pure and simple,
Arymilla lacked the wit to be queen.
The camp covered more ground than most towns, more like a hundred clustered camps of
varying sizes than one, so she was free to wander without worrying too much about straying close to the
outer boundaries, but she took a care anyway. The guards on sentry would be polite, unless they were
utter fools, yet without any doubt they had their orders. On principle, she approved of people doing as
they were told, but it would be best to avoid any embarrassing incidents. Especially given the likely
consequences if Arymilla actually thought she had been trying to leave. She had already been forced to
endure one frigid night sleeping in some soldier’s filthy tent, a shelter hardly worth the name, complete
with vermin and badly patched holes, not to mention the lack of Janny to help her with her clothes and
add a little warmth under the sorry excuse for blankets, and that had been for no more than a perceived
slight. Well, it had been an actual slight, but she had not thought Arymilla bright enough to catch it.
Light, to think that she must step warily around that . . . that pea-brained ninny! Pulling her cloak closer,
she tried to pretend that her shudder was just a reaction to the wind. There were better things to dwell
on. More important things. She nodded to a wide-eyed young man with a dark scarf wrapped around his
head, and he recoiled as though she had glared. Fool peasant!
It was grating to think that, only a few miles away, that young chit Elayne sat snug and warm in
the comfort of the Royal Palace, attended by scores of well-trained servants and likely without two
thoughts in her head beyond what to wear tonight at a supper prepared by the palace cooks. Rumor had
the girl with child, possibly by some Guardsman. It might be so. Elayne had never possessed any more
sense of decency than her mother. Dyelin was the brain there, a sharp mind and dangerous
notwithstanding her pathetic lack of ambition, perhaps advised by an Aes Sedai. There must be at least
one real Aes Sedai among all those absurd rumors. So many fabulations drifted out of the city that
telling reality from nonsense became difficult-Sea Folk making holes in the air? Absolute drivel!-yet
the White Tower clearly had an interest in putting one of its own on the throne. How could it not? Even
so, Tar Valon seemed to be pragmatic when it came to these matters. History clearly showed that
whoever reached the Lion Throne would soon find that she was the one the Tower actually had favored
all along. The Aes Sedai would not lose their connection to Andor through a lack of nimbleness,
particularly not with the Tower itself riven. Elenia was as certain of that as she was of her own name. In
fact, if half what she heard of the Tower’s situation was true, the next Queen of Andor might find herself
able to demand whatever she wanted in return for keeping that connection intact. In any event, no one
was going to rest the Rose Crown on her head before summer at the earliest, and a great deal could
change before then. A very great deal.
She was making her second round of the camp when the sight of another small mounted party
ahead of her, picking its slow way between the scattered campfires in the last light, made her scowl and
draw rein sharply. The women were cloaked and deeply hooded, one in strong blue silk lined with black
fur, the other in plain gray wool, but the silver Triple Keys worked large on the four armsmen’s cloaks
named them clearly enough. She could think of any number of people she would rather encounter than
Naean Arawn. In any case, while Arymilla had not precisely forbidden them to meet without her-
Elenia heard her teeth grind as much as felt them, and forced her face smooth-for the moment, it
seemed wisest not to press matters. Especially when there seemed no possible advantage to such a
meeting.
Unfortunately, Naean saw her before she could turn aside. The woman spoke hastily to her escort
and, while armsmen and maid were still bowing in their saddles, spurred toward Elenia at a pace that
sent clods of slush flying from her black gelding’s hooves. The Light burn the fool! On the other hand,
whatever was goading Naean to recklessness might be valuable to know, and dangerous not to. It might,
but finding out presented its own dangers. "Stay here and remember that you’ve seen nothing," Elenia
snapped at her own meager retinue and dug her heels into Dawn Wind’s flanks without waiting for any
reply. She had no need for elaborate bows and courtesies every time she turned around, not beyond what
seemliness demanded, and her people knew better than to do anything other than what she commanded.
It was everyone else she had to worry about, burn them all! As the long-legged bay sprang forward, she
lost her grip on her cloak, and it streamed behind her like the crimson banner of Sarand. She refused to
gather the cloak under control, flailing around in front of farmers and the Light alone knew who, so the
wind razored through her riding dress, another reason for irritation.
Naean at least had the sense to slow and meet her little more than halfway, beside a pair of
heavily laden carts with their empty shafts lying in the muck. The nearest fire was almost twenty paces
away, and the nearest tents farther, their entry flaps laced tight against the cold. The men at the fire were
intent on the big iron pot steaming over the flames, and if the stench from it was enough to make Elenia
want to empty her stomach, at least the wind that carried the stink would keep stray words from their
ears. But they had better be important words.
With a face as pale as ivory in its frame of black fur, Naean might have been called beautiful by
some despite more than a hint of harshness around her mouth and eyes as cold as blue ice. Straightbacked
and outwardly quite calm, she seemed untouched by events. Her breath, making a white mist,
was steady and even. "Do you know where we are sleeping tonight, Elenia?" she said coolly.
Elenia made no effort at all to stop from glaring. "Is that what you want?" Risking Arymilla’s
displeasure for a brainless question!
The thought of risking Arymilla’s displeasure, the thought that Arymilla’s displeasure was
something she needed to avoid, made her snarl. "You know as much as I, Naean." Tugging at her reins,
she was already turning her mount away when Naean spoke again, with just a hint of heat.
"Don’t play the simpleton with me, Elenia. And don’t tell me you aren’t as ready as I am to chew
off your own foot to escape this trap. Now, can we at least pretend to civility?" Elenia kept Dawn Wind
half turned away from the other woman and looked at her sideways, past the fur-trimmed edge of her
hood. That way, she could keep an eye on the men crowding around the nearest fire, too. No House
badges displayed there. They could belong to anyone. Now and then one fellow or another shielding
bare hands in his armpits glanced toward the two ladies on horseback, but their real interest was on
shuffling near enough the fire to get warm. That, and how long it was going to take for the beef to boil
down to something approaching mush. That sort seemed able to eat anything.
"Do you think you can escape?" she asked quietly. Civility was all very well, but not at the
expense of remaining here for all to see any longer than absolutely necessary. If Naean saw a way out,
though. . . . "How? The pledge you signed to support Marne has been posted across half of Andor by
now. Besides, you can hardly think Arymilla will just allow you to ride away." Naean flinched, and
Elenia could not help a tight smile. The woman was not so untouched as she feigned. She still managed
to keep her voice level, though.
"I saw Jarid yesterday, Elenia, and even at a distance he looked like a thundercloud, galloping fit
to break his mount’s neck and his own. If I know your husband, he’s already planning a way to cut you
out of this. He would spit in the Dark One’s eye for you." That was true; he would. "I’m sure you can
see it would be best if I were part of those plans."
"My husband signed the same pledge you did, Naean, and he is an honorable man." He was too
honorable for his own good, in simple fact, but what Elenia wanted had been his guide since before their
wedding vows. Jarid had signed the pledge because she wrote and told him to, not that she had any
choice as matters were, and he would even repudiate it, however reluctantly, if she were mad enough to
ask it. Of course, there was the difficulty in letting him know what she did want at the moment. Arymilla
was very careful not to let her within a mile of him. She had everything in hand-as far as she could in
the circumstances-but she needed to let Jarid know, if only to stop him from "cutting her a way out."
Spit in the Dark One’s eye? He could take them both to ruin in the belief he was helping her, and he
might do it even knowing it meant their ruination.
It required a great effort not to allow the frustration and fury suddenly welling up inside her to
show on her face, but she covered the strain with a smile. She took considerable pride in being able to
produce a smile for any situation. This one held a touch of surprise. And a touch of disdain. "I’m not
planning anything, Naean, and neither is Jarid, I’m sure. But if I were, why would I include you?"
"Because if I am not included in those plans," Naean said bluntly, "Arymilla might learn of
them. She may be a blind fool, but she’ll see once she’s told where to look. And you might find yourself
sharing a tent with your betrothed every night, not to mention protected by his armsmen."
Elenia’s smile melted, but her voice turned to ice, matching the frozen ball that abruptly filled
her stomach. "You want to be careful what you say, or Arymilla may ask her Taraboner to play cat’s
cradle with you again. In truth, I think I can guarantee as much."
It seemed impossible that Naean’s face could grow any whiter, yet it did. She actually swayed in
her saddle, and caught Elenia’s arm as if to keep from falling. A gust of wind flung her cloak about, and
she let it flail. Those once-cold eyes were quite wide, now. The woman made no effort to hide her fear.
Perhaps she was too far gone to be capable of hiding it. Her voice came breathy and panicked. "I know
you and Jarid are planning something, Elenia. I know it! Take me with you, and . . . and I will pledge
Arawn to you as soon as I can be free of Arymilla." Oh, she was shaken, to offer that.
"Do you want to draw more attention than you already have?" Elenia snapped, pulling free of the
other woman’s grasp. Dawn Wind and the black gelding danced nervously, catching their riders’ moods,
and Elenia reined her bay hard to quiet him. Two of the men at the fire hurriedly put their heads down.
No doubt they thought they saw two noblewomen arguing in the graying evening and wanted to attract
no part of that anger on themselves. Yes; it must be only that. They might carry tales, but they knew
better than to get mixed in their betters’ arguments.
"I have no plans to . . . escape; none at all," she said in a quieter voice. Drawing her cloak close
again, she calmly turned her head to check the carts, and the nearest tents. If Naean was frightened
enough. . . . When an opening presented itself. . . . There was no one close enough to overhear, but she
still kept her voice low. "Matters might change, of course. Who can say? If they do, I make you this
promise, under the Light and by my hope of rebirth, I will not leave without you." A startled hope
bloomed on Naean’s face. Now to present the hook. "If, that is, I have in my possession a letter written
in your own hand, signed and sealed, in which you explicitly repudiate your support of Marne, of your
own free will, and swear the support of House Arawn to me for the throne. Under the Light and by your
hope of rebirth. Nothing less will do." Naean’s head jerked back, and she touched her lips with her
tongue. Her eyes shifted as though searching for a way out, for help. The black continued to snort and
dance, but she barely tightened her reins enough to keep him from bolting, and even that seemed
unconscious. Yes, she was frightened. But not too frightened to know what Elenia was demanding. The
history of Andor contained too many examples for her not to know. A thousand possibilities remained
so long as nothing was in writing, but the mere existence of such a letter would put a bit between
Naean’s teeth and the reins in Elenia’s hands. Publication meant Naean’s destruction, unless Elenia was
fool enough to admit to coercion. She could try to hang on after that revelation, yet even a House with
many fewer antagonisms between its members than Arawn, many fewer cousins and aunts and uncles
ready to undercut one another in a heartbeat, would still break apart. The lesser Houses that had been
tied to Arawn for generations would seek protection elsewhere. In a matter of years, if not sooner, Naean
would be left as the High Seat of a minor and discredited remnant. Oh, yes; it had happened before.
"We’ve been together long enough." Elenia gathered her reins. "I wouldn’t want to set tongues
wagging. Perhaps we will have another chance to speak alone before Arymilla takes the throne." What a
vile thought! "Perhaps."
The other woman exhaled as if all of the breath in her body were leaking out, but Elenia went on
about turning her horse away, neither slowly nor in haste, not stopping until Naean said urgently,
"Wait!"
Looking back over her shoulder, she did just that. Waited. Without speaking a word. What
needed to be said had been said. All that remained was to see whether the woman was desperate enough
to deliver herself into Elenia’s hands. She should be. She had no Jarid to work for her. In fact, anyone in
Arawn who suggested that Naean needed rescuing likely would find herself imprisoned for thwarting
Naean’s expressed will. Without Elenia, she could grow old in captivity. With the letter, though, her
captivity would be of a different kind. With the letter, Elenia would be able to allow her every
appearance of complete freedom. Apparently she was bright enough to see that. Or maybe just
frightened enough of the Taraboner.
"I will get it to you as soon as I can," she said at last, in a resigned voice.
"I look forward to seeing it," Elenia murmured, barely bothering to mask her satisfaction. But
don’t wait too long, she almost added, and just stopped herself. Naean might be beaten, but a beaten foe
could still put a knife in your back if goaded too far. Besides which, she feared Naean’s threat as much
as Naean feared hers. Perhaps more. So long as Naean did not know that, however, her blade had no
point.
As she rode back to her armsmen, Elenia’s mood was more buoyant than it had been since. . . .
Certainly since before her "res cuers" had turned out to be Arymilla’s men. Perhaps since before Dyelin
had imprisoned her in Aringill in the first place, though she had never lost hope there. Her prison had
been the governor’s house, quite comfortable, even if she had to share an apartment with Naean.
Communicating with Jarid certainly had presented no problem, and she thought she had made some
inroads with the Queen’s Guards in Aringill. So many of them had been new-come out of Cairhien that
they were . . . unsure . . . where their true loyalties lay.
Now, this wonderfully fortuitous encounter with Naean lifted her spirits so much that she smiled
at Janny and promised her a bevy of new dresses once they were inside Caemlyn. Which produced a
properly grateful smile from the plump-cheeked woman. Elenia always bought new dresses for her maid
when she felt particularly good, every one fine enough for a successful merchant. It was one way to
insure loyalty and discretion, and for twenty years, Janny had delivered both.
The sun was only a red rim above the trees now, and it was time to find Arymilla so she could be
told where she was sleeping tonight. The Light send it was a decent bed, in a warm tent that was not too
smoky, with a decent meal beforehand. She could not ask more, at present. Even that did not dent her
mood, though. She not only nodded to the clusters of men and women they rode past, she smiled at
them. She almost went so far as to wave. Matters were progressing better than they had in quite some
time. Naean was not simply disposed of as a rival for the throne, she had been leashed and brought to
heel, or as good as, and that might-would!-be sufficient to bring Karind and Lir. And there were
those who would accept anyone other than another Trakand on the throne. Ellorien, for one. Morgase
had had her flogged\ Ellorien would never stand for any Trakand. Aemlyn, Arathelle and Abelle were
possibilities, too, with their own grievances that could be exploited. Perhaps Pelivar or Luan, as well.
She had her feelers out. And she would not squander the advantage of Caemlyn, as that hoyden Elayne
had. Historically, holding Caemlyn was enough to gather the support of at least four or five Houses by
itself. The timing would be key, certainly, or all the advantage would fall to Arymilla, but Elenia could
already see herself seated on the Lion Throne, with the High Seats kneeling to swear fealty. She already
had her list of which High Seats would need to be replaced. No one who had opposed her was going to
be allowed to cause her trouble later. A series of unfortunate accidents would see to that. A pity she
could not choose their replacements, but accidents could happen with incredible frequency.
Her happy contemplation was shattered by the scrawny man who suddenly came up beside her
on a stocky gray, his eyes feverishly bright in the fading light. For some reason, Nasin had sprigs of
green fir stuck in his thin white hair. It made him look as if he had been climbing in a tree, and his red
silk coat and cloak were so worked with brightly colored flowers they could have passed for Illianer
carpets. He was ludicrous. He was also High Seat of the most powerful single House in Andor. And he
was quite mad. "Elenia, my darling treasure," he brayed, spraying spittle, "how sweet the sight of you is
to my eyes. You make honey seem stale and roses drab."
Without need for conscious thought, she hastily reined Dawn Wind back and to the right, putting
Janny’s brown mare between her and him. "I am not your betrothed, Nasin," she snapped, seething at
having to say that aloud for everyone to hear. "I am married, you old fool! Wait!" she added, flinging up
a hand. The imperative word and the gesture were for her armsmen, who had laid hands on sword hilts
and were glaring at Nasin. Some thirty or forty men wearing House Caeren’s Sword and Star were
following the man, and they would not hesitate to cut down anyone they thought was threatening their
High Seat. Some already had blades half-drawn. They would not harm her, of course. Nasin would have
them hanged to a man if she was even bruised. Light, she did not know whether to laugh or cry over
that. "Are you still afraid of that young oaf Jarid?" Nasin demanded, angling his mount to follow her.
"He has no right to keep bothering you. The better man won, and he should acknowledge it. I’ll
challenge him!" One hand, plainly bony even in its tight red glove, fumbled at a sword he probably had
not drawn in twenty years. "I will cut him down like a dog for frightening you!" Elenia moved Dawn
Wind deftly, so they described a circle around Janny, who murmured apologies to Nasin and pretended
to take her mare out of his way while getting in it. Mentally, Elenia added a little embroidery to the
dresses she would buy. Addlepated as he was, Nasin could go in a blink from honeyed words of courtly
love to groping at her as if she were the lowest sort of tavern maid.
That, she could not endure, not again, certainly not in public. Circling, she forced a worried
smile onto her face, though in truth, the smile took more effort than the worry. If this old fool forced
Jarid to kill him, it would ruin everything! "You know I could not abide to have men fight over me,
Nasin." Her voice was breathy and anxious, but she did not try to control it. Breathy and anxious suited
well enough. "How could I love a man with blood on his hands?" The ridiculous man frowned down
that long nose till she began to wonder whether she had gone too far. He was mad as a spring hare, but
not in everything. Not always. "I had not realized you were so . . . sensitive," he said finally. Without
stopping his effort to ride around Janny. His decrepit face brightened. "But I should have known. I will
remember, from now on. Jarid may live. So long as he doesn’t pester you." Abruptly, he seemed to
notice Janny for the first time, and with an irritated grimace, he raised his hand high, balling it into a fist.
The plump woman visibly steeled herself for the blow without moving aside, and Elenia gritted her
teeth. Silk embroidery. Definitely unsuitable for a maid, but Janny had earned it.
"Lord Nasin, I have been looking for you everywhere" a woman’s simpering voice cried, and the
circling stopped. Elenia exhaled in relief as Arymilla rode up in the twilight with her entourage, and had
to stifle a surge of fury at feeling relief. In over-elaborately embroidered green silk, with lace under her
chin and at her wrists, Arymilla was plump verging on stout, with a vacuous smile and brown eyes that
were always wide with affected interest even when there was nothing to be interested in. Lacking the
brains to tell the difference, she possessed just enough cunning to know there were things that should
interest her, and she did not want anyone to think she had missed them. The only real concern she had
was her own comfort and the income to ensure it, and the only reason she wanted the throne was that the
royal coffers could provide greater comfort than the revenues of any High Seat. Her entourage was
larger than Nasin’s, though only half were armsmen wearing the Four Moons of her House. For the most
part, hangers-on and sycophants made up the rest, lesser lords and ladies of minor Houses and others
willing to lick Arymilla’s wrist for a place near power. She did love people to fawn over her. Naean was
there, too, on the edge of the group with her armsmen and maid, apparently cool-eyed and in control of
herself once more. But keeping well away from Jaq Lounalt, a lean man with one of those farcical
Taraboner veils covering his huge mustaches and a conical cap pushing the hood of his cloak to a
ridiculous height. The fellow smiled too much, as well. He hardly looked a man who could reduce
someone to begging with just a few cords. "Arymilla," Nasin said in a confused tone, then frowned at
his fist as if surprised to find it raised. Lowering his hand to the pommel of his saddle, he beamed a
smile at the silly woman. "Arymilla, my dear," he said warmly. Not with the sort of warmth he often
directed at Elenia. Somehow, it seemed, he had become at least half-convinced that Arymilla was his
daughter, and his favorite at that. Once, Elenia had heard him reminiscing at length with the woman
about her "mother," his last wife, dead nearly thirty years now. Arymilla managed to hold her end of the
conversation, too, though she had never met Miedelle Caeren as far as Elenia knew. Still, despite all his
fatherly smiles for Arymilla, his eyes sought through the shadowed crowd on horseback behind her, and
his face relaxed when he found Sylvase, his granddaughter and heir, a sturdy, placid young woman who
met his gaze, unsmiling, then pulled her dark, fur-lined cowl well forward. She never smiled or frowned
or showed any emotion at all that Elenia had ever detected, just kept an unvarying cowlike expression.
Plainly, she had a cow’s wits, too. Arymilla kept Sylvase closer than she did Elenia or Naean, and so
long as she did, there was no chance that Nasin would be forced to retire from his honors. He was mad,
assuredly, but sly. "I hope you’re taking good care of my little Sylvase, Arymilla," he murmured. "There
are fortune hunters everywhere, and I want the darling girl kept safe."
"Of course, I am," Arymilla replied, brushing her overfed mare past Elenia without so much as a
glance. Her tone was honeysweet, and sickeningly doting. "You know I’ll keep her as safe as I keep
myself." Smiling that empty-headed smile, she set about straightening Nasin’s cloak on his shoulders
and smoothing it with the air of someone settling a shawl on a beloved invalid. "It’s much too cold out
for you. I know what you need. A warm tent and some hot spiced wine. I’ll be happy to have my maid
prepare it for you. Arlene, accompany Lord Nasin to his tent and fix him some good spiced wine."
A slim woman in her entourage gave a violent twitch, then rode forward slowly, pushing back
the hood of her plain blue cloak to reveal a pretty face and a tremulous smile. Suddenly all lickspittles
and toad-eaters were adjusting their cloaks against the wind or snugging their gloves, looking anywhere
except at Arymilla’s maid. Especially the women. One of them could have been chosen as easily, and
they knew it. Oddly, Sylvase did not look away. It was impossible to see her face in the shadows of her
hood, but the opening turned to follow the slender woman. Nasin’s grin showed his teeth, making him
look even more like a goat than usual. "Yes. Yes, mulled wine would be good. Arlene, is it? Come,
Arlene, there’s a good girl. Not too chill, are you?" The girl squeaked as he swept a corner of his cloak
around her shoulders and gathered her so close she was leaning out of her saddle. "You’ll be warm in
my tent, I promise." Without so much as a glance back, he rode off at a walk, chortling and whispering
at the young woman under his arm. His armsmen followed with the creak of leather and the slow, wet
clop of hooves in the muck. One of them laughed, as if another had said something funny. Elenia shook
her head in disgust. Pushing a pretty woman in front of Nasin to distract him was one thing-she did not
even have to be that pretty; any woman the old fool could corner was in danger-but using your own
maid was revolting. Not as revolting as Nasin himself, though. "You promised to keep him away from
me, Arymilla," she said in a low, tight voice. That lecherous old crackbrain might have forgotten her
existence for the moment, but he would remember the next time he saw her. "You promised to keep him
occupied."
Arymilla’s face grew sullen, and she petulantly tugged her riding gloves tighter. She had not
gotten what she wanted. That was a great sin, to her. "If you want to be safe from admirers, you ought to
stay close to me instead of wandering about loose. Can I help it if you attract men? And I did rescue
you. I haven’t heard any thanks for that."
Elenia’s jaw clenched so hard that it began to ache. Pretending that she supported this woman of
her own choice was enough to make her want to bite something. Her choices had been made clear
enough; write to Jarid or endure an extended honeymoon with her "betrothed." Light, she might have
taken the choice if not for the certainty that Nasin would lock her up in some out-of-the-way manor and,
after she had put up with his pawing, eventually forget she was there. And leave her there. Arymilla
insisted on the pretense, though. She insisted on a great many things, some of them utterly insufferable.
Yet they had to be suffered. For the time being. Perhaps, once matters were set straight, Master Lounalt
could offer his attentions to Arymilla for a few days. From somewhere she summoned an apologetic
smile, and made herself bend her neck as if she were one of the boot-licking leeches who were watching
her avidly. After all, if she crawled for Arymilla, it only proved they were right to. The feel of their eyes
on her made her want to bathe. Doing this in front of Naean made her want to shriek. "I offer you all the
gratitude that’s in me, Arymilla." Well, that was no lie. All the gratitude that was in her came about
equal to a desire to strangle the other woman. Very slowly. She had to inhale deeply before she could
get the next part out, though. "You must forgive me for being slow, please." A very bitter word. "Nasin
made me quite distraught. You know how Jarid would react if he learned of Nasin’s behavior." Her own
voice took on a honed edge at that last, but the fool woman giggled. She giggled! "Of course you’re
forgiven, Elenia," she laughed, her face lightening. "All you need do is ask. Jarid is a hothead, isn’t he?
You must write to him and tell him how content you are. You are content, aren’t you? You can dictate to
my secretary. I do hate staining my fingers with ink, don’t you?"
"Certainly I’m content, Arymilla. How could I not be?" Smiling required no effort at all, this
time. The woman actually thought she was clever. Using Arymilla’s secretary precluded any possibility
of secret inks, but she could tell Jarid quite openly to do absolutely nothing without her counsel, and the
brainless fluff would think she was only obeying.
Nodding with a smug self-satisfaction, Arymilla gathered her reins, imitated by her coterie. If
she stuck a pot on her head and called it a hat, they would all wear pots, too. "It is getting late," she said,
"and I want an early start in the morning. Aedelle Baryn’s cook has an excellent repast waiting on us.
You and Naean must ride with me, Elenia." She made it sound as though she were hon oring them, and
they had no choice except to behave as though she were, falling in on either side of her. "And Sylvase,
of course. Come, Sylvase."
Nasin’s granddaughter brought her mare closer, but not up beside Arymilla. She followed a little
behind, with Arymilla’s sycophants crowding on her heels since they had not been invited to ride with
Arymilla. Despite the fitful, icy wind tugging at their cloaks, several of the women and two or three of
the men tried unsuccessfully to engage the girl in conversation. She seldom said two words together.
Still, with no High Seat in reach to fawn over, a High Seat’s heir would do, and maybe one of the
fellows hoped to marry well. Likely one or two were more in the nature of guards, or at least spies
making sure she did not try to communicate with anyone in her House. This lot would find that exciting,
touching on the edges of power. Elenia had her own plans for Sylvase. Arymilla was another with no
objections to nattering away when anyone with sense would be muffling herself in her cowl, and her
chatter as they rode through the dying light flitted from what Lir’s sister would offer at supper to the
plans for her coronation. Elenia listened only enough to murmur approvingly at what seemed
appropriate spots. If the fool wanted to offer a sworn amnesty to those who opposed her, far be it from
Elenia Sarand to tell her she was a fool. It was painful enough having to . . . simper. . . at the woman
without listening to her. Then one thing Arymilla said hit her ear like an awl.
"You and Naean won’t mind sharing a bed, will you? It seems we are short of decent tents here."
She flitted on, but for a moment, Elenia could not hear a word. She felt as though her skin had
been stuffed with snow. Turning her head slightly, she met Naean’s shocked gaze. There was no
possible way Arymilla could know about their chance meeting, not yet, and even if she did, why would
she offer them a chance to plot together? A trap? Spies to listen to what they said? Naean’s maid, or. . . .
Or Janny? The world seemed to spin. Black and silver flecks floated in front of Elenia’s eyes. She
thought she was about to faint. Abruptly she realized that Arymilla had addressed something to her
directly and was waiting on an answer with an increasingly impatient scowl. Frantically, she cast her
mind about. Yes, she had it. "A gilded coach, Arymilla?" What a ridiculous notion. As well ride in a
Tinker’s wagon! "Oh, delightful! You do have such marvelous ideas!"
Arymilla’s pleased simper put a little ease into Elenia’s breathing. The woman was a brainless
fool. Maybe there was a shortage of suitable tents. More likely she just thought they were safe, now.
Tamed. Elenia turned her bared teeth into a simper of her own. But she put aside any idea of having the
Taraboner "entertain" the woman, even for an hour. With Jarid’s signature on that pledge, there was
only one way to clear her path to the throne. Everything was in hand and ready to go forward. The only
question was whether Arymilla or Nasin should die first.
Night pressed down on Caemlyn with a hard cold driven deep by sharp winds. Here and there a
glow of light spilling from an upper window spoke of people still awake, but most shutters were drawn,
and a thin sliver of moon low in the sky only seemed to emphasize the darkness. Even the snow coating
rooftops and piled along the fronts of buildings where it had escaped the day’s traffic was a shadowy
gray. The lone man muffled head to ankles in a dark cloak, striding through the frozen slush left on the
paving stones, answered to Daved Hanlon or Doilan Mellar with equal ease; a name was no more than a
coat, and a man changed his coat whenever needed. He had worn a number over the years. Given his
wishes, he would have had his feet up in front of a roaring fire in the Royal Palace, a mug in his hand, a
pitcher of brandy at his side, and a willing wench on his knee, but he had others’ wishes to serve. At
least the footing was better here in the New City. Not good, with this frozen muck underfoot that could
turn a careless step into a sprawl, yet a man’s boots were less likely to go out from under him here than
back on the steeper hills of the Inner City. Besides, darkness suited him tonight.
There had been few people in the streets when he started out, and the number had dwindled away
as darkness deepened. Wise people stayed indoors once night fell. Occasionally, dim shapes skulked in
the deeper shadows, but after a brief study of Hanlon, they scuttled around corners ahead of him, or
withdrew into alleys trying to muffle their curses as they floundered in snow that likely had not been
touched by the sun. He was not bulky, and little taller than the average run of men, with his sword and
breastplate hidden by his cloak to boot, but footpads looked for weakness or hesitation, and he moved
with an obvious self-confidence, plainly unafraid of lurkers. An attitude helped by the long dagger
concealed in his gauntleted right hand.
He kept an eye out for patrols of Guardsmen as he walked, but he did not expect to see any. The
strongarms and prowlers would have sought other hunting grounds if the Guards were about. Of course,
he could send nosy Guardsmen on their way with a word, yet he wanted no observers of any kind, and
no questions why he was so far from the palace afoot. His step hesitated as two heavily cloaked women
appeared at a crossing well ahead, but they moved on without glancing his way, and he breathed more
easily. Very few women would venture out at this time of night without a man along to wield sword or
cudgel, and even without seeing their faces he would have wagered a fistful of gold to a horse apple that
pair were Aes Sedai. Or else some of those strange women who filled most of the beds in the palace.
The thought of that lot brought a scowl, and a prickling between his shoulder blades like the
brush of nettles. Whatever was going on in the palace, it was enough to give him the grips. The Sea Folk
women were bad enough, and not just because they went swaying along the halls in that seductive way,
then pulled a knife on a man. He had not even thought of patting one on the bottom after he realized they
and the Aes Sedai were staring at one another like strange cats in a box. And plainly, however
impossibly, the Sea Folk were the larger cats. The others were worse, in a way. No matter what the
rumors said, he knew the look of Aes Sedai, and it did not include wrinkles. Yet some of them could
channel, and he had the disturbing notion that they all could.
Which made no sense at all. Maybe the Sea Folk had some sort of peculiar dispensation, but as
for these Kin, as Falion called them, everyone knew that if three women who could channel and were
not Aes Sedai sat down at the same table, Aes Sedai would appear before they could finish a pitcher of
wine and tell them to move on and never speak to one another again. And make sure they did it, besides.
That was given. But there those women sat in the palace, over a hundred of them, holding their private
meetings, walking around Aes Sedai without one frown between them. Until today, anyway, and
whatever had set them huddling like frightened hens, the Aes Sedai had been every bit as anxious. There
were too many oddities to suit him. When Aes Sedai behaved oddly, it was time for a man to look to the
safety of his own skin. With a curse he jerked himself out of his reverie. A man needed to look out for
his skin in the night, too, and letting his concentration drift was no way to do it. At least he had not
stopped, or even slowed. After a few more steps, he smiled a thin smile and thumbed the blade of his
dagger. The wind sighed down the street and fell, whistled across rooftops and fell, and in the brief
silences between he could hear the faint crunch of the boots that had been following him since shortly
after he left the palace. At the next crossing street, he turned to his right at the same steady unhurried
pace, then suddenly flattened his back against the front of a stable that stood hard on the corner. The
wide stable doors were shut, and likely barred on the inside, but the smell of horse and horse dung hung
in the icy air. The inn across the street was closed up tight, as well, its windows shuttered and dark, the
only sound aside from the wind the creak of its swinging sign he could not make out in the night. No one
to see what they should not.
He had a moment’s warning, the sound of boots quickened in an effort not to let him out of sight
too long, and then a cowled head was thrust cautiously around the corner. Not cautiously enough, of
course. His left hand darted into the cowl to seize a throat at the same time his right made a practiced
stop-thrust with the dagger. He half expected to find a breastplate, or a mail shirt under the man’s coat,
and he was ready if he did, but an inch of steel sank easily beneath the fellow’s breastbone. He did not
know why that seemed to paralyze a man’s lungs, so he could not cry out, until he had drowned in his
own blood, but he knew that it did. Still, tonight he had no time to wait. No Guards in sight at present
did not mean matters would stay that way for long. With a quick wrench, he slammed the man’s head
against the stable’s stone wall hard enough to crack a skull, then shoved his dagger to the hilt, feeling
the blade grate as it dug through the fellow’s spine.
His breathing remained steady-killing was just a thing that, had to be done now and again,
nothing to get excited over-but he hurriedly lowered the corpse to the snow against the wall and
crouched beside it, wiping his blade on the dead man’s dark coat while sticking his other hand into his
armpit to tug off his steelbacked gauntlet. Head swiveling, he watched the street both ways as he felt
quickly across the man’s face in the darkness. A rasp of stubble under his fingers told him that it was a
man, but no more. Man, woman or child made no difference to him-fools behaved as though children
had no eyes to see or tongues to tell what they saw-yet he wished there had been a mustache or a
bulbous nose, anything to spark a memory and tell him who this fellow had been. A squeeze at the dead
man’s sleeve found thick wool, neither fine nor particularly rough, and a sinewy arm that could have
belonged to clerk or wagon driver or footman. To any man, in short, just like the coat. Searching down
the body, he rifled through the fellow’s pockets, finding a wooden comb and a ball of twine, which he
tossed aside. At the man’s belt, his hand paused. A leather sheath hung there, empty. No man on earth
could have drawn a dagger after Hanlon’s blade found his lungs. Of course, there was good cause for a
man to carry his knife unsheathed when he walked out at night, but the reason that came most readily to
mind right then was to stab someone in the back or cut a throat. It was only a fleeting pause, though.
Wasting no time on speculation, he sliced off the fellow’s purse beneath the drawstrings. The weight of
the coins he spilled into his hand and hastily stuffed into his own pocket told him there was no gold,
likely not even a piece of silver, but a cut purse and no coins would make whoever found the body think
him the prey of strongarms. Straightening, he tugged on his gauntlet, and only moments after driving his
blade home, he was striding along the slush-covered pavement once more, dagger held close to his side
beneath his cloak and eyes wary. He did not relax until he was a street away from the dead man, and
then he did not relax very far.
Most people who heard of the killing would accept the tale of murder for theft that he had laid
out for them, but not whoever had sent the fellow. Following all the way from the palace meant that he
had been sent, but by whom? He was fairly sure that any of the Sea Folk who wanted a knife put in him
would have done the deed herself. For all that the Kin troubled him just by being there, they seemed to
keep quiet and walk small. True, people who practiced avoiding notice were the most likely to resort to a
hired knife in the night, but he had never exchanged more than three words at a time with any of them,
and he certainly had never tried to finger one. The Aes Sedai seemed more likely, yet he was sure he had
done nothing to rouse their suspicions. Still, any one of them might have her own reasons for wanting
him dead. You could never tell with Aes Sedai. Birgitte Trahelion was a silly bint who seemed to think
she really was a character out of a story, maybe even the real Birgitte, if there had ever been a real
Birgitte, but she could well think he was a threat to her position. She might be a strumpet, wiggling
around the corridors in those trousers the way she did, yet she had a cold eye. That one could order a
throat slit without blinking. The last possibility was the one that worried him most, though. His own
masters were not the most trusting of people, and not always the most trustworthy. And the Lady
Shiaine Avarhin, who currently gave him his orders, was the one who had sent a summons that had
pulled him into the night. Where a fellow just happened to be waiting to follow him, knife in hand. He
did not believe in coincidence, no matter what people said about this al’Thor.
Thoughts of turning back to the palace came and went in a flash. He had gold tucked away; he
could bribe his way through the gates as easily as anyone else, or just order one opened long enough to
let him ride out. But it would mean spending the rest of his life watching his back, and anyone who
came inside arm’s length of him might be the one sent to kill him. Not so different from the way he lived
now. Except for the certainty that someone would put poison in his soup or a knife through his ribs
sooner or later. Besides, that stone-eyed trull Birgitte was the most likely culprit. Or an Aes Sedai. Or
maybe he had offended these Kin somehow. Still, it always paid to be careful. His fingers flexed around
the dagger’s hilt. Life was good at the moment, with plenty of comfort and plenty of women impressed
or frightened into compliance by a Captain of the Guards, but life on the run was always preferable to
death here and now.
Finding the correct street, much less the correct house, was not one narrow side street looked
very like another when darkness swathed both-but he took a care and eventually found himself
pounding on the front doors of a tall, shadowed pile that could have belonged to a wealthy but discreet
merchant. Except he knew now that it did not. Avarhin was a tiny House, extinct some said, but one
daughter of it remained, and Shiaine possessed money. One of the doors swung open, and he flung up a
hand against the sudden glare of light. His left hand; the dagger in his right, he kept concealed and
ready. Squinting through his spread fingers, he recognized the woman at the door, in the plain dark dress
of a maid. Not that that eased his mind by a hair.
"Give us a kiss, Falion," he said as he stepped inside. Leering, he reached for her. Left-handed,
of course.
The long-faced woman brushed his hand aside and shut the door firmly behind him. "Shiaine is
closeted with a visitor in the front sitting room upstairs," she said calmly, "and the cook is in her
bedchamber. There is no one else in the house. Hang your cloak on the rack. I will let her know you are
here, but you may have to wait."
Hanlon let his leer vanish and his hand drop. For all of her ageless face, handsome was the best
that Falion could be called, and even that might be stretching the truth, with her cold gaze and a colder
manner in the bargain. She was hardly the sort of woman he would have chosen to fondle, but it seemed
she was being punished by one of the Chosen and he was supposed to be part of the punishment, which
altered matters. To some extent. Tumbling a woman who had no choice had never troubled him, and
Falion certainly had none. Her maid’s dress was simple truth; she did the work of four or five women by
herself, maids and scullions and spit-girl, sleeping when she could and truckling whenever Shiaine
frowned. Her hands were rough and red from doing laundry and scrubbing floors. Yet she was likely to
survive her punishment, and the last thing he wanted was an Aes Sedai with a personal grudge against
Daved Hanlon. Not when circumstances might well change before he had an opportunity to put a knife
through her heart, anyway.
Reaching an accommodation with her had been easy, though. She seemed to have a practical
view. When others could see, he rumpled her every time she came in reach, and when there was time, he
bundled her up to her tiny maid’s room under the eaves. Where they mussed the bedclothes, then sat on
the narrow bed in the cold and exchanged information. Though at her urging, he did give her a few
bruises, just in case Shiaine chose to check. He hoped she remembered that it was at her urging.
"Where are the others?" he said, swinging his cloak off and hanging it on the leopard-carved
cloak rack. The sound of his boots on the floor tiles bounced from the entry hall’s high ceiling. It was a
fine space, with painted plaster cornices and several rich wall hangings on carved panels that were
polished to a faint glow, well lit by mirrored stand-lamps with enough gilding for the Royal Palace
itself, but burn him if it was much warmer than outside. Falion raised an eyebrow at the dagger in his
hand, and he sheathed it with a tight smile. He could have it out again faster than anyone would believe,
and his sword near as fast. "The streets are full of thieves at night." Despite the chill, he removed his
gauntlets and tucked them behind his sword belt. Anything else might make it appear he thought himself
in danger. The breastplate should be enough anyway, come the worst.
"I do not know where Marillin is," she said over her shoulder, already turning away and
gathering her skirts for the stairsteps. "She went out before sunset. Murellin is in the stables with his
pipe. We can talk after I inform Shiaine you’ve arrived."
Watching her climb the stairs, he grunted. Murellin, a hulking fellow Hanlon did not like at his
back, was banished to the stables behind the house whenever he wanted to smoke his pipe, because
Shiaine disliked the smell of the rough tabac he used, and since he usually took a pot of ale with him, or
even a pitcher, he should not be coming in any time soon. Marillin worried him more. She was Aes
Sedai, too, apparently as much under Shiaine’s orders as Falion, or himself, but he had no agreements
with her. No arguments, either, yet he distrusted any Aes Sedai on principle, Black Ajah or not. Where
had she gone? To do what? What a man did not know could kill him, and Marillin Gemalphin spent
entirely too much time off doing things he knew nothing about. He was coming to the conclusion that
there were entirely too many things in Caemlyn he knew nothing about. Past time he learned, if he
wanted to live.
With Falion gone, he went from the icy entry hall straight to the kitchen at the back of the house.
The brick-walled room was empty, of course-the cook knew better than to poke her nose out of her
room in the basement once she was sent away for the night-and the black iron stove and the ovens
stood cold, but a small blaze on the long stone hearth made the kitchen one of the few rooms in the
house that would be warm. Compared to the rest, at least. Shiaine was a stingy woman, except when it
came to her own comforts. The fire here was only in case she happened to want mulled wine in the
night, or a heated egg-milk. He had been in this house above half a dozen times since coming to
Caemlyn, and he knew which cabinets held the spices and which room off the kitchen always held a
cask of wine. Always good wine. Shiaine never stinted there. Not with that she intended to drink herself,
anyway. By the time Falion returned, he had the honeypot and a dish of ginger and cloves sitting on the
wide kitchen table with a pitcher full of wine, and a poker thrust into the fire. Shiaine might say "come
now" and mean "now," but when she wanted to make a man wait, it could be near daylight before she
saw him. These calls always cost him sleep, burn the woman! "Who is the visitor?" he asked.
"He gave no name, not to me," Falion said, propping the door to the hall open with a chair. That
let some of the sparse warmth leak out, but she would want to be able to hear if Shiaine summoned her.
Or maybe she wanted to make sure the other woman was not able to eavesdrop. "A lean man, tall and
hard, with the look of a soldier. An officer of some rank, maybe a noble, by his manner, and Andoran by
his accents. He seems intelligent and cautious. His clothes are quite plain, though costly, and he wears
no rings or pins." Frowning at the table, she turned to one of the tall open-front cabinets beside the door
to the hallway and added a second pewter cup to the one he had set out for himself. It had never
occurred to him to set out two. Bad enough he had to fix his own wine. Aes Sedai or no Aes Sedai, she
was the maid. But she took a chair at the table and pushed the dish of spices away from her for all the
world as though she expected him to serve.
"Shiaine had two visitors yesterday, however, more careless than this fellow," she went on.
"One, in the morning, had the Golden Boars of Sarand on the cuff of his gauntlets. He probably thought
no one would notice small-work, if he thought at all. A plump, yellow-haired man in his middle years
who looked down his nose at everything, complimented the wine as though surprised to find a decent
vintage in the house, and wanted Shiaine to have me beaten for showing insufficient respect." She said
even that in a cold, measured voice. The only time she had had any heat in her was when Shiaine put the
strap to her. He had heard her howl right enough then. "A countryman who has seldom been to Caemlyn
but believes he knows how his betters behave, I should say. You can mark him by a wart on his chin and
a small half-moon scar beside his left eye. The fellow in the afternoon was short and dark, with a sharp
nose and wary eyes, and no scars or marks I could see, though he wore a ring with a square garnet on his
left hand. He was sparing with words, very mindful to give away nothing in the little I heard, but he
carried a dagger with the Four Moons of House Marne on the pommel."
Folding his arms, Hanlon leaned against the side of the fire place and kept his face smooth
despite a desire to scowl. He had been sure that the plan was for Elayne to take the throne, though what
came after remained a mystery. She had been promised to him as a queen. Whether or not she wore a
crown when he took her mattered not a whit to him except for the spice it added-breaking that longlegged
bit to saddle would be pure pleasure if she had been a farmer’s daughter, especially after the chit
cut a slice off him today in front of all those other women!-but dealings with Sarand and Marne said
maybe Elayne was meant to die uncrowned. Maybe, in spite of all the promises that he could romp a
queen, he had been placed where he was so he could kill her at some selected moment, when her death
would bring some specific result sought by Shiaine. Or rather by the Chosen who had given her her
orders. Moridin, the fellow was called, a name Hanlon had never heard before com ing to this house.
That did not trouble him. If a man had the nerve to call himself one of the Chosen, Hanlon was not fool
enough to question it. The likelihood that he was no more than a dagger in this did trouble him. So long
as a dagger did the job, what matter if it broke in the doing? Much better to be the fist on the hilt than
the blade.
"Did you see any gold change hands?" he asked. "Did you hear anything?"
"I would have said," she replied thinly. "And by our agreement, it is my turn for a question."
He managed to mask his irritation behind an expectant look. The fool woman always asked about
the Aes Sedai in the palace or those she called the Kin, or about the Sea Folk. Silly questions. Who was
friendly with whom, and who unfriendly. Who exchanged private words and who avoided one another.
What he had heard them say. As if he had nothing to do with his time but lurk around the hallways
spying on them. He never lied to her-there was too much chance she might learn the truth, even mired
here in this house as a maid; she was Aes Sedai, after all-but it was growing difficult to come up with
something he had not already told her, and she was adamant that he give information if he expected to
receive any. Still, he had a few tidbits to offer today, some of the Sea Folk going off, and the whole lot
of them jumping for most of the day as if they had icicles shoved down their backs. She would have to
settle for that. What he needed to know was important, not bloody gossip.
Before she could get her question out, though, the door to the outside opened. Murellin was large
enough that he almost filled the doorway, yet icy cold still swirled in, a gust that made the small fire
dance and sent sparks flying up the chimney until the big man pushed the door shut. He gave no sign
that he felt the chill, but then, his brown coat looked thick as two cloaks. Besides, the man was not only
the size of an ox, he had the wits of one. Setting a tall wooden mug down on the table with a thump, he
tucked his thumbs behind his wide belt and eyed Hanlon resentfully. "You messing with my woman?"
he muttered.
Hanlon gave a start. Not from any fear of Murellin, not with the oaf on the other side of the table.
What startled him was the Aes Sedai leaping from her chair and snatching up the wine pitcher. Dumping
in the ginger and cloves, she added a scoop of honey and swirled the pitcher around as if that was going
to mix everything, then used a fold of her skirt to pull the poker from the fire and shove it into the wine
without checking to see whether it was hot enough yet. She never looked in Murellin’s direction at all.
"Your woman?" Hanlon said carefully. That earned a smirk from the other man.
"Near enough. The Lady figured I might as well use what you aren’t. Anyway, Fally and me
keep each other warm nights." Murellin started around the table, still grinning, but at the woman, now.
A shout echoed in the hallway, and he stopped with a sigh, his grin fading.
"Falion!" Shiaine’s distant voice called sharply. "Bring Hanlon up now and be quick about it!"
Falion set the pitcher on the table hard enough to slop wine over the rim and was heading for the door
before Shiaine finished. When the other woman spoke, Falion jumped.
Hanlon jumped too, if for a different reason. Catching up to her, he seized her arm as she took
the first step on the stairs. A quick glance back showed the kitchen door closed. Maybe Murellin did feel
the cold. He kept his voice low anyway. "What was that all about?"
"It is none of your business," she said curtly. "Can you get me something that will make him
sleep? Something I can put in his ale or wine? He will drink anything, however it tastes." "If Shiaine
thinks I’m not obeying orders, it bloody well is my business, and you ought to see it that way, too, if you
have two bloody thoughts to rub together."
She tilted her head, staring down that long nose at him, cold as a fish. "This has nothing to do
with you. As far as Shiaine is concerned, I will still belong to you when you are here. You see, certain
matters changed." Suddenly, something unseen grasped his wrist tightly and pulled his hand from her
sleeve. Something else latched on to his throat, squeezing till he could not draw breath.
Futilely, he scrabbled left-handed for his dagger. Her tone remained cool. "I thought certain
other matters should change accordingly, but Shiaine does not see things logically. She says that when
the Great Master Moridin wishes my punishment lessened, he will say so. Moridin gave me to her.
Murellin is her way of making sure I understand that. Her way of making sure I know that I am her dog
until she says otherwise." Abruptly she drew a deep breath, and the pressure vanished from his wrist and
throat. Air had never tasted so sweet. "You can get what I ask for?" she said, as calm as if she had not
just tried to kill him with the bloody Power. Just the thought that that had been touching him made his
skin crawl.
"I can . . . " he began hoarsely, and stopped to swallow, rubbing at his throat. It felt as though it
had been cinched in a hangman’s noose. "I can get you something that will put him in a sleep he’ll never
wake from." As soon as it was safe, he was going to gut her like a goose.
She snorted derisively. "I would be the first Shiaine suspected, and I might as well cut my own
wrists as object to anything she decided to do. It will be enough if he sleeps the nights through. Leave
the thinking to me, and we will both be the better for it."
Resting a hand on the carved newelpost, she glanced up the stairs. "Come. When she says now,
she means now." A pity he could not hang her up like a goose to wait for the knife. Following her, his
boots thumped on the treads, sending a clatter through the entry hall, and it struck him that he had not
heard the visitor leave. Unless the house had some secret way out he did not know, there was only the
front door, the one in the kitchen, and a second at the back that could only be reached by passing the
kitchen. So it seemed he was to meet this soldier. Maybe it was supposed to come as a surprise.
Surreptitiously, he eased his dagger in its sheath.
As expected, the front sitting room had a fine blaze burning away in the wide fireplace of blueveined
marble. It was a room worth the looting, with Sea Folk porcelain vases on the gilt-edged side
tables, and tapestries and carpets that would fetch a pretty price. Except that one of the carpets was
likely worthless, now. A low blanket-covered mound lay near the middle of the room, and if the fellow
that made it had not stained the carpet with his blood, Hanlon would eat the boots sticking out from one
end.
Shiaine herself was sitting in a carved armchair, a pretty woman in gold-embroidered blue silk
with an ornate belt of woven gold and a heavy gold necklace around her slim neck. Glossy brown hair
hung below her shoulders even caught in a net of intricate lace. She looked delicate at first glance, but
there was something vulpine about her face, and her smile never touched those big brown eyes. She was
using a lace-edged handkerchief to clean a small dagger capped with a firedrop on the pommel. "Go tell
Murellin that I will have a . . . bundle . . . for him to dispose of later, Falion," she said calmly.
Falion’s face remained smooth as polished marble, but she made a curtsy that lacked little of
cringing before she scuttled out of the room at a run.
Watching the woman and her dagger from the corner of his eye, Hanlon moved to the covered
mound and bent to lift a corner of the blanket. Glazed blue eyes stared out of a face that might have been
hard, alive. The dead always looked softer. Apparently he had been neither as cautious nor as intelligent
as Falion thought him. Hanlon let the blanket fall and straightened. "He said something you objected to,
my Lady?" he said mildly. "Who was he?" "He said several things I objected to." She held her dagger
up, studying the small blade to be sure it was clean, then slid it into a gold-worked sheath at her waist.
"Tell me, is Elayne’s child yours?" "I don’t know who fathered the whelp," he said wryly. "Why, my
Lady? Do you think I’d go soft? The last chit who claimed I’d gotten a child on her, I stuffed her down a
well to cool her head and made sure she stayed there." There were a long-necked silver wine pitcher and
two chased silver cups sitting on a tray on one of the side tables. "Is this safe?" he asked, peering into
the cups. Both had wine in the bottom, but a little addition to one would have turned the dead man into
easy prey.
"Catrelle Mosenain, an ironmonger’s daughter from Maerone," the woman said, just as smoothly
as if it were common knowledge, and he very nearly flinched in surprise. "You split her head open with
a rock before you pitched her down, no doubt to spare her drowning." How did she know the wench’s
name, much less about the rock? He had not remembered her name himself. "No, I doubt you would go
soft, but I would hate to think you were kissing the Lady Elayne without letting me know. I would
purely hate that."
Suddenly she frowned at the bloodstained handkerchief in her hand and rose gracefully to glide
to the fireplace and toss it into the flames. She stood there warming herself, never even glancing in his
direction. "Can you arrange for some of the Seanchan women to escape? Best if it can be both those
called sul’dam and the ones called damane" she stumbled a little over the strange words, "but if you
can’t do both, then a few of the sul’dam should do. They will free some of the others."
"Maybe." Blood and bloody ashes, she was dancing from one thing to another worse than Falion
tonight. "It won’t be easy, my Lady. They’re all guarded close."
"I didn’t ask whether it was easy," she said, staring into the flames. "Can you shift guards away
from the food warehouses? It would please me if some of those actually burned. I am tired of attempts
that always fail."
"That I cannot do," he muttered. "Not unless you expect me to go into hiding right after. They
keep a record of orders that would make a Cairhienin wince. And it wouldn’t do any good anyway, not
with those bloody gateways bringing in more wagons every bloody day." In truth, he was not sorry for
that. Queasy over the means used, certainly, but not sorry. He expected the palace would be the last
place in Caemlyn to go hungry in any case, but he had lived out sieges on both sides of the lines, and he
had no intention of ever boiling his boots for soup again. Shiaine wanted fires, though.
"Another answer I did not ask for." She shook her head, still looking into the fireplace, not at
him. "But perhaps something can be done there. How close are you to actually . . . enjoying Elayne’s
affections?" she finished primly.
"Closer than the day I arrived in the palace," he growled, glowering at her back. He tried never
to offend those the Chosen had set above him, but the chit was trying him. He could snap that slender
neck like a twig! To keep his hands from her throat, he filled one of the cups and held it with no
intention of drinking. In his left hand, of course. Just because there was one dead man in the room
already did not mean she had no plans to make it two corpses. "But I have to go slow. It isn’t as if I can
back her into a corner and tickle her out of her shift."
"I suppose not," Shiaine said in a muffled voice. "She is hardly the sort of woman you are used
to." Was she laughing! Was she amused at him? It was all he could do not to throw down the winecup
and strangle the fox-faced bint.
Suddenly she turned around, and he blinked as she casually slipped her dagger back into its
sheath. He had never seen her draw the bloody thing! He took a swallow of wine without thinking, and
almost choked when he realized what he had done. "How would you like to see Caemlyn looted?" she
asked. "Well enough, if I have a good company at my back and a clear path to the gates." The wine had
to be safe. Two cups meant she had drunk, too, and if he had picked up the dead man’s, there could not
be enough poison left in it to sicken a mouse. "Is that what you want? I follow orders as well as the next
man." He did when he seemed likely to survive them, or when they came from the Chosen. As well die
for a fool as disobey the Chosen. "But sometimes it helps to know more than ‘go there and do that.’ If
you told me what you’re after here in Caemlyn, I might be able to help you reach it faster."
"Of course." She smiled a toothy smile while her eyes stayed as flat as brown stones. "But first,
tell me why there is fresh blood on your gauntlet?"
He smiled back. "A footpad who got unlucky, my Lady." Maybe she had sent the man and
maybe not, but he added her throat to the list of those he intended to slit. And he might as well add
Marillin Gemalphin, too. After all, a lone survivor was the only one who could tell the tale of what had
happened.
CHAPTER 16
The Subject of Negotiations
The morning sun sat on the horizon, leaving the nearer side of Tar Valon still wrapped in
shadows, but the snow that covered everything gleamed brightly. The city itself seemed to shine behind
its long white walls, all bravely towered and bannered, yet to Egwene, sitting her roan gelding on the
riverbank above the city, it seemed even farther away than it really was. The Erinin widened to more
than two miles here, and the Alindrelle Erinin and Osendrelle Erinin, flowing to either side of the island,
were almost half that, so that Tar Valon appeared to sit in the middle of a great lake, unreachable despite
the massive bridges that stood high above the waters so that ships could sail beneath them easily. The
White Tower itself, a thick bone-white shaft rising to an impossible height from the city’s heart, filled
her own heart with a yearning for home. Not for the Two Rivers, but for the Tower. That was her home,
now. A plume of smoke caught her eye, a faint black line rising from the far bank beyond the city, and
she grimaced. Daishar stamped a hoof in the snow, but a pat on the neck sufficed to soothe the roan. It
would take more to soothe his rider. Homesickness was the smallest part of it. Minuscule, compared to
the rest.
With a sigh, she rested her reins on the high pommel of her saddle and raised the long brassbound
looking glass. Her cloak fell back, slipping off one shoulder, but she ignored the cold that misted
her breath and placed a gloved hand to shield the front lens against the sun’s glare. The city walls leaped
closer in her sight. She focused on the tall curving arms of Northharbor that pushed out into the
upstream currents. People moved purposefully atop the battlements that enfolded the harbor, but she
could barely discern men from women at that distance. Still, she was glad that she was not wearing her
seven-striped stole, and that her face was deep within her cowl, just in case someone there had a stronger
glass than she. The wide mouth of the man-made harbor was blocked by a massive iron chain drawn taut
a few feet above the water. Tiny dots on the water, diving birds fishing in front of the harbor, gave the
chain scale. One single pace-long link would have required two men to lift it. A rowboat might slip
under that barrier, but no vessel of any size would enter unless the White Tower allowed. Of course, the
chain was only intended to keep out enemies. "There they are, Mother," Lord Gareth murmured, and she
lowered the glass. Her general was a stocky man in a plain breastplate worn over a plain brown coat,
without any touch of gilt or embroidery anywhere. His face was bluff and weathered behind the bars of
his helmet, and the years had given him a strange sort of comforting calmness. All you need do was look
at Gareth Bryne to know that if the Pit of Doom opened in front of him, he would smother his fear and
go about doing what needed doing. And other men would follow him. He had proved on battlefield after
battlefield that following him was the path to victory. A good man to have following her. Her eyes
followed his gauntleted hand, pointing upriver.
Just coming in sight around a point of land, five, six-no, seven-riverships were slicing
furrows down the Erinin. Large vessels as such things were seen on the river, one with three masts, their
triangular sails stood out tight, and their long sweeps cut hard through the blue-green water to add a little
more speed.
Everything about the craft spoke of a burning desire for speed, a desire to reach Tar Valon now!
The river was deep enough here that ships could run within shouting distance of the banks in places, but
these sailed in almost single file as close to the middle of the Erinin as the steersmen could manage and
hold the wind. Sailors clinging to the mastheads kept watch along the shoreline, and not for mudbanks.
In fact, they had nothing at all to fear so long as they kept out of bowshot. True, from where she
sat her horse, she could have set fire to every one of those ships, or simply cut holes through their hulls
and let them sink. The work of moments. Yet doing so surely meant some of those aboard would drown.
The currents were strong, the water like ice, and the swim to shore long, for those who actually could
swim. Even one death would make what she did using the Power as a weapon. She was trying to live as
though already bound by the Three Oaths, and the Oaths protected those vessels from her or any other
sister. A sister who had sworn on the Oath Rod would not be able to make herself set those weaves,
perhaps not even to form them, unless she could convince herself she was in immediate danger from the
ships. But neither captains nor crews believed that, apparently.
As the riverships came closer, shouts thinned to threadbare by distance drifted across the water.
The lookouts up on the masts pointed to her and Gareth, and it quickly became apparent they took her
for an Aes Sedai with her Warder. Or at least, the captains were unwilling to take the chance she was
not. After a moment, the beat of the sweeps increased. Only by a fraction, but the oarsmen labored to
find that fraction. A woman on the quarterdeck of the lead vessel, likely the captain, waved her arms as
if demanding still more effort, and a handful of men began running up and down the deck, tightening
this line or loosening that to change the angle of the sails, though Egwene could not see that they
achieved anything. There were men on those decks other than sailors, and most of those crowded to the
railings, a handful raising looking glasses of their own. Some seemed to be measuring the distance left
to cover before they reached the safety of the harbor. She thought about weaving a flare, a starburst of
light, perhaps with a loud bang, just above each of the vessels. That would certainly let anyone aboard
with brains realize that neither speed nor distance kept them safe here, only a forbearance born of the
Three Oaths. They should know that they were safe because of Aes Sedai.
Exhaling heavily, she shook her head and mentally upbraided herself. That simple weave would
also attract attention in the city, certainly more than the appearance of a single sister. Sisters often came
to the riverbank to stare at Tar Valon and the Tower. Even if the only reaction to her flares was some
sort of counterdisplay, once begun, that sort of contest could be very difficult to put a stop to. Once
begun, matters might well escalate out of hand. There were too many opportunities for that, as it was,
the more so these last five days.
"The harbormaster hasn’t let above eight or nine ships in at one time since we arrived," Gareth
said as the first vessel drew abreast of them, "but the captains seemed to have worked out the timing.
Another clutch will appear soon, and reach the city about the time the Tower Guards are sure these
fellows actually came to enlist. Jimar Chubain knows enough to guard against me sneaking men in
aboard ships. He has more of the Guards crowded into the harbors than anywhere except at the bridge
towers, and not many anywhere else, so far as I can learn. That will change, though. The flow of ships
starts at first light and keeps up till near nightfall, here and at Southharbor too. This lot doesn’t seem to
be carrying as many soldiers as most do. Every plan is brilliant until the day comes, Mother, but then
you must adapt to circumstances or be ridden down."
Egwene made a vexed sound. There must be two hundred or more passengers altogether on those
seven ships. A few might be merchants or traders or some other sort of innocent traveler, but the low sun
glittered off helmets and breastplates and steel discs sewn to leather jerkins. How many shiploads
arrived each day? Whatever the number, a steady flow was pouring into the city to enlist under High
Captain Chubain. "Why do men always rush so hard to kill or be killed?" she muttered irritably. Lord
Gareth looked at her calmly. He sat his horse, a big bay gelding with a white stripe down his nose, like a
statue. Sometimes, she thought she knew one small part of how Siuan felt about the man. Sometimes she
thought it would be worth whatever effort was needed to startle him, just to see him startled.
Unfortunately, she knew the answer to her own question as well as he did. At least as it applied
to men going soldiering. Oh, there were men enough who rushed to support a cause or defend what they
thought what was right, and some who sought adventure, whatever they believed that was, yet the
simple fact was that for carrying a pike or spear, a man could earn twice each day what he would get for
walking behind another man’s plow, and half again as much if he could ride well enough to join the
cavalry. Crossbowmen and archers fell in between. The man who worked for another could dream of
having his own farm or shop one day, or a beginning toward one that his sons could build on, but he
surely had heard a thousand tales of men soldiering for five years or ten and coming home with enough
gold to set themselves up in comfort, tales of ordinary men who rose to become generals, or lords. For a
poor man, Gareth had said bluntly, staring down the point of a pike could be a better view than the hind
end of somebody else’s plow horse. Even if he was far more likely to die from the pike than earn fame
or fortune. A bitter way to look at it, yet she imagined that was how most of those men on the ships saw
matters, too. But then, that was how she had gotten her own army. For every man who wanted to see the
usurper pulled from the Amyrlin Seat, for every man who even knew for certain who Elaida was, ten if
not a hundred had joined for the pay. Some of the men on the ship were raising their hands, to show the
guards on the harbor walls they were not holding weapons.
"No," she said, and Lord Gareth sighed. His voice remained calm, but his words were hardly
comforting when he spoke. "Mother, so long as the harbors remain open, Tar Valon will eat better than
we do, and rather than growing weaker with hunger, the Tower Guard will grow larger and stronger. I
very much doubt that Elaida will let Chubain rush out to attack us, as much as I wish he would. Every
day you wait only adds to the butcher’s bill we’ll have to pay sooner or later. I’ve said from the start it
will come to an assault, in the end, and that hasn’t changed, but everything else has. Have the sisters put
me and my men inside the walls now, and I can take Tar Valon. It won’t be clean. It never is. But I can
take the city for you. And fewer will die than if you delay."
A knot formed in her belly, twisted tight till she could hardly breathe. Carefully, step by step, she
performed novice exercises to make it loosen. The bank contained the river, guiding without controlling.
Calm settled on her, in her.
Too many people had begun seeing the uses of gateways, and in a way, Gareth represented the
worst. His business was war, and he was very good at it. As soon as he learned a gateway could take
more than a small group of people at one time, he had seen the implications. Even the great walls of Tar
Valon, beyond the range of any siege catapult not on a barge, and worked with the Power till the largest
catapult could not mark them in any case, might as well be made of paper against an army that could
Travel. But whether Gareth Bryne had learned or not, other men would seize on that idea. The
Asha’man already had, it seemed. War had always been ugly, yet it was going to grow uglier. "No," she
repeated. "I know people are going to die before this is over." The Light help her, she could see them
dying just by closing her eyes. Even more would die if she made the wrong decisions, though, and not
just here. "But I have to keep the White Tower alive-against Tarmon Gai’don-to stand between the
world and the Asha’man-and the Tower will die if this comes to sisters killing one another in the
streets of Tar Valon." That had already happened once. It could not be allowed a second time. "If the
White Tower dies, hope dies. I shouldn’t have to tell you that again."
Daishar snorted and tossed his head, lunging as though he had sensed her irritation, but she
reined him in firmly and slipped the looking glass into the tooled leather case hanging from her saddle.
The diving birds gave up their fishing and sprang into the air as the thick chain that blocked Northharbor
began to droop. It would dip beneath the surface well before the first ship reached the harbor mouth.
How long ago had it been that she reached Tar Valon by that same route? Almost beyond memory, it
seemed. An Age gone. It had been another woman who came ashore and was met by the Mistress of
Novices.
Gareth shook his head with a quick grimace. But then, he never gave up, did he? "You have to
keep the White Tower alive, Mother, but my job is to give it to you. Unless things have changed that I
don’t know about. I can see sisters whispering and looking over their shoulders even if I don’t know
what it means. If you still want the Tower, it will come to an assault, better soon than late."
Suddenly the morning seemed darker, as though clouds had obscured the sun. Whatever she did,
the dead were going to pile up like cordwood, but she had to keep the White Tower alive. She had to.
When there were no good choices, you had to choose the one that seemed least wrong.
"I’ve seen enough here," she said quietly. With one last glance at that narrow line of smoke
beyond the city, she turned Daishar toward the trees a hundred paces back from the river, where her
escort waited among the evergreen leatherleaf and winter-bare beech and birch.
Two hundred light cavalry, in boiled leather breastplates or coats covered with metal discs,
would certainly have attracted notice appearing on the riverbank, but Gareth had convinced her of the
necessity of these men with their slender lances and short horsebows. Without any doubt, that smoke
plume on the far bank rose from burning wagons or supplies. Pinpricks, yet those pinpricks came every
night, sometimes one, sometimes two or three, till everyone looked for smoke first thing on rising.
Hunting the raiders down had proved impossible, so far. Sudden snow squalls flared around the
pursuers, or fierce freezing night winds, or the tracks simply vanished abruptly, the snow beyond the last
hoofprint as smooth as fresh fallen. The residues of weavings made it plain enough they were being
aided by Aes Sedai, and there was no point in taking a chance that Elaida had men and maybe sisters on
this side of the river, too. Few things could please Elaida more than getting her hands on Egwene
al’Vere.
They were not her whole escort, of course. Besides Sheriam, her Keeper, she had ridden out with
six more Aes Sedai this morning, and those who had Warders had brought them, so behind the sister
eight men waited in color-shifting cloaks that rippled in queasymaking fashion when a breeze caught
them and otherwise made parts of riders and horses seem to vanish into the tree trunks. Aware of the
dangers-from raiders, at least-aware that their Aes Sedai were wound tight to near breaking, they
watched the surrounding copse as though the cavalrymen were not there. The safety of their own Aes
Sedai was their primary concern, and that they trusted to no one else. Sarin, a black-bearded stump of a
man, not that short but very wide, stayed so close to Nisao that he seemed to loom over the diminutive
Yellow, and Jori managed to loom over Morvrin as well, though he was actually shorter than she. As
broad as Sarin, but very short even for a Cairhienin. Myrelle’s three Warders, the three she dared
acknowledge, clustered around her until she could not have moved her horse without pushing one of
theirs out of her way. Anaiya’s Setagana, lean and dark and as beautiful as she was plain, almost
managed to surround her by himself, and Tervail, with his bold nose and scarred face, did the same with
Beonin. Carlinya had no Warder, not unusual for a White, but she studied the men from the depths of
her fur-lined cowl as if thinking about rinding one.
Not too long ago, Egwene would have hesitated to be seen with those six women. They and
Sheriam had all sworn fealty to her, for various reasons, and neither they nor she wanted the fact known
or even suspected. They had been her way to influence events, to the extent that she could, when
everyone thought her no more than a figurehead, a girl Amyrlin the Hall of the Tower could use as it
wished and no one listened to. The Hall had lost that illusion when she brought them to declare war on
Elaida, finally admitting what they had been about since the day they had fled the Tower in the first
place, but that only made the Hall, and the Ajahs, worry over what she would do next and try to figure
out how to make sure that whatever it was met with their approval. The Sitters had been very surprised
when she accepted their suggestion of a council, one sister from each Ajah, to advise her with their
wisdom and experience. Or perhaps they thought her success with the declaration of war had gone to her
head. Of course, she had just told Morvrin and Anaiya and the others to make sure they were the sisters
chosen, and they retained enough prestige within their Ajahs to manage it, just. She had been listening to
their advice, if not always taking it, for weeks by that time, but now there was no longer any need to
arrange furtive meetings or pass messages in secret.
It seemed, however, that there had been an addition to the party while Egwene was staring at the
Tower.
Sheriam, wearing the narrow blue stole of her office outside her cloak, managed a very formal
bow from her saddle. The flamehaired woman could be incredibly formal at times. "Mother, the Sitter
Delana wishes to speak with you," she said as if Egwene could not see the stout Gray sister sitting there
on a dappled mare almost as dark as Sheriam’s black-footed mount. "On a matter of some importance,
so she says." And the slight touch of asperity meant Delana had not told her what matter. Sheriam would
not have liked that. She could be very jealous of her position. "In private, if you please, Mother," Delana
said, pushing back her dark hood to reveal hair nearly the color of silver. Her voice was deep for a
woman’s, but it hardly carried the urgency of someone with important matters to speak of.
Her presence was something of a surprise. Delana often supported Egwene in the Hall of the
Tower, when Sitters were quibbling over whether a particular decision actually concerned the war
against Elaida. That meant the Hall was required to support Egwene’s commands as if they had stood
with the greater consensus, and even the Sitters who had stood for war did not half like that little fact,
which made for endless quibbling. They wanted to pull Elaida down, yet left to themselves, the Hall
would have done nothing but argue. Truth to tell, though, Delana’s support was not always welcome.
One day she could be the very image of a Gray negotiator seeking consensus, and the next so strident in
her arguments that every Sitter within hearing got her back up. She had been known to set the cat among
the pigeons in other ways, too. No fewer than three times now, she had demanded the Hall make a
formal declaration that Elaida was Black Ajah, which inevitably led to an awkward silence until
someone called for the sitting to be adjourned. Few were willing to discuss the Black Ajah openly.
Delana would discuss anything, from how they were to find proper clothes for nine hundred and eightyseven
novices to whether Elaida had secret supporters among the sisters, another topic that gave most
sisters a case of the prickles. Which left the question of why she had ridden out so early, and by herself.
She had never approached Egwene before without another Sitter or three for company. Delana’s pale
blue eyes gave away no more than did her smooth Aes Sedai face.
"While we ride," Egwene told her. "We will want a little privacy," she added when Sheriam
opened her mouth. "Stay back with the others, please." The Keeper’s green eyes tightened in what might
almost have been anger. An efficient Keeper, and eager with it, she had pinned her hopes on Egwene
and made little secret that she disliked being excluded from any meeting Egwene had. Upset or not, she
bowed her head in acceptance with only a small hesitation. Sheriam had not always known which of
them commanded, but she did now.
The land tended upward from the River Erinin, not in hills but simply rising toward the
monstrous peak that loomed to the west, so massive it seemed to mock the name mountain.
Dragonmount would have towered above everything else even in the Spine of the World; in the
relatively flat country around Tar Valon, its whitecapped crest seemed to reach the heavens, especially
when a thin thread of smoke was streaming away from the jagged top as it was now. A thin thread at that
height would be something else entirely, close at hand. Trees gave out less than halfway up
Dragonmount, and no one had ever succeeded in reaching the crest or even coming close, though it was
said the slopes were littered with the bones of those who had tried. Why anyone would try in the first
place, no one could quite explain. Sometimes the long evening shadow of the mountain stretched all the
way to the city. People who lived in the region were accustomed to Dragonmount dominating the sky,
much as they were accustomed to the White Tower looming above the city walls and visible for miles.
Both were unchanging fixtures that had always been there and always would be, but crops and crafts
occupied the people’s lives, not mountains or Aes Sedai.
In tiny hamlets often or a dozen stone houses roofed in thatch or slate, and the occasional village
of a hundred, children playing in the snow or carrying buckets of water from the wells stopped to gape at
the soldiers riding along the dirt tracks that passed for roads when not covered in snow. They carried no
banners, but a few of the soldiers wore the Flame of Tar Valon worked on their cloaks or coatsleeves,
and the Warders’ strange cloaks named at least some of the women as Aes Sedai. Even this near the city,
sisters had been an uncommon sight till recently, and they were still something to make a child’s eyes
gleam. But then, the soldiers themselves probably came close in the list of marvels. The farms that fed
Tar Valon covered most of the land, stone-walled fields surrounding sprawling houses and tall barns of
stone or brick, with copses and coppices and thickets of trees between, and groups of farm children often
ran a little distance parallel to the line of travel, leaping across the snow like hares. Winter chores kept
most older folk indoors, but those who ventured out, heavily bundled against the cold, spared barely a
glance for soldiers or Warders or Aes Sedai. Spring would be coming soon, and the plowing and
planting, and what Aes Sedai did would not affect that. The Light willing, it would not. There was no
point to guards unless they rode as if expecting an attack, and Lord Gareth had arranged a strong party
of fore-riders and lines of flankers, with trailers riding to the rear while he led the mass of the soldiers
right behind the Warders who followed closely on the heels of Sheriam and the "council." They all made
a large, lopsided ring around Egwene, and she could almost imagine she was riding through the
countryside alone with Delana if she did not look around too closely. Or if she looked beyond. Instead of
pressing the Gray Sitter to speak-it was a long ride back to camp, and no one was allowed to weave a
gateway where the weave might be observed; there was plenty of time to hear what Delana had to say-
Egwene compared the farms they passed to those in the Two Rivers. Perhaps the realization that
the Two Rivers was no longer home made her study them. Acknowledging the truth could never be a
betrayal, yet she needed to remember the Two Rivers. You could forget who you were if you forgot
where you came from, and sometimes the innkeeper’s daughter from Emond’s Field seemed a stranger
to her. Any of these farms would have looked decidedly odd, set down near Emond’s Field, though she
could not put a finger on why, exactly. A different shape to the houses, a different slant to the roofs. And
more often slate topped a house than thatch, here, when you could make out either through the snow that
was often mounded on the rooftops. Of course, there was less thatch and more stone and brick in the
Two Rivers now than there had been. She had seen it, in Tel’aran’rhiod. Change came so slowly you
never noticed it creeping up on you, or far too fast for comfort, but it came. Nothing stayed the same,
even when you thought it did. Or hoped it would.
"Some think you’re going to bond him your Warder," Delana said suddenly in a quiet voice. She
might have been engaging in casual conversation. Her whole attention seemed to be on arranging the
hood of her cloak with green-gloved hands. She rode well, blending with the motion of her mare so
effortlessly that she appeared unaware of the animal. "Some think perhaps you already have. I haven’t
had one myself for some time, but just knowing your Warder is there can be a comfort. If you choose the
right one." Egwene raised an eyebrow-she was proud that she did not gape at the woman; this was the
very last topic she would have expected-and Delana added, "Lord Gareth. He spends a great deal of
time with you. He’s rather older than is usual, but Greens often choose a more experienced man for their
first. I know you never actually had an Ajah, yet I often think of you as a Green. I wonder, will Siuan be
relieved if you bond him, or upset? Sometimes I think one, sometimes the other. Their relationship, if it
can be called that, is most peculiar, yet she seems completely unembarrassed." "You must ask Siuan
herself about that." Egwene’s smile had some bite in it. So did her tone, for that matter. She did not
entirely understand herself why Gareth Bryne had offered her his loyalty, but the Hall of the Tower had
better uses for its time than gossiping like village women. "You can tell whoever you choose that I’ve
bonded no one, Delana. Lord Gareth spends time with me, as you put it, because I am the Amyrlin and
he is my general. You may remind them of that, as well." So Delana thought of her as a Green. That was
the Ajah she would have chosen, though in truth, she wanted only one Warder. But Gawyn was either
inside Tar Valon or else on his way to Caemlyn, and either way, she would not lay hands on him soon.
She patted Daishar’s neck unnecessarily and tried to keep her smile from becoming a glare. It had been
pleasant to forget the Hall, among other things, for a while. The Hall made her understand why Siuan
had so often looked like a bear with a sore tooth when she was Amyrlin.
"I wouldn’t say it has become a matter for wide discussion," Delana murmured. "So far. Still,
there is some interest in whether you will bond a Warder, and who. I doubt that Gareth Bryne would be
considered a wise pick." She twisted in her saddle to look behind them. At Lord Gareth, Egwene
thought, but when the Sitter turned back around, she said, very softly, "Sheriam was never your choice
for Keeper, of course, but you must know that the Ajahs set the rest of that lot to watch you, as well."
Her dappled gray mare was shorter than Daishar, so she had to look up at Egwene, which she tried to do
without seeming to. Those watery blue eyes were suddenly quite sharp. "There was some thought that
Siuan might be advising you . . . too well . . . after the way you brought about the declaration of war
against Elaida. But she’s still resentful over her changed circumstances, isn’t she? Sheriam is seen as the
most likely culprit, now. In any case, the Ajahs want a little warning if you decide to pull another
surprise." "I thank you for the warning," Egwene said politely. Culprit? She had proven to the Hall that
she would not be their puppet, yet most insisted on thinking she had to be someone’s. At least no one
suspected the truth about her council. It was to be hoped no one did.
"There is another reason you should be wary," Delana went on, the intensity in her eyes belying
the casualness of her voice. This was more important to her than she wanted Egwene to know. "You
may be sure that any advice one of them gives you comes straight from the head of her Ajah, and as you
know, the head of an Ajah and its Sitters don’t always see eye to eye. Listening too closely could put
you at odds with the Hall. Not every decision concerns the war, remember, but you will surely want
some of those to go your way." "An Amyrlin should listen to every side before making any decision,"
Egwene replied, "but I’ll remember your warning when they advise me, Daughter." Did Delana think
she was a fool? Or perhaps the woman was trying to make her angry. Anger made for hasty decisions
and rash words that sometimes were hard to take back. She could not imagine what Delana was aiming
at, but when Sitters could not manipulate her one way, they tried another. She had gotten a great deal of
practice in sidestepping manipulation since being raised Amyrlin. Taking deep, regular breaths, she
sought the balance of calm and found it. She had entirely too much practice at that, too, of late.
The Gray looked up at her past the edge of her hood, her face utterly smooth. But her pale blue
eyes were very sharp, now, like augers. "You might inquire what they think on the subject of
negotiations with Elaida, Mother."
Egwene almost smiled. The pause had been very deliberate. Apparently Delana disliked being
called Daughter by a woman younger than most novices. Younger than most who had come from the
Tower, let alone the newest. But then, Delana herself was too young to be a Sitter. And she could not
hold her temper as well as the innkeeper’s daughter. "And why would I ask that?" "Because the subject
has come up in the Hall in the last few days. Not as a proposal, but it has been mentioned, very quietly,
by Varilin, and by Takima, and also by Magla. And Faiselle and Saroiya have appeared interested in
what they have had to say." Calm or no calm, a worm of anger suddenly writhed inside Egwene, and
crushing it was no easy task. Those five had been Sitters before the Tower was broken, but more
importantly, they were divided between the two major factions struggling for control of the Hall. In
reality, they were divided between following Romanda or Lelaine, yet that pair would oppose one
another if it meant they both drowned. They also kept an iron grip on their followers. She might believe
the others had been panicked by events, but not Romanda or Lelaine. For half a week now, talk of Elaida
or retaking the Tower had been all but overwhelmed by worried conversations over that impossibly
powerful, impossibly long eruption of the Power. Nearly everyone wanted to know what had caused it,
and nearly everyone was afraid to learn. Only yesterday had Egwene been able to convince the Hall that
it must be safe for a small party to Travel to where that eruption had been-even the memory was strong
enough for everyone to pinpoint exactly where it had been-and most sisters still seemed to be holding
their collective breath until Akarrin and the others returned. Every Ajah had wanted a representative, but
Akarrin had been the only Aes Sedai to push forward.
Neither Lelaine nor Romanda seemed concerned, however. Violent and prolonged as the display
had been, it also had been very far away, and no harm done that they could see; if it was the Forsaken’s
work, as seemed certain, the chance of learning anything was vanishingly small, and the possibility that
they could do anything to counter it even smaller. Wasting time and effort on impossibilities was
senseless when an important task lay right in front of them. So they said, gritting their teeth over finding
themselves in agreement. They did agree that Elaida must be stripped of the stole and staff, though,
Romanda with almost as much fervor as Lelaine, and if Elaida unseating a former Blue as Amyrlin had
enraged Lelaine, Elaida’s proclamation that the Blue Ajah was disbanded had made her near-rabid. If
they were allowing talk of negotiation. . . . It made no sense.
The last thing Egwene wanted was for Delana or anyone else to suspect that Sheriam and the
others were more than a set of sheepdogs set to watch her, but she summoned them with a sharp call.
They were smart enough to keep the secrets that needed keeping, since their own Ajahs would have their
hides if even the half came out, and with no great haste, they came forward and rode in a cluster around
her, their faces all masks of Aes Sedai serenity and patience. Then Egwene told Delana to repeat what
she had said. For all her initial request for privacy, the Gray made only a perfunctory demurral before
complying. And that was the end of calm and patience.
"That’s madness," Sheriam said before anyone else could open her mouth. She sounded angry,
and perhaps a little frightened. Well she might be. Her name was on a list of those marked for stilling.
"None of them can really believe negotiation is possible." "I should hardly think so," Anaiya put in
dryly. Her plain face belonged on a farmwife rather than a Blue sister, and she dressed very simply,
publicly at least, in good wool, but she handled her bay gelding as easily as Delana did her mare. Very
little could ruffle Anaiya’s calm. Of course, there was no Blue among the Sitters talking negotiation.
Anaiya looked an unlikely soldier, but for Blues, this was war to the knife, no quarter asked or given.
"Elaida has made the situation quite clear."
"Elaida is irrational," Carlinya said with a toss of her head that made her cowl fall to her
shoulders and shook her short dark curls. She pulled the hood back into place irritably. Carlinya seldom
showed any hint of emotion, yet her pale cheeks were nearly as flushed as Sheriam’s, and heat filled her
voice. "She cannot possibly believe that we will all come crawling back to her now. How can Saroiya
believe she will accept anything less?" "Crawling is what Elaida has demanded, though," Morvrin
muttered acridly. Her usually placid round face wore a sour expres sion, too, and her plump hands were
tight on her reins. She scowled so hard at a flight of magpies, scattering from a stand of birch trees at the
passage of horses, that it seemed they should fall out of the sky. "Takima likes the sound of her own
voice, sometimes. She must be talking to hear herself."
"Faiselle must, too," Myrelle said darkly, glaring at Delana as though she were to blame. The
olive-skinned woman was known for her temper, even among Greens. "I never expected to hear that sort
of talk out of her. She’s never been a fool before." "I can’t believe Magla really means any such thing,"
Nisao insisted, peering at each of them in turn. "She just can’t. For one thing, as much as I hate to say it,
Romanda has Magla so tight under her thumb that Magla squeaks whenever Romanda sneezes, and the
only doubt Romanda has is whether Elaida should be birched before she’s exiled."
Delana’s expression was so bland, she had to be suppressing a smug smile. Plainly, this was
exactly the reaction she had hoped for. "Romanda holds Saroiya and Varilin just as firmly, and Takima
and Faiselle hardly put one foot in front of the other without Lelaine’s permission, but they still said
what they said. I think your advisors are closer to the feelings of most sisters, though, Mother."
Smoothing her gloves, she gave Egwene a sidelong look. "You may be able to nip this in the bud, if you
move firmly. It seems you will have the support you need from the Ajahs. And mine, of course, in the
Hall. Mine, and enough more to stop it dead." As if Egwene needed support to accomplish that. Perhaps
she was trying to ingratiate herself. Or just to make it appear that support of Egwene was her only
concern.
Beonin had been riding in silence, clutching her cloak around her and peering at a spot between
her brown mare’s ears, but suddenly she shook her head. Ordinarily, her large blue-gray eyes made her
appear startled, but they peered from her hood in a blaze of anger as she glared from one of her
companions to another, including Egwene. "Why should negotiations be out of the question?"
Sheriam blinked at her in surprise, and Morvrin opened her mouth with a scowl, but Beonin
plunged on, directing her ire at Delana, now, her Taraboner accent stronger than usual. "We are Gray,
you and I. We negotiate, mediate. Elaida, she has stated the conditions most onerous, but that is often
the case in the beginning of negotiations. We can reunite the White Tower and assure the safety of
everyone, if we only talk."
"We also judge," Delana snapped, "and Elaida has been judged." That was not precisely true, but
she seemed more startled than anyone else by Beonin’s outburst. Her voice dripped acid. "Perhaps you
are willing to negotiate yourself into being birched. I am not, and I think you will find few others who
are, either." "The situation, it has altered," Beonin persisted. She stretched a hand toward Egwene,
almost pleading. "Elaida would not have made the proclamation she did concerning the Dragon Reborn
unless she had him in hand, one way or another. That flare ofsaidar was a warning. The Forsaken must
be moving, and the White Tower, it must be-" "Enough," Egwene cut in. "You are willing to open
negotiations with Elaida? With the Sitters still in the Tower?" she amended. Elaida would never talk.
"Yes," Beonin said fervently. "Matters can be arranged to everyone’s satisfaction. I know they
can."
"Then you have my permission."
Immediately everyone but Beonin began talking frantically on top of one another, trying to
dissuade her, telling her this was insanity. Anaiya shouted as loudly as Sheriam, gesturing emphatically,
and Delana’s eyes bulged in what looked like near terror. Some of the outriders began looking toward
the sisters as much as they watched the farms they were riding past, and there was a stir among the
Warders, who certainly had no need of their bonds at the moment to know their Aes Sedai were agitated,
but they held their places. Wise men kept their noses out of the way when Aes Sedai began raising their
voices.
Egwene ignored the shouts and arm-waving. She had considered every possibility she could
think of for ending this struggle with the White Tower whole and united. She had talked for hours with
Siuan, who had more reason than anyone to want to unseat Elaida. If it could have saved the Tower,
Egwene would have surrendered to Elaida, forget whether the woman had come to the Amyrlin Seat
legally. Siuan had nearly had apoplexy at the suggestion, yet she had agreed, reluctantly, that preserving
the Tower superseded every other consideration. Beonin wore such a beautiful smile, it seemed a crime
to quench it.
Egwene raised her voice just enough to be heard over the others. "You will approach Varilin and
the others Delana named, and arrange to approach the White Tower. These are the terms I will accept:
Elaida is to resign and go into exile." Because Elaida would never accept back the sisters who had
rebelled against her. An Amyrlin had no say over how an Ajah governed itself, but Elaida had declared
that the sisters who fled the Tower were no longer members of any Ajah. According to her, they would
have to beg readmittance to their Ajahs, after serving a penance under her direct control. Elaida would
not reunite the Tower, only shatter it worse than it already was. "Those are the only terms I will accept,
Beonin. The only terms. Do you understand me?" Beonin’s eyes rolled up in her head, and she would
have fallen from her horse if Morvrin had not caught her, muttering under her breath as she held the
Gray upright and slapped her face, not lightly. Everyone else stared at Egwene as though they had never
seen her before. Even Delana, who must have planned for something like this to happen from the first
word she had said. They had come to a halt with Beonin’s fainting fit, and the ring of soldiers around
them drew up at a shouted command from Lord Gareth. Some stared toward the Aes Sedai, their anxiety
plain even with their faces hidden behind the bars of their helmets. "It’s time to get back to camp,"
Egwene said. Calmly. What had to be done had to be done. Perhaps surrender would have healed the
Tower, but she could not believe it. And now it might come down to Aes Sedai facing one another in the
streets of Tar Valon, unless she could find a way to make her plan succeed. "We have work to do," she
said, gathering her reins, "and there isn’t much time left." She prayed there was enough.
CHAPTER 17
Secrets
Once Delana was sure that her noxious seed had taken root, she murmured that it might be best if
they were not seen arriving back at the camp together and slipped away, pushing her mare to a quick trot
through the snow and leaving the rest of them to ride on in uneasy silence except for the crunch of the
horses’ hooves. The Warders maintained their distance behind, and the escorting soldiers had their
attention back on the farms and thickets, without so much as a glance toward the Aes Sedai that Egwene
could see, now. Men never knew when to keep their mouths shut, though. Telling a man to be quiet only
made him gossip all the harder, just to close friends he could trust, to be sure, as if they in turn would
not tell everyone who would listen. The Warders might be different-Aes Sedai always insisted they
were, those who had Warders-but no doubt the soldiers would talk of sisters arguing, and no doubt
they would say Delana had been sent off with a flea in her ear. The woman had planned this very
carefully.
Worse than fireweed or stranglervine could grow if that seed was allowed to sprout, but the Gray
Sitter had sheltered herself from blame very neatly. Truth almost always did come out in the end, but by
the end, truth was often so wrapped around with rumors and speculation and absolute lies that most
people never did believe it.
"I trust I don’t have to ask whether any of you had heard about this before." Egwene said that
quite casually, seemingly studying the countryside as they rode, but she was pleased when everyone
denied it outright with considerable indignation, including Beonin, who was working her jaw and
glaring at Morvrin. Egwene trusted them as far as she dared-they could not have given her their oaths
without meaning to hold to every word; not unless they were Black Ajah, a niggling possibility that
accounted for most of her caution-yet even oaths of fealty left room for the most loyal people doing the
worst possible thing in the belief that it was in your best interest. And people who had been coerced into
their oaths could be adept at spotting the gaps and leeways. "The real question," she continued, "is what
was Delana after?" She had no need to explain, not for these women, every one experienced in the Game
of Houses. If all Delana had wanted was to stop negotiations with Elaida while keeping her own name
out of it, she could simply have spoken to Egwene alone at any time. Sitters needed no excuse to come
to the Amyrlin’s study. Or she could have used Halima, who slept on a pallet in Egwene’s tent most
nights despite being Delana’s secretary. Egwene was troubled with headaches, and some nights only
Halima’s massages could soothe them so she could sleep. For that matter, an anonymous note might
have been sufficient to make her present the Hall with an edict forbidding negotiations. The touchiest
quibbler would have to admit that talks to end the war certainly touched on the war. But plainly Delana
wanted Sheriam and the others to know, too. Her talebearing was an arrow aimed at another target.
"Strife between the Ajah heads and the Sitters," Carlinya said, as cool as the snow. "Perhaps
strife between the Ajahs." Casually adjusting her cloak, intricately embroidered white-on-white but lined
with dense black fur, she might have been discussing the price of a spool of thread. "Why she wants
these things, I can’t begin to say, but those will be the results, unless we are very careful, and she could
not know we would be careful, or that we have any reason to be, so logically one or both must be her
aim."
"The first answer that comes to mind isn’t always correct, Carlinya," Morvrin said. "There’s no
saying that Delana thought her actions through as carefully as you have, or that she thought along the
same lines." The stout Brown believed more in common sense than logic, or so she said, but in truth she
seemed to blend the two, a combination that made her very hardheaded, and suspicious of quick or easy
answers. Which was not a bad thing to be. "Delana may be trying to sway some among the Sitters on
some issue that’s important to her. Maybe she hopes to get Elaida declared Black Ajah after all. No
matter the results, her goal may be something we don’t even suspect. Sitters can be as petty as anyone
else. For all we know, she might have a grudge against one of those she named dating back to when she
was a novice and they taught her. Better to concentrate on what will come of it than to worry about why
until we know more." Her tone was as placid as her broad face, but Carlinya’s cool composure flickered
to cool disdain for a moment. Her rationality made few concessions for human foibles. Or for anyone
disagreeing with her.
Anaiya laughed, a sound of almost motherly amusement that made her bay dance a few steps
before she reined him back to a walk. A motherly farmwife amused by the antics of others in the village.
Even some sisters were foolish enough to dismiss her that easily. "Don’t sulk, Carlinya. You are very
probably right. No, Morvrin, she probably is. In any event, I believe we can squash any hopes she has
for discord." That did not sound amused at all. No Blue was amused by anything that might hamper
pulling Elaida down.
Myrelle gave a savage nod of agreement, then blinked in surprise when Nisao said, "Can you
afford to stop this, Mother?" The tiny Yellow did not speak up often. "I don’t mean whatever Delana is
trying to do. If we can settle on what that is," she added quickly, making a gesture at Morvrin, who had
opened her mouth again. Nisao looked a child alongside the other women, but it was a peremptory
gesture. She was Yellow, after all, with all the selfassurance that implied, and unwilling to step back for
anyone in most circumstances. "I mean the talk of parley with the Sitters in the Tower."
For a moment, everyone gaped at her, even Beonin. "And why would we want to allow that?"
Anaiya said finally, in a dangerous voice. "We didn’t come all this way to talk to Elaida." She was a
farmwife with a cleaver hidden behind her back and a mind to use it, now.
Nisao looked up at her and sniffed dismissively. "I didn’t say we wanted it. I asked whether we
dare stop it." "I hardly see the difference." Sheriam’s voice was icy, and her face pale. With anger,
Egwene thought, but it might have been fear.
"Then think for a while, and you might see it," Nisao said dryly. Dry the way a knife-blade was
dry, and equally cutting. "At present, talk of negotiations is limited to five Sitters, and very quiet, but
will it remain so? Once word spreads that talks were proposed and rejected, how long before despair sets
in? No, hear me out! We all set off full of righteous fury for justice, yet here we sit, staring at the walls
of Tar Valon, while Elaida sits in the Tower. We’ve been here nearly two weeks, and for all anyone can
see, we may be here two years, or twenty. The longer we sit with nothing happening, the more sisters
will start making excuses for Elaida’s crimes. The more they’ll start thinking that we have to mend the
Tower, never mind the cost. Do you want to wait until sisters start slipping back to Elaida one by one? I
myself do not fancy standing on the riverbank defying the woman with just the Blue Ajah and the rest of
you for company. Negotiations will at least let everyone see that something is happening."
"No one is going to return to Elaida," Anaiya protested, shifting on her saddle, but she wore a
troubled frown, and she sounded as if she could see it happening. The Tower beckoned to every Aes
Sedai. Very likely even Black sisters yearned for the Tower to be whole again. And there it stood, just a
few miles away, but seemingly out of reach.
"Talk could buy time, Mother," Morvrin said reluctantly, and no one could put as much
reluctance in her voice as she. Her frown was thoughtful, and not at all pleased. "A few more weeks, and
Lord Gareth might be able to find the ships he needs to block the harbors. That will alter everything, in
our favor. With no way for food to get in or mouths to get out, the city will be starving inside a month."
Egwene hung on to a smooth face with an effort. There was no real hope of ships to block the
harbor, though none cf them knew that. Gareth had made it plain enough to her, however, long before
leaving Murandy. Originally, he had hoped to buy vessels while they marched north along the Erinin,
using them to ferry supplies until they reached Tar Valon, then sinking them in the harbor mouths.
Using gateways to reach Tar Valon had put paid to that in more ways than one. Word of the siege had
left the city with the first ships sailing after the army arrived, and now, as far north and south as he had
sent riders, ship captains were carrying out their business ashore by boat, from anchorages well out in
the river. No captain was willing to risk the chance her ship would simply be seized. Gareth made his
reports only to her, and his officers only to him, yet any sister could have known if she talked with a few
soldiers.
Fortunately, even sisters looking for Warders rarely spoke to soldiers. They were generally
accounted a thieving, unlettered lot who only bathed by accident, when they had to wade a stream. Not
the kind of man any sister spent time with except when compelled to. It made keeping secrets easier, and
some secrets were essential. Including, sometimes, secrets kept from those seemingly on your side. She
could remember not thinking that way, but that was a part of the innkeeper’s daughter she had been
obliged to leave behind. This was another world, with very different rules from Emond’s Field. A
misstep there meant a summons to the Women’s Circle. Here, a misstep meant death or worse, and for
more than herself. "The Sitters remaining in the Tower should be willing to talk," Carlinya put in, with a
sigh. "They have to know that the longer the siege lasts, the more chance Lord Gareth will find his ships.
I cannot think how long they will continue talking, though, when they realize we do not mean to
surrender."
"Elaida will insist on that," Myrelle muttered, yet she did not seem to be arguing, just talking to
herself, and Sheriam shivered, drawing her cloak around her as though she had let the cold touch her.
Only Beonin looked happy, sitting eager and upright in her saddle, dark honey hair framing a
wide smile inside her hood. She did not press her case, however. She was good at negotiation, so
everyone said, and knew when to wait.
"I did say you could begin," Egwene said. Not that she had meant it for more than a setdown, yet
if you were going to live by the Three Oaths, then you had to stand by what you said. She could not wait
to hold the Oath Rod. It would be so much easier, then. "Just make sure you’re very careful what you
say. Unless they think we all grew wings to fly here, they must suspect we’ve rediscovered Traveling,
but they can’t be certain unless someone confirms it. It’s better for us if they stay uncertain. That must
be one secret you hold as tightly as you hold the secret of our ferrets in the Tower."
Myrelle and Anaiya jerked at that, and Carlinya looked around as though fearful, though neither
Warders nor soldiers were close enough to hear unless someone shouted. Morvrin merely took on an
even more sour expression. Even Nisao looked a little ill, though she had had nothing to do with the
decision to send sisters back to the Tower in secret, supposedly answering Elaida’s summons. The Hall
might be happy to learn that ten sisters were in the Tower trying to undermine Elaida however they
could, even if the effort had borne no apparent fruit so far, but the Sitters would most definitely be
unhappy at realizing that it had been kept secret because these women feared that some of the Sitters
might actually be Black Ajah. As well for Sheriam and the others to reveal their oaths to Egwene as
reveal that. The results for them might not be very different. The Hall had not ordered anyone birched
yet, but the way most Sitters chafed at the bit over Egwene’s control of the war, it could hardly come as
a surprise if they jumped at the chance to show they still had some authority while simultaneously
expressing their displeasure forcefully.
Beonin was apparently the only one who had opposed that decision-at least, until it became
apparent the others were going ahead anyway-but she drew a shuddering breath, too, and a tightness
settled around her eyes. In her case, the sudden realization of just what she had undertaken might have
played its part, too. Just finding someone in the Tower who was willing to talk might prove a daunting
task. Eyes-and-ears inside Tar Valon could offer only hearsay about events inside the Tower; news of
the Tower itself came only in dribs and drabs, from sisters venturing into Tel’aran’rhiod to glimpse
fleeting reflections of the waking world, but every last one of those scraps told of Elaida ruling by edict
and caprice, with not even the Hall daring to stand against her. Beonin’s face took on a grayish tinge, till
she began to appear more sickly than Nisao. Anaiya and the others looked as bleak as death. A wave of
gloom rose in Egwene. These were among the strongest against Elaida, even the foot-dragging Beonin,
who always wanted to talk rather than act. Well, Grays were noted for believing that anything could be
solved with enough talk. They should try that on a Trolloc sometime, or just a footpad, and see how far
they got! Without Sheriam and the rest, resistance to Elaida would have fallen apart before it ever had a
chance to coalesce. It nearly had anyway. But Elaida was as firmly seated in the Tower as ever, and after
all they had gone through, all they had done, it seemed that even Anaiya saw it all melting away into
disaster. No! Drawing a deep breath, Egwene straightened her shoulders and sat erect in her saddle. She
was the lawful Amyrlin, no matter what the Hall had thought they were getting when they raised her,
and she had to keep the rebellion against Elaida alive to have any hope of healing the Tower. If that
required a pretense of negotiations, it would not be the first time Aes Sedai had pretended to aim at one
thing while targeting another. Whatever was required to keep the rebellion alive and pull Elaida down,
she would do. Whatever was required.
"Stretch the talks out as long as you can," she told Beonin. "You can talk about anything, so long
as you keep the secrets that need keeping, but agree to nothing, and keep them talking." Swaying in her
saddle, the Gray definitely looked sicker than Anaiya. She almost appeared ready to empty her stomach.
When the camp came into sight, with the sun nearly halfway to its noonday peak, the escort of lightly
armored horsemen broke away back toward the river, leaving Egwene and the sisters to ride the last mile
across the snow followed by the Warders. Lord Gareth paused as if he wanted to speak with her once
more, but finally he turned his bay east after the cavalry, trotting to catch up as they vanished beyond a
long, coppiced stand of trees. He would not bring up their disagreement, or their discussions, where
anyone else could hear, and he believed that Beonin and the others just what everyone else thought
them, the Ajahs’ watchdogs. She felt a little sad at holding things back from him, but the fewer who
knew a secret, the more likely it would remain secret. The camp was a sprawl of tents in every shape and
size and color and state of repair that almost covered a broad tree-rimmed pasture, halfway between Tar
Valon and Dragonmount, inside a ring of horselines and rows of wagons and carts in almost as many
shapes as there were wagons and carts. Chimney smoke rose in several places a few miles beyond the
treeline, but the local farmers stayed away except for selling eggs and milk and butter, or sometimes
when one needed Healing from some accident, and there was no sign at all of the army Egwene had
brought so far. Gareth had concentrated his forces along the river, part occupying the bridge towns on
both banks and the rest in what he called reserve camps, placed where men could be rushed to help fight
off any sortie in strength from the city, just in case he was wrong about High Captain Chubain. Always
consider the possibility your assumptions are wrong, he had told her. No one objected to his placements,
of course, not in general anyway. Any number of sisters were ready to nitpick the details, but holding
the bridge towns was the only way to besiege Tar Valon, after all. By land, it was. And a good many
Aes Sedai were pleased to have the soldiers out of sight if not out of mind.
Three Warders in color-shifting cloaks came riding out from the camp as Egwene and the others
approached, one of them very tall and one quite short, so they seemed arranged in steps. Making their
bows to Egwene and the sisters, nodding to the Warders behind, they all had that dangerous look of men
so confident that they had no need to convince anyone how dangerous they were, which somehow made
it all the more evident. A Warder at his ease and a lion resting on a hill, so went an old saying among
Aes Sedai. The rest of it was lost in the years, but there really was no need to say more. The sisters were
not entirely complacent about the safety of even a camp full of Aes Sedai, under the circumstances.
Warders patrolled closely for miles in every direction, lions on the prowl. Anaiya and the others, all but
Sheriam, scattered as soon as they reached the first row of tents beyond the wagons. Each would be
seeking out the head of her Ajah, ostensibly to report on Egwene’s* ™ S E C R E T S 417 ride to the river
with Lord Gareth, and more importantly, to make sure those Ajah heads knew that some of the Sitters
were talking about negotiations with Elaida and that Egwene was being firm. It would have been easier
if she knew who those women were, but even oaths of fealty did not stretch to revealing that. Myrelle
had nearly swallowed her tongue when Egwene suggested it. Being dropped into a job without training
was hardly the best way to learn it, and Egwene knew she had oceans to learn yet about being Amyrlin.
Oceans to learn, and a job of work to do at the same time. "If you will forgive me, Mother," Sheriam
said when Beonin, the last to go, vanished among the tents trailed by her scar-faced Warder, "I have a
writing table piled high with paper." The lack of enthusiasm in her voice was understandable. The
Keeper’s stole came along with ever-growing stacks of reports to be sorted and documents to be
prepared. Despite her zeal for the rest of the job, which in this case was to keep the camp running,
Sheriam had been heard to mutter fervent wishes, when confronted by yet another mound of papers, that
she was still Mistress of Novices. Still, as soon as Egwene gave permission, she booted her blackfooted
dapple to a trot, scattering a covey of workmen in rough coats and mufflers wrapped around their heads,
who were carrying large baskets on their backs. One fell flat on his face in the halffrozen muck that
passed for a street. Sheriam’s Arinvar, a slim Cairhienin with graying temples, paused long enough to
make sure the fellow was getting to his feet, then spurred his dark bay stallion after her, leaving the
workman to his curses, most of which seemed to be directed at his companions’ laughter. Everyone
knew that when an Aes Sedai wanted to go somewhere, you got out of the way.
What had spilled out of the fellow’s basket onto the street caught Egwene’s eye and made her
shiver, a tall heap of meal crawling with weevils till it seemed there were as many moving black specks
as meal. The men must all have been carrying ruined meal to the midden heaps. There was no use
bothering to sift anything that infested-only someone who was starving could eat it-but too many
baskets of meal and grain had to be disposed of every day.
For that matter, half the barrels of salt pork and salt beef opened for use stank so that there was
nothing to be done except bury them. For the servants and workmen, at least those who had experience
of camp life, that was nothing new. A little worse than usual, but not unheard of. Weevils could appear
any time, and merchants trying to stretch their profits always sold some rotting meat along with the
good. Among the Aes Sedai, though, it was cause for deep worry. Every barrel of meat, every sack of
grain or flour or meal, had been surrounded by a Keeping as soon as bought, and whatever was woven
into a Keeping could not change until the weave was removed. But still the meat rotted and the insects
multiplied. It was as though saidar itself was failing. You could get a sister to make jokes about the
Black Ajah before you could get her to talk about that.
One of the laughing men caught sight of Egwene watching them and nudged the mud-covered
fellow, who moderated his language, though not very far. He even glowered as if blaming her for his
fall. With her face half-hidden by her hood and the Amyrlin’s stole folded in her belt pouch, they
seemed to take her for one of the Accepted, not all of whom had enough proper clothing to always dress
as they should, or perhaps a visitor. Women frequently slipped into the camp, often keeping their faces
hidden in public until they left again whether they wore fine silks or threadbare wool, and showing a
sour expression to a stranger or an Accepted was certainly safer than grimacing at an Aes Sedai. It
seemed odd not to have everyone in sight bobbing and bowing. She had been in the saddle since before
first light, and if a hot bath was out of the question-water had to be carried in from the wells that had
been dug half a mile west of the camp, which made all but the most fastidious or self-absorbed sisters
limit themselves -if a long hot soak was not to be had, she still would have liked to put her feet back on
the ground. Or better yet, put them up on a footstool. Besides, refusing to let the cold touch you was not
at all the same as warming your hands at a toasty brazier. Her own writing table would have its pile of
paper, too. Last night she had told Sheriam to give her the reports on the state of wagon repairs and the
supply of fodder for the horses. They would be dry and boring, but she checked on different areas every
day, so she could at least tell whether what people told her was based on fact or wishes. And there were
always the eyes-and-ears’ reports.
The Ajahs decided to pass along to the Amyrlin Seat made for fascinating reading when
compared to what Siuan and Leane gave her from their agents. It was not so much that there were
contradictions, yet what the Ajahs chose to keep to themselves could draw interesting pictures. Comfort
and duty both pulled her toward her study-just another tent, really, though everyone called it the
Amyrlin’s study-but this was an opportunity to look around without having everything hastily made
ready ahead of her arrival. Pulling her hood a little further forward to better conceal her face, she
touched her heels lightly to Daishar’s flanks. There were few people mounted, mostly Warders, though
the infrequent groom added to the traffic, leading a horse at as close to a trot as could be managed in the
ankle-deep slush, but no one seemed to recognize her or her mount. In contrast to the nearly empty
streets, the wooden walkways, no more than rough planks pegged atop sawn logs, shifted slightly under
the weight of people. The handful of men, dotting the streams of women like raisins in a cheap cake,
walked twice as fast as anyone else. Excepting Warders, men got their business among Aes Sedai done
as quickly as possible. Nearly all the women had their faces hidden, their breath misting in the openings
of their hoods, yet it was easy to pick out Aes Sedai from visitors whether their cloaks were plain or
embroidered and lined with fur. The crowds parted in front of a sister. Anyone else had to weave her
way through. Not that many sisters were about on this frigid midmorning. Most would be snug in their
tents. Alone or in twos or threes, they would be reading, or writing letters, or questioning their visitors
about whatever information those women had brought. Which might or might not be shared with the rest
of a sister’s Ajah, much less with anyone else. The world saw Aes Sedai as a monolith, towering and
solid, or it had before the current division in the Tower became common knowledge, yet the pure fact
was that the Ajahs stood apart in all but name, the Hall their only true meeting point, and the sisters
themselves were little more than a convocation of hermits, speaking three words beyond what was
absolutely required only with a few friends. Or with another sister they had joined in some design.
Whatever else changed about the Tower, Egwene was sure that never would. There was no point
pretending that Aes Sedai had ever been anything but Aes Sedai or ever would be, a great river rolling
onward, all its powerful currents hidden deep, altering its course with imperceptible slowness. She had
built a few hasty dams in that river, diverting a stream here and a stream there for her own purposes, yet
she knew they were temporary structures. Sooner or later those deep currents would undercut her dams.
She could only pray they lasted long enough. Pray, and shore up as hard as she could. Very occasionally
one of the Accepted appeared in the throng, with the seven bands of color on the hood of her white
cloak, but most by far were novices in unadorned white wool. Only a handful of the twenty-one
Accepted in the camp actually possessed banded cloaks, and they saved their few banded dresses for
teaching classes or attending sisters, yet great efforts had been made to see that every novice was
dressed in white at all times, even if she only had one change. The Accepted inevitably tried to move
with the swanlike glide of Aes Sedai, and one or two nearly managed despite the tilting of the walkways
underfoot, but the novices darted along almost as quickly as the few men, scurrying on errands or
hurrying to classes in groups of six or seven.
Aes Sedai had not had so many novices to teach in a very long time, not since before the Trolloc
Wars, when there had been many more Aes Sedai as well, and the result of finding themselves with near
a thousand students had been utter confusion until they were organized into these "families." The name
was not strictly official, yet it was used even by Aes Sedai who still disliked taking any woman who
asked. Now every novice knew where she was supposed to be and when, and every sister could at least
find out. Not to mention that the number of runaways had declined. That was always a concern for Aes
Sedai, and several hundred of these women might well attain the shawl. No sister wanted to lose one of
those, or any, for that matter, not before the decision was made to send a woman away. Women still
slipped off occasionally after realizing that the training was harder than they had expected and the road
to an Aes Sedai’s shawl longer, but quite apart from the families making it easier to keep track, running
away seemed to be less attractive to women who had five or six cousins, as they were called, to lean on.
Well short of the big square pavilion that served as the Hall of the Tower, she turned Daishar
down a side street. The walkway in front of the pale brown canvas pavilion was empty - the Hall was
not a place anyone approached without business there - but the much-patched side curtains were kept
down without a reason to make the workings of the Hall public, so there was no telling who might step
out. Any Sitter would recognize Daishar at a glance, and some Sitters she would as soon avoid even
more than others. Lelaine and Romanda, for example, who resisted her authority as instinctively as they
opposed each other. Or any of those who had begun talking of negotiations. It was too much to believe
that they were just hoping to rally spirits, or they would not have kept to whispers. The courtesies had to
be maintained, though, no matter how often she wished she could box someone’s ears, yet no one could
think she was being snubbed if Egwene did not see her. A faint silvery light flashed behind a tall canvas
wall just ahead of her, surrounding one of the camp’s two Traveling grounds, and a moment later two
sisters emerged from behind one of the flaps. Neither Phaedrine nor Shemari was strong enough to
weave a gateway by herself, but linked she thought they could just manage one big enough to walk
through. Heads close together in deep conversation, strangely they were just pinning on their cloaks.
Egwene kept her face averted anyway as she rode by. Both of the Browns had taught her as a novice,
and Phaedrine still seemed surprised that Egwene was Amyrlin. Lean as a heron, she was quite capable
of wading out into the muck to ask whether Egwene needed assistance. Shemari, a vigorous squarefaced
woman who looked more like a Green than a librarian, was always beyond proper in her behavior.
Much beyond. Her deep curtsies, suitable for a novice, carried at least a suggestion of mockery no
matter how smooth her expression, not least because she had been known to curtsy when she saw
Egwene a hundred paces away.
Where had they been, she wondered. Somewhere indoors, perhaps, or at least warmer than the
camp. No one really kept track of the sisters’ comings and goings, of course, not even the Ajahs. Custom
ruled everyone, and custom strongly discouraged direct questions about what a sister was doing or
where she was going. Most likely, Phaedrine and Shemari had been to hear from some of their eyes-andears
face to face. Or maybe to look at a book in some library. They were Brown. But she could not help
thinking of Nisao’s comment about sisters slipping away to Elaida. It was quite possible to hire a
boatman to make the crossing to the city, where dozens of tiny water gates gave entrance to anyone who
wished it, but with a gateway, there was no need to risk exposure by riding to the river and asking after
boats. Just one sister returning to the Tower with the knowledge of that weave would give away their
largest advantage. And there was no way to stop it. Except to keep heart in the opposition to Elaida.
Except to make the sisters believe there could be a quick end to this. If only there was a way to a quick
end.
Not far beyond the Traveling ground, Egwene drew rein and frowned at a long wall-tent, even
more patched than the Hall. An Aes Sedai came swanning down the walkway-she wore a plain dark
blue cloak, and the cowl hid her face, but novices and others skipped out of her way as they never would
have for a merchant, say-and paused in front of the tent, looking at it for a long moment before
pushing aside the entry flap to go inside, her unwillingness as clear as if she had shouted. Egwene had
never gone in there. She could feel saidar being channeled inside, though faintly. The amount necessary
was surprisingly small. A quick visit from the Amyrlin should not draw too much attention, however.
She very much wanted to see what she had set in motion. Dismounting in front of the tent, though, she
discovered a trifling difficulty. There was nowhere to tie Daishar. The Amyrlin always had someone
rushing to hold her stirrup and take away her horse, but she stood there holding the gelding’s reins, and
clusters of novices bustled past with no more than a quick glance, dismissing her as one of the visitors.
By this time, every novice knew all of the Accepted on sight, but few had seen the Amyrlin Seat close
up. She did not even have the ageless face to tell them she was Aes Sedai. With a rueful laugh, she put a
gloved hand into her belt pouch. The stole would tell them who she was, and then she could order one of
them to hold her horse for a few minutes. Unless they thought it was a joke in bad taste, at least. Some
of the novices from Emond’s Field had tried to pull the stole from her neck, to keep her from getting in
trouble. No, that was past and dealt with.
Abruptly, the entry flap was pushed open and Leane emerged, fastening her dark green cloak
with a silver pin in the shape of a fish. The cloak was silk, and richly embroidered in silver and gold, as
was the bodice of her riding dress. Her red gloves were embroidered on the backs, too. Leane paid
minute attention to her clothes since joining the Green Ajah. Her eyes widened lightly at the sight of
Egwene, but her coppery face smoothed immediately. Taking in the situation at a glance, she put out a
hand to stop a novice who appeared to be by herself. Novices went to classes by family. "What’s your
name, child?" Much had changed about Leane, but not her briskness. Except when she wanted it to,
anyway. Most men turned to putty when Leane’s voice grew languorous, but she never wasted that on
women. "Are you on an errand for a sister?" The novice, a pale-eyed woman close to her middle years,
with an unblemished skin that had never seen a day’s work in the field, gaped openly before recovering
enough to make her curtsy, a smoothly practiced spreading of her white skirts with mittened hands. As
tall as most men but willowy and graceful and beautiful, Leane lacked the ageless look, too, yet hers was
one of the two most well known faces in the camp. Novices pointed her out in awe, a sister who had
once been Keeper, who had been stilled, and Healed so she could channel again, if not so strongly as
before. And then she had changed Ajahs! The newest women in white already had learned that that just
never happened, though the other was becoming a part of lore, unfortunately. It was harder to make a
novice go slowly when you could not point out that she risked ending her quest for the shawl by burning
herself out and losing the One Power forever.
"Letice Murow, Aes Sedai," the woman said respectfully, in a lilting Murandian accent. She
sounded as if she wanted to say more, perhaps to give a title, but one of the first lessons on joining the
Tower was that you had left behind who you used to be. It was a hard lesson, for some, especially those
who possessed titles. "I’m going to visit my sister. I haven’t seen her more than a minute since before
we left Murandy." Relatives were always put in different novice families, as were women who had
known each other before being entered in the novice book. It encouraged making new friends, and cut
down on the inevitable tensions when one was learning faster than the other or had a higher potential.
"She’s free of classes, too, until the afternoon, and-" "Your sister will have to wait a while longer,
child," Leane broke in. "Hold the Amyrlin’s horse for her." Letice gave a start and stared at Egwene,
who had finally managed to extract her stole. Handing Daishar’s reins to the woman, she lowered her
cowl and settled the long narrow strip of cloth onto her shoulders. Light as a feather in her pouch, the
stole had real weight hanging around her neck. Siuan claimed that sometimes you could feel every
woman who had ever worn the stole hanging from the ends of it, a constant reminder of responsibility
and duty, and Egwene believed every word. The Murandian gaped at her harder than she had for Leane,
and took longer to remember to curtsy. No doubt she had heard that the Amyrlin was young, but it
seemed unlikely she had given a thought to how young. "Thank you, child," Egwene said smoothly.
There had been a time when she felt strange calling a woman ten years older than herself child.
Everything changed, with time. "It won’t be for long. Leane, would you ask someone to send a groom
for Daishar? Now that I’m out of the saddle, I’d as soon stay out, and Letice should be allowed to see
her sister."
"I will see to it myself, Mother."
Leane offered a fluid curtsy and moved away with never a hint that there was more between
them than this chance encounter. Egwene trusted her far more than she did Anaiya or even Sheriam. She
certainly kept no secrets from Leane, any more than from Siuan. But their friendship was yet another
secret that had to be kept. For one thing, Leane had eyes-and-ears actually inside Tar Valon if not in the
Tower itself, and their reports came to Egwene and Egwene alone. For another, Leane was much petted
for accommodating so well to her reduced status, and every sister welcomed her, if only because she
was living proof that stilling, the deepest dread of any Aes Sedai, could be reversed. They welcomed her
with open arms, and because she was less, now, standing below at least half the sisters in the camp, they
often spoke in front of her about matters they would never want the Amyrlin to know of. So Egwene did
not so much as glance after her as she left. Instead, she, offered Letice a smile-the woman reddened
and bobbed another curtsy-then entered the tent, stripping off her gloves and tucking them behind her
belt.
Inside, eight mirrored stand-lamps stood along the walls between low wooden chests. One with a
bit of worn gilding and the rest of painted iron, no two of the lamps had the same number of arms, but
they provided good illumination, if not so bright as outside. Assorted tables that seemed to have come
from seven different farm kitchens made a row down the center of the canvas ground-cloth, the benches
of the three farthest occupied by a half a dozen novices with their cloaks folded beside them, each
woman surrounded by the glow of the Power. Tiana, the Mistress of Novices, hovered anxiously over
them, walking between the tables, and surprisingly, so did Sharina Melloy, one of the novices acquired
in Murandy.
Well, Sharina was not exactly hovering, just watching calmly, and perhaps it should not have
been a surprise to find her there. A dignified, gray-haired grandmother with a tight bun on the back of
her head, Sharina had run a very large family with a very firm hand, and she seemed to have adopted all
of the other novices as granddaughters or grandnieces. She was the one who had organized them into
those tiny families, completely on her own and apparently out of simple disgust at seeing everyone
flounder around. Most Aes Sedai went more than a touch tight-mouthed if reminded of that, though they
had accepted the form quickly enough once they realized how much easier it made keeping track and
organizing classes. Tiana was inspecting the novices’ work so closely that it seemed obvious she was
attempting to ignore Sharina’s presence. Short and slight, with large brown eyes and a dimple in her
cheek, Tiana somehow looked young despite her ageless face, particularly alongside the taller novice’s
creased cheeks and broad hips.
The pair of Aes Sedai channeling at the table nearest the entrance, Kairen and Ashmanaille, had
an audience of two as well, Janya Frende, a Sitter for the Brown, and Salita Toranes, a Sitter for the
Yellow. The Aes Sedai and the novices were all performing the same task. In front of each woman, a
close net woven of Earth, Fire and Air surrounded a small bowl or cup or the like, all made by the
camp’s blacksmiths, who were very puzzled at why the sisters wanted such things made of iron, not to
mention having them made as finely as if they were silver. A second weave, Earth and Fire woven just
so, penetrated each net to touch the object, which was slowly turning white. Very, very slowly, in every
case. Ability with the weave improved with practice, but of the Five Powers, strength in Earth was the
key, and beside Egwene herself, only nine sisters in the camp-along with two of the Accepted and
nearly two dozen novices-had sufficient of that to make the weaves work at all. Few among the sisters
wanted to give any time to it, though. Ashmanaille, lean enough to make her seem taller than she really
was, fingers tapping the tabletop on either side of the simple metal cup in front her, was frowning
impatiently as the edge of whiteness crept upward past halfway. Kairen’s blue eyes were cold enough
that it seemed her stare alone might shatter the tall goblet she was working on. That had only the
smallest rim of white at the bottom. It must have been Kairen Egwene had seen going in.
Not everyone was unenthusiastic, though. Janya, slim in her pale bronze silks and wearing her
brown-fringed shawl draped over her arms, studied what Kairen and Ashmanaille were doing with the
eagerness of one who wished she could be doing the same. Janya wanted to know everything, to know
how everything was done and why it happened that way. She had been extremely disappointed when she
could not learn to make ter’angreal-only three sisters aside from Elayne had managed that, so far, with
very spotty success-and she had made a concerted effort to learn this skill even after the testing
showed she fell short of the required strength in using Earth.
Salita was the first to notice Egwene. Round-faced and almost as dark as charcoal, she eyed
Egwene levelly, and the Yellow fringe of her shawl swayed slightly as she made a very precise curtsy,
exact to the inch. Raised in Salidar, Salita was part of a disturbing pattern: too many Sitters who were
too young for the position. Salita had only been Aes Sedai for thirty-five years, and rarely was a woman
given a chair before wearing the shawl for a hundred or more. Siuan saw a pattern, anyway, and thought
it disturbing, though she could not say why. Patterns she could not understand always disturbed Siuan.
Still, Salita had stood for war against Elaida, and frequently supported Egwene in the Hall. But not
always, and not in this. "Mother," she said coolly. Janya’s head jerked up, and she broke into a beaming
smile. She also had stood for war, the only woman who had been a Sitter before the Tower divided to do
so excepting Lelaine and Lyrelle, two of the Blues, and if her support for Egwene was not always
unwavering, it was so here. As usual, words spilled out of her. "I will never get over this, Mother. It’s
simply amazing. I know we shouldn’t be surprised any longer when you come up with something no one
else has thought of-sometimes I think we’ve gotten too set in our ways, too sure what can and cannot
be done-but to puzzle out how to make cuendillar . . . !" She paused for breath, and Salita moved into
the gap smoothly. And coldly. "I still say it is wrong," she said firmly. "I admit the discovery was a
brilliant piece of work on your part, Mother, but Aes Sedai should not be making things for . . . sale."
Salita invested that word with all the scorn of a woman who accepted the income from her estate in Tear
without ever thinking how it had been come by. The attitude was not uncommon, though most sisters
lived on the Tower’s generous yearly allowance. Or had, before the Tower split apart. "On top of
which," she went on, "nearly half the sisters forced into this are Yellow. I receive complaints every day.
We, at least, have more important uses for our time than making . . . trinkets." That earned her a hard
glare from Ashmanaille, a Gray, and a frigid stare from Kairen, who was Blue, but Salita ignored them.
She was one of those Yellows who seemed to think the other Ajahs were only adjuncts to her own,
which of course had the only truly useful purpose among them.
"And novices should not be doing weaves of this complexity at all," Tiana added, joining them.
The Mistress of Novices was never shy about speaking up to Sitters, or to the Amyrlin, and she wore a
disgruntled expression. She did not appear to realize that it deepened her dimple and made her look
sulky. "It is a remarkable discovery, and I for one have no objections to trade, but some of these girls
can barely manage to make a ball of fire change color with any surety. Letting them handle weaves like
this will only make it more difficult to stop them from leaping to things they can’t handle, and the Light
knows, that’s difficult enough already. They may even do themselves an injury."
"Nonsense, nonsense," Janya exclaimed, waving a slender hand as if to brush away the very
idea. "Every girl who’s been chosen can already make three balls of fire at once, and this requires very
little more of the Power. There’s no danger at all, so long as they’re under a sister’s supervision, and
they always are. I’ve seen the roster. Besides, what we make in a day will bring enough to pay the army
for a week or more, but the sisters alone can’t produce near that much." Squinting slightly, she suddenly
appeared to be looking through Tiana. The cascade from her tongue never slowed, yet she seemed to be
talking at least half to herself. "We will have to take great care in the selling. The Sea Folk have a
voracious appetite for cuendillar, and there are plenty of their ships still at Illian and Tear by all
accounts-the nobles there are greedy for it, too-but even ravenous appetites have limits. I still cannot
decide whether it will be best to appear with everything at once, or let it trickle out. Sooner or later, even
the price of cuendillar will begin to drop." Abruptly she blinked and peered first at Tiana then at Salita,
tilting her head to one side. "You do see my point, don’t you?"
Salita glowered and hitched her shawl up on her shoulders.
Tiana threw up her hands in exasperation. Egwene held her peace. For once, she felt no shame at
being praised for one of her supposed discoveries. Unlike nearly everything else except Traveling, this
one actually was hers, though Moghedien had pointed the way before she escaped. The woman did not
know how to actually make anything-at least, she had not revealed any such knowledge however hard
Egwene had pressed her, and she had pressed very hard-but Moghedien had a wide streak of greed, and
even in the Age of Legends, cuendillar had been a prized luxury. She had known enough of how it was
made for Egwene to puzzle out the rest. In any case, no matter who objected or how strenuously, the
need for money meant the production of cuendillar would continue. Though as far as she was
concerned, the longer before any of it was sold, the better.
Sharina slapping her hands together loudly in the back of the tent jerked everyone’s head that
way. Kairen and Ashmanaille turned, too, the Blue even letting her weaves go so the goblet bounced on
the tabletop with a metallic clatter. It was a sign of boredom. The process could be started over, though
finding the precise point was very hard, and some sisters took every opportunity to do anything else
during the hour they had to spend in the tent each day. An hour or until they completed one item start to
finish, whichever came first. That was supposed to push them to try harder at increasing their skill, but
few had progressed very far. "Bodewhin, Nicola, off to your next class," Sharina announced. She did not
speak loudly, but her voice had a strength that could have cut through a babble of voices much less the
quiet of the tent. "You have just time to wash your hands and faces. Quickly, now.
You don’t want any bad reports."
Bode-Bodewhin-moved with efficient alacrity, releasing saidar and placing her half-made
cuendillar bracelet in one of the chests along the wall for someone else to finish, then gathering her
cloak. Plump-cheeked and pretty, she wore her hair in a long dark braid, though Egwene was not sure
she had gotten permission from the Women’s Circle. But then, that world was behind her, now. Tugging
on her mittens as she hurried from the tent, Bode kept her eyes down and never glanced in Egwene’s
direction. Plainly, she still did not understand why a novice could not drop by to chat with the Amyrlin
Seat whenever she wanted, even if they had grown up together.
Egwene would have loved to talk with Bode and some of the others, but an Amyrlin had lessons
to learn, too. An Amyrlin had many duties, few friends, and no favorites. Besides, even the appearance
of favoritism would mark the Two Rivers girls out and make their lives with the other novices a misery.
And it wouldn’t do me much good with the Hall, either, she thought wryly. She did wish the Two Rivers
girls understood, though.
The other novice Sharina had named did not leave her bench or stop channeling. Nicola’s black
eyes flashed at Sharina. "I could be the best at this if I was ever allowed to really practice," she rumbled
sullenly. "I’m getting better; I know I am. I can Foretell, you know." As if the one had anything to do
with the other. "Tiana Sedai, tell her I can stay longer. I can finish this bowl before my next class, and
I’m sure Adine Sedai won’t mind if I’m just a little late." If her class was any time soon, she would be
more than a little late if she tarried to complete the bowl; her hour’s effort had turned only half of it
white.
Tiana opened her mouth, but before she could utter a word, Sharina raised one finger, then a
moment later, a second. It must have had some particular significance, because Nicola went pale and let
go of her weaves on the instant, leaping up so quickly that she joggled the bench, earning quick frowns
from the other two novices who shared it. They bent quickly back to their work, though, and Nicola
almost ran to thrust the half-done bowl into a chest before snatching up her cloak. To Egwene’s surprise,
a woman she had not seen, dressed in a short brown coat and wide trousers, jumped up from where she
had been sitting on the ground-cloth beyond the tables. Scowling blue-eyed daggers at everyone in sight,
Areina ran out of the tent after Nicola, the two women mirror images of disgruntlement and discontent.
Seeing the pair of them together made Egwene uneasy. "I didn’t know friends were allowed in here to
watch," she said. "Is Nicola still causing problems?" Nicola and Areina had attempted to blackmail her,
and Myrelle and Nisao, but that was not what she meant. That was still another secret. "Better the girl’s
friendly with Areina than with one of the male grooms," Tiana said with a sniff. "We’ve had two get
with child, you know, and ten more likely to. The girl needs more friends, though. Friends will do the
trick with her." She cut off as two more white-clad novices hurried into the tent, the pair of them
squeaking and skidding to a halt when they found Aes Sedai standing right in front of them. Hastily
dropping curtsies, they scuttled to the back of the tent at a gesture from Tiana and folded their cloaks on
a bench before fetching a partly white goblet and an almost white cup from one of the chests.
Sharina saw them settled to work, then gathered her own cloak and swung it around her
shoulders before coming up the tent. "If you will excuse me, Tiana Sedai," she said, making a curtsy that
just came short of being to an equal, "I’ve been told off to help with the midday meal today, and I
wouldn’t want to get crosswise with the cooks." Her dark eyes rested on Egwene for a brief moment,
and she nodded to herself.
"Go on, then," Tiana said sharply. "I would hate to hear you had been switched for being late."
Without turning a hair, Sharina offered her courtesies again, neither in a hurry nor dragging it
out, to Tiana, to the Sitters, to Egwene-with another glance that was penetrating but too short for
offense-and when the tentflap swung shut behind her, Tiana blew out her cheeks in exasperation.
"Nicola causes less trouble than some," she said darkly, and Janya shook her head.
"Sharina doesn’t cause problems, Tiana." She spoke as quickly as ever, but quietly, so her voice
would not carry to the back of the tent. Disagreements between sisters were never aired in front of
novices. Especially when the disagreement was over a novice. "She already knows the rules better than
any Accepted, and never puts a toe over the line. She never shirks at even the dirtiest chores, either, and
she’s the first to lend a hand when another novice needs one. Sharina is simply who she is. Light, you
can’t allow a novice to intimidate you."
Tiana stiffened and opened her mouth angrily, but once Janya had the bit between her teeth,
getting a word in edgewise was no easy matter. "Nicola, on the other hand, causes all sorts of problems,
Mother," the Brown rushed on. "Ever since we found out she has the Foretelling, she’s been Foretelling
two or three times a day, to hear her tell it. Or rather, to hear Areina tell it. Nicola is smart enough to
know everyone is aware she can’t remember what she says when she Foretells, but Areina always seems
to be there to hear and remember, and help her interpret. Some are the sort of thing anyone in the camp
with half a brain and a credulous nature might think of-battles with the Seanchan or the Asha’-man, an
Amyrlin imprisoned, the Dragon Reborn doing nine impossible things, visions that might be Tarmon
Gai’don or a bilious stomach-and the rest all just happen to indicate that Nicola ought to be allowed to
go faster with her lessons. She’s always too greedy for that. I think even most of the other novices have
stopped believing her."
"She also pokes her nose everywhere," Salita put in the moment Janya gave her an opening, "her
and the groom, both." Her face remained smooth and cool, and she shifted her shawl as though that were
the focus of her attention, but she rushed her words a little, perhaps fearing that the Brown would take
over again. "They’ve both been switched for eavesdropping on sisters, and I myself caught Nicola trying
to peek into one of the Traveling grounds. She said she just wanted to see a gateway open, but I think
she was trying to learn the weave. Impatience, I can understand, but deceit cannot be tolerated. I no
longer believe Nicola will attain the shawl, and frankly, I’ve begun to wonder whether she should be
sent away soon rather than late. The novice book may be open to everyone," she finished with an
expressionless glance at Egwene, "but we do not have to lower our standards completely." Glaring,
Tiana pursed her lips stubbornly, emphasizing her dimple again. You could almost forget she had worn
the shawl for over thirty years and think her a novice herself. "As long as I am Mistress of Novices, the
decision on whether to send a girl away is mine," she said heatedly, "and I do not intend to lose a girl of
Nicola’s potential." Nicola would be very strong in the Power, one day. "Or Sharina’s," she added with
a grimace, hands smoothing her skirts in irritation. Sharina’s potential was nothing short of remarkable,
far beyond anyone in living memory except for Nynaeve, and ahead of Nynaeve as well. Some thought
she might become as strong as it was possible to be, though that was only speculation. "If Nicola has
been bothering you, Mother, I will see to her."
"I was just curious," Egwene said carefully, swallowing a suggestion that the young woman and
her friend both be watched closely. She did not want to talk about Nicola. It would be too easy to find
herself with a choice between lying or revealing matters she dared not expose. A pity she had not
allowed Siuan to arrange for two quiet deaths.
Her head jerked in shock at the thought. Had she gone that far from Emond’s Field? She knew
she would have to order men to die in battle sooner or later, and she thought she might be able to order a
death if the need was great enough. If one death could stop the death of thousands, or even hundreds,
was it not right to order it? But the danger presented by Nicola and Areina was simply that they might
reveal secrets that could inconvenience Egwene al’Vere.
Oh, Myrelle and the others might be lucky to get off with a birching, and they would certainly
consider that more than inconvenient, but discomfort, however great, was not sufficient reason for
killing.
Abruptly, Egwene realized that she was frowning, and Tiana and the two Sitters were watching
her, Janya not bothering to hide her curiosity behind a mask of serenity. To cover herself, Egwene
shifted her frown to the table where Kairen and Ashmanaille were once more at work. The white on
Ashmanaille’s cup had climbed a little farther, but in just that short time, Kairen had caught up. More
than caught up, in fact, since her goblet stood twice as high as the cup.
"Your skill is improving, Kairen," Egwene said approvingly. The Blue looked up at her, and
drew a deep breath. Her oval face became an image of cool calm around those icy blue eyes. "There
isn’t much skill involved, Mother. All that’s needed is to set the weave and wait." The last word held a
touch of acridness, and for that matter, there had been a slight hesitation before Mother. Kairen had been
sent off from Salidar on a very important mission only to see it collapse in a shambles, though from no
fault of hers, and she had returned to them in Murandy to find everything she had left behind stood on its
head and a girl she remembered as a novice wearing the Amyrlin’s stole. Of late, Kairen had been
spending a good deal of time with Lelaine.
"She is improving; in some things," Janya said with a pointed frown for the Blue sister. Janya
might have been as sure as any other Sitter that the Hall was getting a puppet when they raised Egwene,
but she seemed to have accepted that Egwene did wear the stole, and deserved the proper respect from
everyone. "Of course, I doubt she’ll catch Leane unless she applies herself, much less yourself, Mother.
Young Bodewhin might catch her, in fact. I wouldn’t want to be outdone by a novice, myself, but I
suppose some don’t feel that way." A stain of red crept into Kairen’s cheeks, and her eyes dropped to
the goblet.
Tiana sniffed. "Bodewhin’s a good girl, but she spends more time giggling and playing with the
other novices than applying herself if Sha-" She inhaled sharply. "If she isn’t watched. Yesterday, she
and Althyn Conly tried two items at once, just to see what would happen, and the things fused together
in a solid lump. Useless for sale, of course, unless you find someone who wants a pair of half-iron, \vtiicuendillar
cups joined at angles. And the Light knows what might have happened to the girls. They
didn’t seem to be harmed, but who can say about the next time?" "Make sure there isn’t a next time,"
Egwene said absently, her attention on Kairen’s cup. The line of white crept upward steadily. When
Leane did this weave, black iron turned to white cuendillar as if the iron were sinking quickly into milk.
For Egwene herself, the change was faster than the blink of an eye, black to white in a flash. It would
have to be Kairen and Leane, but even Leane was barely fast enough. Kairen needed time to improve.
Days? Weeks? Whatever was necessary, because anything less meant disaster, for the women involved
and for the men who would die fighting in the streets of Tar Valon and maybe for the Tower. Suddenly
Egwene was glad she had approved Beonin’s suggestion. Telling Kairen why she needed to try harder
might have spurred her efforts, but this was another secret that had to be kept until the time came to
unveil it to the world.
CHAPTER 18
A Chat with Siuan
Daishar had been taken away when Egwene left the tent, of course, but the seven-striped stole
hanging from the opening of her cowl worked better than an Aes Sedai’s face at making a way through
the crowd. She moved in a ripple of curtsies, with the occasional bow thrown in from a Warder, or a
craftsman who had some task among the sister’s tents. Some novices squeaked when they saw the
Amyrlin’s stole, and whole families stepped hurriedly off the walkway, making their deep curtsies in the
mire of the street. Since she had been forced to order punishment for some of the Two Rivers women,
word had spread among the novices that the Amyrlin was as hard as Sereille Bagand, and it was best to
avoid incurring her temper, which could spring up like wildfire. Not that most of them knew enough
history to have any real idea who Sereille had been, but her name had been a byword of iron-handed
strictness in the Tower for a hundred years, and the Accepted made sure that novices absorbed tidbits
like that. It was a good thing that Egwene’s cowl hid her face. By the tenth time a novice family leaped
out of her way like frightened hares, she was gritting her teeth so hard that seeing her face would have
cemented her reputation for chewing iron and spitting nails. She had the horrible feeling that in a few
hundred years, Accepted would be using her name to frighten novices the way they used Sereille’s now.
Of course, there was the little matter of securing the White Tower first. Small irritations had to wait. She
thought she could have spit nails without the iron.
The crowds thinned to nothing around the Amyrlin’s study, which was just a peaked canvas tent
with patched brown walls, despite the name. Like the Hall, it was a place to be avoided unless you had
business there or were summoned. No one was simply asked to the Hall of the Tower or the Amyrlin’s
study. The most innocuous invitation to either was a summons, a fact that turned that simple tent into a
haven. Sweeping through the entry flaps, she swung her cloak off with a feeling of relief. A pair of
braziers made the tent deliciously warm after outside, and they gave off very little smoke. A touch of
sweet scent lingered from the dried herbs that had been sprinkled on the glowing embers. "The way
those fool girls behave, you would think I-" she began in a growl, and cut off abruptly.
She was not surprised to see Siuan standing beside the writing table in plain blue wool, finely cut
but simple, a wide tooledleather folder held to her chest. Most sisters still seemed to believe, like
Delana, that she was reduced to instructing Egwene in protocol and running errands, grudgingly in both
cases, but she was always there bright and early, which seemed to have gone unnoticed so far. Siuan had
been an Amyrlin who chewed iron, though no one would believe who did not already know. Novices
pointed her out as often as they did Leane, but with an air of doubt that she really was who the sisters
said. Pretty, if not quite beautiful, with a delicate mouth and dark glossy hair to her shoulders, Siuan
looked even younger than Leane, only a few years older than Egwene. She could have been taken for
one of the Accepted without the bluefringed shawl draped across her arms. That was why she never
went without the shawl, to avoid embarrassing mistakes. Her eyes had not changed any more than her
spirit, however, and they were icy blue awls aimed at the woman whose presence was a surprise. Halima
was certainly welcome, yet Egwene had not expected to see her stretched out on the brightly colored
cushions that were piled along one side of the tent, her head propped on one hand.< A C H A T W I T H S I U
A N 437 Where Siuan was pretty, the sort of young woman-seemingly young, at least-who made men
and women alike smile at her, Halima was stunning, with big green eyes in a perfect face and a full firm
bosom, the sort who made men swallow and other women frown. Not that Egwene frowned, or believed
the tales carried by women jealous of the way Halima attracted men just by being. She could not help
the way she looked, after all. But even if her position as Delana’s secretary was plainly a matter of
charity by the Gray sister-a poorly educated country woman, Halima formed her letters with the
awkwardness of a young child-Delana usually kept her busy all day with some sort of make-work. She
seldom appeared before time for bed, and then it was nearly always because she had heard Egwene had
one of her heads. Nisao could do nothing with those headaches, even using the new Healing, but
Halima’s massages worked wonders even when the pain had Egwene whimpering.
"I told her you wouldn’t have time for visits this morning, Mother," Siuan said sharply, still
glaring at the woman on the cushions as she took Egwene’s cloak with her free hand, "but I might as
well have played cat’s cradle with myself as opened my mouth." Hanging the cloak on the rustic cloak
stand, she snorted contemptuously. "Maybe if I wore breeches and had a mustache, she’d pay mind."
Siuan seemed to believe every one of the rumors about Halima’s supposed depredations among the
prettier craftsmen and soldiers.
Strangely, Halima seemed amused by her reputation. She might even have enjoyed it. She
laughed, low and throaty, and stretched on the cushions like a cat. She did have an unfortunate liking for
low-cut bodices, incredible in this weather, and she nearly came out of her blue-slashed green silk. Silk
was hardly the usual garb for a secretary, but Delana’s charity ran deep, or her debt to Halima did.
"You seemed worried this morning, Mother," the green-eyed woman murmured, "and you
slipped out so early for your ride, trying not to wake me. I thought you might like to talk. You wouldn’t
get so many headaches if you talked over your worries more. At least you know you can talk to me."
Eyeing Siuan, who was peering down her nose disdainfully, Halima gave another smoky laugh. "And
you know I don’t want anything from you, unlike some." Siuan snorted again, and deliberately busied
herself with placing the folder on the writing table just so between the stone inkwell and the sand jar.
She even fiddled with the pen-rest. With an effort, Egwene managed not to sigh. Just. Halima did ask for
nothing beyond a pallet in Egwene’s tent, so she could be on hand when one of Egwene’s headaches
came on, and sleeping there must have given difficulties with carrying out her duties for Delana.
Besides, Egwene liked her earthy outspoken manner. It was very easy to talk to Halima and forget for a
little while that she was the Amyrlin Seat, a relaxation she could not have even with Siuan. She had
fought too hard for recognition as Aes Sedai and Amyrlin, and her grip on that recognition was too
tenuous. Every slip from being Amyrlin would make the next slip easier, and the next, and the next after
that, until she was back to being regarded as a child at play. That made Halima a luxury to be treasured
quite apart from what her fingers could do to Egwene’s headaches. To her annoyance, though, every
other woman in the camp appeared to share Siuan’s view, with the possible exception of Delana. The
Gray seemed too prudish to employ a lightskirt, no matter what charity she thought she owed. In any
case, whether the woman chased men, or even tripped them up, was beside the point now.
"I’m afraid I do have work, Halima," she said, tugging off her gloves. A mountain of work, most
days. There was no sign of Sheriam’s reports on the table yet, of course, but she would be sending them
soon, along with a few petitions she thought merited Egwene’s attention. Just a few; ten or twelve
appeals for redress of grievances, with Egwene expected to pass the Amyrlin’s judgment on each. You
could not do that without study, and questions, not and hand down a just decision. "Perhaps you can
have dinner with me." If she finished in time to do more than eat at her table right there in her study. It
was getting on toward midday already. "We can talk then."
Halima sat up abruptly, eyes flashing and full lips compressed, but her scowl vanished as quickly
as it had come. A smoldering remained in her eyes, though. Had she been a cat, she would have had her
back arched and her tail like a bottle-brush. Rising gracefully to her feet on the layered carpets, she
smoothed her dress over her hips. "Very well, then. If you’re certain you don’t want me to stay."
With remarkable timing, a dull throb began behind Egwene’s eyes, an all too familiar precursor
to a blinding headache, but she shook her head anyway and repeated that she had work to do. Halima
hesitated a moment longer, her mouth going tight once more, hands fisting in her skirts, then she
snatched her fur-lined silk cloak from the cloak stand and stalked out of the tent without bothering to
pull the garment around her shoulders. She could do herself an injury going about like that in the cold.
"That fishwife temper will get her in trouble sooner or later," Siuan muttered before the entry flaps
stopped swaying. Scowling after Halima, she twitched her shawl up onto her shoulders. "The woman
holds it in around you, but she doesn’t mind giving me the rough side of her tongue. Me or anybody
else. She’s been heard screaming at Delana. Who ever heard of a secretary screaming at her employer,
and a sister at that? A Sitter! I don’t understand why Delana puts up with her."
"That’s Delana’s business, surely." Questioning another sister’s actions was just as forbidden as
interfering with them. Only by custom, not law, yet some customs were as strong as law. Surely she did
not have to remind Siuan of that.
Rubbing her temples, Egwene sat down carefully in the chair behind her writing table, but the
chair wobbled anyway. Designed to fold for storage on a wagon, the legs had a habit of folding when
they were not supposed to, and none of the carpenters had been able to fix them after repeated attempts.
The table folded as well, but that held up more firmly. She wished she had taken the opportunity to
acquire a new chair in Murandy, yet there had been so many things that needed buying and not enough
coin to stretch when she already had a chair. At least she had acquired a pair of stand-lamps and a tablelamp,
all three plain red-painted iron but with good mirrors that were free of bubbles. Good light did not
seem to help her headaches, yet it was better than trying to read by a few tallow candles and a lantern.
If Siuan heard any rebuke, it did not slow her down. "It’s more than just a temper. Once or twice,
I’ve thought she was on the brink of trying to strike me. I suppose she has sense enough to hold back
from that, but not everyone is Aes Sedai. I’m convinced she managed to break a wheelwright’s arm
somehow. He says he fell, but he looks to be lying to me, with his eyes shifting and his mouth twitching.
He wouldn’t like admitting a woman bent his elbow backwards, now would he?"
"Give over, Siuan," Egwene said wearily. "The man likely tried to take liberties." He must have.
She could not see how Halima could have broken a man’s arm in any event. However you described the
woman, muscular did not come into it. Instead of opening the embossed folder that Siuan had laid on the
table, she rested her hands on either side of it. That kept them away from her head. Maybe if she ignored
the pain, it would go away this time. Besides, for a change, she had information to share with Siuan. "It
seems that some of the Sitters are talking about negotiating with Elaida," she began.
Expressionless, Siuan balanced herself atop one of the two rickety three-legged stools in front of
the table and listened attentively, only her fingers moving, lightly stroking against her skirts, until
Egwene finished. Then she made fists and growled a set of curses that were pungent even for her,
beginning with a wish for the lot of them to choke to death on week-old fish guts and sliding downhill
fast from there. Coming from that young, pretty face only made them worse.
"I suppose you’re right letting it go forward," she muttered once her invective ran down. "The
talk will spread, now it’s begun, and this way, you gain a jump on it. Beonin shouldn’t surprise me, I
suppose. Beonin’s ambitious, but I always thought she’d have gone scurrying back to Elaida if Sheriam
and the others hadn’t stiffened her backbone." Voice quickening, Siuan fixed her eyes on Egwene as if
to lend weight to her words. "I wish Varilin and that lot surprised me, Mother. Discounting the Blue, six
Sitters from five Ajahs fled the Tower after Elaida carried out her coup," her mouth twisted slightly on
the word, "and here we have one from each of those five. I was in Tel’aran’rhiod last night, in the
Tower-"
"I hope you were careful," Egwene said sharply. Siuan hardly seemed to know the meaning of
careful, sometimes. The few dream ter’angreal in their possession had lines of sisters panting to use
them, mostly to visit the Tower, and while Siuan was not precisely forbidden one, it was the next thing
to. She could have put her name down forever without the Hall granting her a single night. Quite aside
from the sisters who blamed Siuan for the Tower being broken in the first place-she was not accepted
back quite as warmly as Leane, on that account, nor cosseted by anyone-quite aside from that, too
many remembered her rough teaching, when she was one of the few who knew how to use the dream
ter’angreal. Siuan did not suffer fools gladly, and everyone was a fool their first few times in
Tel’aran’rhiod, so now she had to borrow Leane’s turn when she wanted to visit the World of Dreams,
and if another sister saw her there, ‘the next thing to’ might become an outright ban. Or worse, set off a
search for who had loaned her a ter’angreal, which might end by unmasking Leane.
"In Tel’aran’rhiod," Siuan said with a dismissive gesture, "I’m a different woman in a different
dress every time I turn a corner." That was good to hear, though it seemed likely a lack of control had as
much to do with it as intent. Siuan’s belief in her own abilities was sometimes greater than warranted.
"The point is, last night I saw a partial list of Sitters and managed to read most of the names before it
changed to a tally of wines." That was a common occurrence in Tel’aran’rhiod, where nothing stayed
the same for long unless it was a reflection of something permanent in the waking world. "Andaya Forae
was raised for the Gray, Rina Hafden for the Green, and Juilaine Madome for the Brown. None has
worn the shawl more than seventy years at most. Elaida has the same problem we do, Mother."
"I see," Egwene said slowly. She realized that she was massaging the side of her head. The throb
behind her eyes beat on. It would grow stronger. It always did. By nightfall, she was going to regret
having sent Halima away. Bringing her hand down firmly, she moved the leather folder in front of her a
half inch to the left, then slid it back. "What of the rest? They had six Sitters to replace."
"Ferane Neheran was raised for the White," Siuan admitted, "and Suana Dragand for the Yellow.
They’ve both been in the Hall before. It was only a partial list, and I didn’t get to read it all." Her back
straightened, and her chin shot out stubbornly. "One or two raised before time would be unusual
enough-it happens, but not often-but this makes eleven-maybe twelve, but eleven for sure-
between us and the Tower. I don’t believe in coincidences that big. When the fishmongers are all buying
at the same price, you can bet they were all drinking at the same inn last night." "You don’t have to
convince me any more, Siuan." With a sigh, Egwene sat back, automatically catching the chair leg that
always tried to fold when she did that. Clearly, something odd was happening, but what did it mean?
And who could influence the choice of Sitters in every Ajah? Every Ajah except the Blue, at least; they
had chosen one new Sitter, but Moria had been Aes Sedai well over a hundred years. And maybe the
Red was not affected; no one knew what changes if any had been made in the Red Sitters. The Black
might be behind it, but what could they gain, unless all of those too-young Sitters were Black? That
seemed impossible in any case; if the Black Ajah had had that much influence, the Hall would have been
all Darkfriends long ago. Yet if there was a pattern and coincidence would not hold, then someone had
to be at the heart of it. Just thinking about the possibilities, the impossibilities, made the dull pain behind
her eyes grow a little sharper. "If this turns out to be happenstance after all, Siuan, you’re going to regret
ever thinking you saw a puzzle." She forced a smile saying that, to take out any sting. An Amyrlin had
to be careful with her words. "Now that you’ve convinced me there is a puzzle, I want you to solve it.
Who is responsible, and what are they after? Until we know that, we don’t know anything." "Is that all
you want?" Siuan said dryly. "Before supper, or after?"
"After will have to do, I suppose," Egwene snapped, then took a deep breath at the abashed look
on the other woman’s face. There was no point taking her headache out on Siuan. An Amyrlin’s words
had power, and sometimes consequences; she had to remember that. "As soon as you can would be very
good, though," she said in a milder voice. "I know you’ll be as quick as you can." Chagrined or not,
Siuan seemed to understand that Egwene’s outburst came from more than her own sarcasm. Despite her
youthful appearance, she had years of practice at reading faces.
"Shall I go find Halima?" she said, half rising. The lack of tartness attached to the woman’s
name was a measure of her concern. "It won’t take a minute."
"If I give way for every ache, I’ll never get anything done," Egwene said, opening the folder.
"Now, what do you have for me today?" She kept her hands on the papers, though, to stop from rubbing
her head.
One of Siuan’s tasks each morning was to fetch what the Ajahs were willing to share from their
networks of eyes-and-ears, along with whatever individual sisters had passed on to their Ajahs and the
Ajahs had decided to pass on to Egwene. It was a strange process of sieving, yet it still gave a fair
picture of the world when added to what Siuan put in. She had managed to hold on to the agents that had
been hers as Amyrlin by the simple expedient of refusing to tell anyone who they were despite every
effort by the Hall, and in the end, no one could gainsay that those eyes-and-ears were the Amyrlin’s, and
that they should by rights report to Egwene. Oh, there had been no end of grumbling over it, and still
was on occasion, but no one could deny the facts. As usual, the first report came from neither the Ajahs
nor Siuan, but Leane, written on thin sheets of paper in a flowing elegant hand. Egwene could not see
exactly why, but you could never doubt that anything Leane wrote had been written by a woman. Those
pages Egwene held to the table-lamp’s flame one by one as soon as she read them, letting the paper burn
almost to her fingers, then crumpling the ash. It would hardly do for her and Leane to behave like nearstrangers
in public then allow one of her reports to fall into the wrong hands.
Very few sisters were aware that Leane had eyes-and-ears inside Tar Valon itself. She might
have been the only sister who did. It was a human failing to watch keenly what was happening down the
street while ignoring what lay right at your feet, and the Light knew Aes Sedai had as many human
failings as anyone else. Unfortunately, Leane had little new to communicate.
Her people in the city complained of filthy streets that were increasingly dangerous after dark
and little safer by daylight. Once crime had been all but unknown in Tar Valon, but now the Tower
Guards had abandoned the streets to patrol the harbors and the bridge towers. Except for collecting the
customs duties and buying supplies, both done through intermediaries, the White Tower seemed to have
shut itself off from the city completely. The great doors that allowed the public to enter the Tower
remained shut and barred, and no one had seen a sister outside the Tower to know her as Aes Sedai since
the siege began, if not earlier. All confirmation of what Leane had reported before. The last page made
Egwene’s eyebrows rise, though. Rumor in the streets said Gareth Bryne had found a secret way into the
city and would appear inside the walls with his whole army any day.
"Leane would have said if anyone had breathed a word that sounded like they meant gateways,"
Siuan said quickly when she saw Egwene’s expression. She had read all of these reports already, of
course, and knew what Egwene was seeing by which page she held. Shifting on the unsteady stool,
Siuan almost fell off onto the carpets, she was paying so little heed. It did not slow her down a hair,
though. "And you can be sure Gareth hasn’t let anything slip," she went on while still righting herself.
"Not that any of his soldiers are fool enough to desert to the city now, but he knows when to keep his
mouth shut. He just has the reputation for attacking where he can’t possibly be. He’s done the
impossible often enough that people expect him to. That’s all." Hiding a smile, Egwene held the paper
mentioning Lord Gareth to the flame and watched it curl and blacken. A few months past, Siuan would
have offered an acid comment about the man instead of praise. He would have been "Gareth bloody
Bryne," not Gareth. She could not possibly miss doing his laundry and polishing his boots, but Egwene
had seen her staring at him on those rare times when he came to the Aes Sedai camp. Staring, and then
running away if he so much as glanced at her. Siuan! Running away! Siuan had been Aes Sedai for more
than twenty years, and Amyrlin for ten, but she had no more idea how to deal with being in love than a
duck had about shearing sheep.
Egwene crumbled the ash and dusted her hands together, her smile fading. She had no room to
talk about Siuan. She was in love, too, but she did not even know where in the world Gawyn was, or
what to do if she learned. He had his duty to Andor, and she hers to the Tower. And the one way to
bridge that chasm, bonding him, might lead to his death. Better to let him go, forget him entirely. As
easy as forgetting her own name. And she would bond him. She knew that. Of course, she could not
bond the man without knowing where he was, without having her hands on him, so it all came full
circle. Men were . . . a bother\ Pausing to press her fingers against her temples-it did nothing to lessen
the pulsing pain-she put Gawyn out of her mind. As far out as she could. She thought she had a
foretaste of what it was like having a Warder; there was always something of Gawyn in the back of her
head. And liable to kick its way into her consciousness at the most inconvenient time. Concentrating on
the business at hand, she picked up the next sheet.
Much of the world had vanished, as far as eyes-and-ears were concerned. Little news came from
the lands held by the Seanchan, and that divided between fanciful descriptions of Seanchan beasts
delivered as proof they were using Shadowspawn, horrifying tales of women being tested to see whether
they should be collared as damane, and depressing stories of. . . acceptance. The Seanchan, it seemed,
were no worse rulers than any others and better than some-as long as you were not a woman who
could channel-and all too many people appeared to have given up thoughts of resistance once it
became clear the Seanchan would let them go on with their lives. Arad Doman was almost as bad,
producing nothing but rumors, admitted as such by the sisters who wrote the reports but included just to
show the state the country was in. King Alsalam was dead. No, he had begun channeling and gone mad.
Rodel Ituralde, the Great Captain, also was dead, or he had usurped the throne, or was invading Saldaea.
The Council of Merchants were all dead, as well, or had fled the country, or begun a civil war over who
the next king was to be. Any of those might have been true. Or none. The Ajahs were accustomed to
seeing everything, but now a third of the world had been enveloped in dense fog, with only the tiniest
gaps. At least, if there were any clearer views, no Ajah had deigned to pass on what they saw there.
Another problem was that the Ajahs saw different things as having paramount importance, and
largely ignored anything else.
The Greens, for example, were particularly concerned over tales of Borderland armies near New
Braem, hundreds of leagues from the Blight they were supposed to be guarding. Their report talked of
the Borderlanders and only the Borderlanders, as if something had to be done and done now. Not that
they suggested anything, or so much as hinted, yet frustrations came through in the cramped, hasty
handwriting that spidered urgently across the page. Egwene had the truth of that situation from Elayne,
but she was content to let the Greens gnash their teeth for the moment, since Siuan had revealed why
they were not rushing off to set matters straight. According to her agent in New Braem, the
Borderlanders were accompanied by fifty or a hundred sisters, perhaps two hundred. The number of Aes
Sedai might be uncertain, and it must be wildly inflated, of course, but their presence was a fact the
Greens had to be aware of, though the reports they sent to Egwene never mentioned them. No Ajah had
mentioned those sisters in their reports. In the end, though, there was little difference between two
hundred sisters and two. No one could be certain who those sisters were or why they were there, yet
poking a nose in would surely be seen as interfering. It seemed strange that they could be engaged in a
war between Aes Sedai and still be held back from interfering with another sister by custom, but
thankfully, it was so.
"At least they don’t suggest sending anyone to Caemlyn." Egwene blinked, the pain behind her
eyes sharpened by following the tight letters.
Siuan gave a derisive snort. "Why should they? As far as they know, Elayne is letting Merilille
and Vandene guide her, so they’re sure they’ll get their Aes Sedai queen, and a Green at that. Besides, as
long the Asha’man stay out of Caemlyn, no one wants to take the chance of stirring them up. The way
things stand, we might as well try pulling wasp-jellies out of the water with our bare hands, and even the
Greens know it. Anyway, that won’t stop some sister, Green or otherwise, from dropping into Caemlyn.
Just a quiet visit to see one of her eyes-and-ears. Or to have a dress made, or buy a saddle, or the Light
knows why else."
"Even the Greens?" Egwene said tartly. Everyone thought of Browns being this way and Whites
that, even when it was demonstrably not so, yet sometimes she bristled a little at hearing Greens lumped
together as if they were all the same woman. Maybe she did think of herself as a Green, or as having
been one, which was silly. The Amyrlin was of all Ajahs and none-she adjusted the stole on her
shoulders, reminding herself of the fact represented by those seven stripes-and she had never belonged
to one in the first place. Yet she did feel a-not fondness; that was too strong-a sense of sameness
between herself and Green sisters. "How many sisters are unaccounted for, Siuan? Even the weakest can
Travel wherever they want, linked, and I wish I knew where they went." For a moment, Siuan frowned
in thought. "About twenty, I think," she said finally. "Maybe a few less. The number changes day to
day. No one keeps track, really. No sister would stand still for it." She leaned forward, carefully
balancing herself this time when the uneven legs made her stool lurch. "You’ve juggled matters
beautifully, so far, Mother, but it can’t last. Eventually, the Hall will find out everything that’s going on
in Caemlyn. They might accept keeping the Seanchan prisoners secret-that will be seen as Vandene’s
business, or Merilille’s-but they already know there are Sea Folk in Caemlyn, and they’ll learn about
the bargain with them sooner or later. And the Kin, if not your plans for them." Siuan snorted again,
though faintly. She was not certain how she herself felt about the idea of Aes Sedai retiring into the Kin,
much less how other sisters would take to the notion. "My eyes-and-ears haven’t picked up a glimmer,
yet, but somebody’s will, as sure as certain. You can’t delay much longer, or we’ll find ourselves
wading through a school of silverpike."
"One of these days," Egwene muttered, "I’ll have to see these silverpike you’re always talking
about." She held up a hand as the other woman opened her mouth. "One day. The agreement with the
Sea Folk will cause problems," she confessed, "but when the Ajahs hear hints, they won’t realize right
away what they’re hearing. Sisters teaching Sea Folk in Caemlyn? It’s unheard of, but who is going to
ask questions or interfere, against all custom? I’m sure there will be all sorts of grumbling, maybe some
questions called in the Hall, but before it comes out that there is a bargain, I will have introduced my
plan for the Kin."
"You think that won’t sharpen their teeth?" Shifting her shawl, Siuan barely bothered to hide her
incredulity. In fact, she scowled with it.
"It will cause argument," Egwene allowed judiciously. A considerable understatement. It would
cause an uproar was what it would do, once the whole was known. Likely as close to a riot as had ever
been seen among Aes Sedai. But the Tower had been dwindling for a thousand years now, if not more,
and she planned to put an end to that. "But I do intend to go slowly. Aes Sedai may be reluctant to talk
about age, Siuan, but they’ll figure out soon enough that swearing on the Oath Rod shortens our lives by
half at least. No one wants to die before they must." "If they’re convinced there really is a Kinswoman
who’s six hundred years old," Siuan said in grudging tones, and Egwene sighed with vexation. That was
another thing the other woman was uncertain about, the Kin’s claims of longevity. She valued Siuan’s
advice, valued that she did not just say what Egwene wanted to hear, but at times the woman seemed to
drag her heels as hard as Romanda or Lelaine.
"If need be, Siuan," she said irritably, "I’ll just let the sisters talk to a few women a hundred
years or more older than any of them. They may try to dismiss them as wilders and liars, but Reanne
Corly can prove she was in the Tower, and when. So can others. With luck, I’ll convince the sisters to
accept being freed of the Three Oaths so they can retire into the Kin before they ever learn there’s a
bargain with the Atha’an Miere. And once they accept any sister being freed of the Oaths, it won’t be
nearly as hard to convince them to let the Sea Folk sisters go. Beside that, the rest of that agreement is
small turnips. As you keep saying, skill and a deft hand are necessary to get anything done in the Hall,
but luck is absolutely required. Well, I’ll be as skillful and deft as I can be, and as for luck, the odds
seem to be in my favor for once." Siuan grimaced and hemmed and hawed, but she had to agree in the
end. She even agreed that Egwene might pull it off, with luck, and timing. Not that she was convinced
about the Kin or the agreement with the Atha’an Miere either one, but what Egwene proposed was so
unprecedented that it seemed the greater part of it might pass the Hall before they realized what was
falling on them. Egwene was willing to settle for that. Whatever was laid before the Hall, almost always
enough Sitters stood in opposition to make finding a consensus hard work at best, and nothing was done
in the Hall without at least the lesser consensus and usually not without the greater. It seemed to her that
most dealings with the Hall consisted of convincing them to do what they did not want to. There was
certainly no reason for this to be any different. While the Greens concentrated on the Borderlanders, the
Grays focused south at present. Every Ajah was fascinated by the reports from Illian and Tear of large
numbers of wilders among the Sea Folk, which they found interesting, if true, though there seemed
strong doubt that it could be true, or else sisters would have known about it before this. After all, how
could such a thing be hidden? No one mentioned that they had just accepted what they saw on the
surface and never looked deeper. The Grays, though, were fascinated by the continued Seanchan threat
to Illian and the recently begun siege of the Stone of Tear. Wars and threats of war always mesmerized
Grays, since they were dedicated to ending strife. And to extending their influence, of course; every time
the Grays stopped a war with a treaty, they increased the influence of all Aes Sedai, but of Grays most of
all. The Seanchan seemed beyond negotiation, however, at least by Aes Sedai, and the Grays’ outraged
sense of being thwarted came through in curt words about Seanchan incursions across the border and the
increasing forces being gathered by Lord Gregorin, the Steward in Illian for the Dragon Reborn, a title
that was a matter of some concern in itself. Tear had its own Steward for the Dragon Reborn, the High
Lord Darlin Sisnera, and he was besieged in the Stone by nobles who refused to accept Rand. It was a
very strange siege. The Stone had its own docks and Darlin’s enemies could not cut off supplies even
holding the rest of the city as they did, and they seemed content to sit and wait in any event. Or perhaps
they just could not see what to do next. Only the Aiel had ever taken the Stone by assault, and no one
had ever starved it out. The Grays had some hopes in Tear.
Egwene’s head came up as she read to the bottom of the page, and she hurriedly set that page
down and picked up the next. The Grays had had some hopes. Apparently, a Gray sister had been
recognized coming out of the Stone, and followed to a meeting with High Lord Tedosian and High Lady
Estanda, two of the most prominent among the besiegers. "Merana," she breathed. "They say it was
Merana Ambrey, Siuan." Unconsciously, she massaged her temple. The pain behind her eyes had
ratcheted a little higher. "She may do some good." Rising, Siuan crossed the carpets to a small table
against the tent wall, where several mismatched cups and two pitchers sat on a tray. The silver pitcher
held spiced wine, the blue-glazed pottery tea, both set there at first light against the Amyrlin’s arrival
and both long since gone cold. No one had expected Egwene to go riding off to the river. "As long as
Tedosian and the others don’t realize who she’s really working for." Siuan’s shawl slipped off one
shoulder as she felt the side of the pottery pitcher, and the light of saidar surrounded her briefly as she
channeled Fire, warming the contents. "They won’t trust her to negotiate in good faith if they find out
she’s the Dragon Reborn’s creature." Filling a polished pewter cup with tea, she added generous dollops
from the honey jar, stirring it in well, and brought the cup back to Egwene. "This might help your head.
It’s some sort of herb concoction Chesa found, but honey cuts the taste." Egwene took a cautious sip,
and set the cup down with a shudder. If it tasted that sharp with honey, she did not want to imagine it
without. The headache might be better. "How can you take this so calmly, Siuan? Merana turning up in
Tear is the first real proof we’ve had. I’ll take your Sitters as coincidence before that." In the beginning,
there had only been whispers, from the Ajahs or from Siuan’s eyes-and-ears. There were Aes Sedai in
Cairhien, and they seemed to move freely in and out of the Sun Palace while the Dragon Reborn was
there. Then the whispers grew hoarse and uneasy, hesitant. The eyes-and-ears in Cairhien did not want
to say it. No one wanted to repeat what their agents said. There were Aes Sedai in Cairhien, and they
seemed to be following the orders of the Dragon Reborn. Worse were the names that trickled out. Some
were women who had been in Salidar, among the first to resist Elaida, while others were women known
to be loyal to Elaida. No one had mentioned Compulsion aloud that Egwene knew of, but they had to be
thinking it.
"No use pulling your hair when the wind isn’t blowing the way you want," Siuan replied, taking
her stool again. She started to cross her knees, but hastily put both feet back on the carpet when her stool
tilted. Muttering under her breath, she adjusted her shawl with a twitch of her shoulders. And was forced
to balance against another lurch. "You have to trim your sails to take advantage of how the wind is
blowing. Think coolly, and you make it back to shore. Get your neck hot, and you’ll drown."
Sometimes, Siuan could sound as if she still worked a fishing boat. "I believe you need more than one
sip for that to do any good, Mother."
With a grimace, Egwene pushed the cup a little farther from her. The taste clinging to her tongue
was at least as bad as her headache. "Siuan, if you see a way to make use of this, I wish you’d tell me. I
don’t even want to think about using the fact that Rand may have Compelled sisters. I don’t want to
think about the possibility that he could have." Neither about the possibility that he knew such a
repulsive weave, or that he could lay that weave on anyone. She knew it-another little gift from
Moghedien-and she very much wished she could forget how to make it. "In this case, it isn’t so much a
matter of using as figuring out the effects. He’ll have to be dealt with eventually, and maybe taught a
lesson, but you don’t want sisters flying off after him now, and these tales out of Cairhien make
everyone cautious." Siuan’s voice was calm enough, but she fidgeted, clearly agitated inwardly. It was
nothing any Aes Sedai could speak of too calmly. "At the same time, once everyone thinks it through,
they’ll realize this makes nonsense out of those stories about him submitting to Elaida. She might have
sent sisters to watch over him, but they wouldn’t accept sisters who want to pull Elaida down. Realizing
that will put a little backbone in those who’ve started thinking maybe Elaida has him on a lead. That’s
one less reason for anyone to consider yielding to her."
"What about Cadsuane?" Egwene said. Of all the names coming out of Cairhien, that one had
sent the most shock through the sisters. Cadsuane Melaidhrin was a legend, and there were as many
disapproving versions of the legend as approving. Some sisters had been sure it must be a mistake;
Cadsuane must be dead by now.
Others just appeared to wish she were dead. "Are you certain she remained in Cairhien after
Rand disappeared?" "I made sure my people kept an eye on her as soon as I heard her name," Siuan
said, no longer sounding at all calm. "I don’t know she’s a Darkfriend, I just suspect, but I can guarantee
that she was in the Sun Palace a week after he vanished." Squeezing her eyes shut, Egwene pressed the
heels of her palms against her lids. That hardly seemed to affect the pulsing needle in her head. Maybe
Rand was in company with a Black sister, or had been. Maybe he had used Compulsion on Aes Sedai.
Bad enough on anyone, but somehow worse used on Aes Sedai, more ominous. What was dared against
Aes Sedai was ten times, a hundred times, as likely to be used against those who could not defend
themselves. Eventually they would have to deal with him, somehow. She had grown up with Rand, yet
she could not allow that to influence her. He was the Dragon Reborn, now, the hope of the world and at
the same time maybe the single greatest threat the world faced. Maybe? The Seanchan could not do as
much damage as the Dragon Reborn. And she was going to use the possibility that he had Compelled
sisters. The Amyrlin Seat really was a different woman from that innkeeper’s daughter.
Scowling at the pewter cup of so-called tea, she picked it up and made herself drink the vile stuff
down, gagging and spluttering the whole way. Perhaps the taste would take her mind off her headache,
at least.
As she set the cup down with a sharp clink of metal on wood, Anaiya pushed into the tent, mouth
turned down and a frown creasing her plain face.
"Akarrin and the others have returned, Mother," she said. "Moria told me to inform you she has
called the Hall to hear their report."
"So have Escaralde and Malind," Morvrin announced, coming in behind Anaiya with Myrelle.
The Green seemed an image of serene fury, if that was possible, her olive face smooth and her eyes like
dark embers, but Morvrin wore a scowl to make Anaiya look pleased. "They’re sending novices and
Accepted running to find all the Sitters," the Brown said. "We can’t catch a whisper of what Akarrin
found, but I think Escaralde and the others intend to use it to prod the Hall toward something."
Peering at the dark dregs floating in a few drops in the bottom of the pewter cup, Egwene sighed.
She would have to be there, too, and now she would have to face the Sitters with a headache and that
awful taste in her mouth. Perhaps she could call it a penance for what she was going to do to the Hall.
CHAPTER 19
Surprises
By custom, the Amyrlin was informed of the Hall sitting, yet nothing said they had to wait for
her before starting the session, which meant that time might be short. Egwene wanted to leap to her feet
and march straight to the big pavilion before Moria and the other two could spring whatever surprise
they intended. Surprises in the Hall were seldom good. Surprises you learned about late were worse.
Still, protocols that were law, not custom, had to be followed for the Amyrlin entering the Hall, so she
remained where she was and sent Siuan to fetch She-riam so she could be announced properly by the
Keeper of the Chronicles. Siuan had told her that was really a matter of warning the Sitters of her
presence-there were always matters they might want to discuss without the Amyrlin knowing-and
she had not sounded entirely as if she were making a joke.
In any case, there was no point in going to the Hall until she could enter. Tamping down her
impatience, she propped her head on her hands and massaged her temples as she tried to read a little
more of the Ajah reports. Despite the vile "tea," or perhaps because of it, her headache made the words
shimmer on the page every time she blinked, and Anaiya and the other two did not help. No sooner did
Siuan depart than Anaiya tossed back her cloak, settling on the stool Siuan had vacated-it did not seem
to lurch under her, uneven legs or no-and began to speculate on what Moria and the others were after.
She was not a flighty woman, so her ventures were quite constrained given the circumstances.
Constrained, but no less upsetting for that.
"Frightened people do silly things, Mother, even Aes Sedai," she murmured, placing her hands
on her knees, "but at least you can be sure Moria will be firm about Elaida, at least in the long run. She
lays every sister who died after Siuan was deposed right at Elaida’s feet. Moria wants Elaida birched for
every single death before she goes to the headsman. A hard woman, harder than Lelaine in some ways.
Tougher, anyway. She won’t scruple at things that might make Lelaine balk. I’m very much afraid she
will press for an assault on the city as soon as possible. If the Forsaken are moving so openly, on such a
scale, then better a wounded Tower that’s whole than a Tower divided. At least, I fear that’s how Moria
may see things. After all, however much we want to avoid sisters killing sisters, it wouldn’t be the first
time. The Tower has lasted a long time, and healed from many wounds. We can heal from this one, too."
Anaiya’s voice suited her face, warm and patient and comforting, but making those remarks it
seemed like fingernails screeching down a slat. Light, for all Anaiya saying this was what she feared out
of Moria, she seemed much in accord with the sentiments. She was deliberate, unflappable, and never
careless with words. If she favored an assault, how many others did, too? As usual, Myrelle was
anything but constrained. Mercurial and fiery described her best. She would not know patience if it bit
her on the nose. She paced back and forth, as much as the confines of the tent allowed, kicking her deepgreen
skirts and sometimes kicking one of the bright cushions piled against the wall before turning to
make another round. "If Moria is frightened enough to press for an assault, then she’s frightened out of
her wits. A Tower too wounded to stand alone won’t be able to face the Forsaken or anyone else. Malind
is who should concern you. She’s always pointing out that Tarmon Gai’don could be upon us any day.
I’ve heard her say that what we felt could well have been the opening blows the Last Battle. AW that it
might happen here, next. Where better for the Shadow to strike than Tar Valon? Malind has never been
afraid to make hard choices, or to retreat when she thought it necessary. She would abandon Tar Valon
and the Tower at once if she thought it would preserve at least some of us for Tarmon Gai’don. She will
propose lifting the siege, fleeing somewhere the Forsaken can’t find us until we’re ready to strike back.
If she puts the question to the Hall in the right way, she might even get the greater consensus in
support." The very thought made the words dance harder on the page in front of Egwene.
Morvrin, her round face unrelenting, simply planted fists on ample hips and met each suggestion
with a curt answer. "We don’t know enough yet to be sure it was the Forsaken," and "You can’t know
until she says." "Perhaps it was, and perhaps not," and "Supposition isn’t evidence." It was said she
would not believe it was morning till she saw the sun for herself. Her firm voice brooked no nonsense,
especially jumps to conclusions. It was not soothing to an aching head, either. She was not opposing the
suggestions, really, just keeping an open mind. An open mind could go either way when it came down to
the sticking point. Egwene slapped the embossed folder shut on the reports with a loud smack. Between
the disgusting taste on her tongue and the sharp throb in her head-not to mention their incessant
voices!-she could not keep her place to read anyway. The three sisters looked at her in surprise. She
had made it clear long ago that she was in charge, but she tried not to show temper. Oaths of fealty or no
oaths of fealty, a young woman displaying temper was too easy to dismiss as sulky. Which only made
her angrier, which made her head hurt more, which. . . .
"I’ve waited long enough," she said, making an effort to keep her voice smooth. Her head gave it
a slight edge of sharpness anyway. Perhaps Sheriam thought she was supposed to meet her at the Hall.
Gathering her cloak, she strode out into the cold while still swinging it around her shoulders, and
Morvrin and the other two hesitated only a moment before following in her wake. Accompanying her to
the Hall might seem a little like they were her entourage, but they were supposed to be watching her,
and she suspected that even Morvrin was eager to hear what Akarrin had to report and what Moria and
the rest intended to fashion from it. Nothing too difficult to deal with, Egwene hoped, nothing like what
Anaiya and Myrelle thought. If necessary, she could try applying the Law of War, but even if that was
successful, ruling by edict had its disadvantages. When people had to obey you in one thing, they always
found ways to wriggle away on others, and the more they were forced to obey, the more places they
found for wriggling away. It was a natural balance you could not escape. Worse, she had learned just
how addictive it was to have people jump when she spoke. You came to take it as the natural way of
things, and then when they failed to jump, you were caught on the wrong foot. Besides, with her head
pounding-it was pounding, now, not throbbing, though perhaps not as sharply-with her head, she was
ready to snap at anyone who looked at her crosswise, and even when people had to swallow it, that
never went down well.
The sun stood straight overhead, a golden ball in a blue sky with a scattering of white clouds, but
it gave no warmth, only wan shadows and a glitter to the snow wherever it remained untrampled. The air
felt as chill as it had by the river. Egwene ignored the cold, refused to let it touch her, but only the dead
could have been unaware, with everyone’s breath misting white in front of their faces. It was time for
the midday meal, yet there was no possibility of feeding so many novices at once, so Egwene and her
escort still moved through a wave of white-clad women leaping out of their way and starting to curtsy in
the street. She set such a pace that they were usually past before the knots of novices could more than
spread their skirts.
It was not a long way, with only four places that they needed to wade across the muddy streets.
There had been talk of wooden bridges, tall enough to ride under, but bridges suggested a permanence to
the camp that no one wanted. Even the sisters who spoke of them never pressed to have them built.
Which left wading slowly, and taking care to keep your skirts and cloak high if you were not to arrive
filthy to your knees. At least the remaining crowds vanished as they approached the Hall. That stood
alone as always, or nearly so.
Nisao and Carlinya were already waiting in front of the big canvas pavilion with its patched side
curtains, the tiny Yellow fretting her underlip with her teeth and eyeing Egwene anxiously. Carlinya was
calmness itself, cool-eyed, hands folded at her waist. Except that she had forgotten her cloak, mud
stained the scrollembroidered hem of her pale skirt, and her cap of dark curls badly needed a comb.
Making their courtesies, the pair joined Anaiya and the other two, a little distance behind Egwene. The
lot of them murmured softly, the snatches that Egwene caught innocuous, about the weather, or how
long they might have to wait. This was no place for them to seem too closely associated with her.
Beonin came down the walk at a run, her hurried breath misting, and skidded to a halt, staring at Egwene
before joining the others. The strain around her blue-gray eyes was even more apparent than earlier.
Perhaps she thought this would affect her negotiations. But she knew the talks would be a sham, just a
ploy to gain time. Egwene controlled her breathing and practiced novice exercises, yet none of it helped
her head. It never did. There was no sign of Sheriam among the tents in any direction, but they were not
precisely alone on the walkway outside the pavilion. Akarrin and the five other sisters who had gone
with her, one from each Ajah, were waiting in a cluster on the other side of the entrance. Most offered
curtsies to Egwene distractedly, yet kept their distance. Perhaps they had been warned to say nothing to
anyone until they spoke before the Hall. Egwene could simply have demanded their report on the spot,
of course. They might even have given it, to the Amyrlin. Likely they would have. On the other hand, an
Amyrlin’s relations with the Ajahs were always delicate, often including the Ajah she had been raised
from. Nearly as delicate as relations with the Hall. Egwene made herself smile and bow her head
graciously. If she gritted her teeth behind that smile, well, that helped keep her mouth shut.
Not all of the sisters seemed aware of her presence. Akarrin, slender in plain brown wool and a
cloak with surprisingly elaborate green embroidery, was staring at nothing, nodding to herself now and
then. Apparently she was practicing what she would say inside. Akarrin was not strong in the Power,
little more than Siuan if at all, but only one other of the six, Therva, a slim woman in yellow-slashed
riding skirts and a cloak edged with yellow, stood even as high as she. That was a distressing measure of
just how frightened the sisters were by that strange beacon of saidar. The strongest should have stepped
forward for the task that had been given to these, but except for Akarrin herself, zeal had been notably
lacking. Her companions still appeared less than enthusiastic. Shana normally maintained a deep reserve
despite eyes that made her appear constantly startled, but now they seemed ready to come out of her
head with worry. She peered at the entrance to the Hall, closed off by heavy flaps, and her hands fiddled
with her cloak as if she could not keep them still. Reiko, a stout Arafellin Blue, kept her eyes down, but
the silver bells in her long dark hair chimed faintly as if she were shaking her head inside her cowl. Only
Therva’s long-nosed face wore a look of absolute serenity, completely unperturbed and unshakable, yet
that in itself was a bad sign. The Yellow sister was excitable by nature. What had they seen? What were
Moria and the other two Sitters after? Egwene controlled her impatience; the Hall plainly was not sitting
yet. It was gathering, but several Sitters strolled past her and into the big pavilion, none hurrying. Salita
hesitated as if she might speak, but then only dipped her knees before raising her yellow-fringed shawl
onto her shoulders and sweeping inside. Kwamesa peered down her sharp nose at Egwene while making
her curtsy, and peered down her nose while studying Anaiya and the others briefly, but then, the slim
Gray peered down her nose at everyone. She was not tall, but she tried to seem so. Berana, face a mask
of haughtiness and big brown eyes as cold as the snow, paused to offer cool courtesies to Egwene and
frown at Akarrin. After a long moment, perhaps realizing that Akarrin did not even see her, she
smoothed her silver-embroidered white skirts, which did not need it, adjusted her shawl along her arms
so the white fringe hung just so, and glided through the entry flaps as though she just happened to be
going in that direction. All three were among the Sitters Siuan had pointed out as too young. As were
Malind and Escaralde. But Moria had been Aes Sedai for a hundred and thirty years. Light, Siuan had
her looking for conspiracies in everything!
Just as Egwene began to think that her head would explode from frustration if not from her
headache, Sheriam suddenly appeared, hiking her cloak and skirts while half-running across the dirty
slush of the street. "I’m terribly sorry, Mother," she said breathlessly, channeling hurriedly to clean off
the mud she had splashed on herself. It fell to the walkway in a dry powder when she twitched her skirts.
"I . . . I heard that the Hall was sitting, and I knew you would be looking for me, so I came as fast as I
could. I’m very sorry." So Siuan was still searching for her. "You’re here now," Egwene said firmly.
The woman must have been truly upset to offer apologies in front of the others, Akarrin and her
companions more than Anaiya and the rest. Even when people knew better, they tended to take you for
what you appeared to be, and the Keeper should not be seen apologizing and wringing her hands. Surely
she knew that. "Go ahead and announce me." Drawing a deep breath, Sheriam pushed back the hood of
her cloak, adjusted her narrow blue stole, and stepped through the entry flaps. Her voice rang out clearly
in the ritual phrases. "She comes, she comes. . . ."
Egwene barely waited for her to finish with " . . . the Flame of Tar Valon, the Amyrlin Seat,"
before striding in through the ring of braziers and stand-lamps that rimmed the pavilion’s walls. The
stand-lamps gave a good light, and the braziers, giving off a scent of lavender today, warmed the whole
space. No one wished to have to ignore the cold when she could feel real warmth.
The arrangement of the pavilion followed ancient rules, modified only slightly to allow for the
fact that they were not meeting in the White Tower, in the great circular chamber called the Hall of the
Tower. At the far end, a simple if well polished bench stood atop a box-like platform covered with cloth
striped in the seven colors of the Ajahs. That and the stole around Egwene’s neck were surely the only
places in the camp where the Red Ajah had any representation. Some Blues had wanted the color
removed, since Elaida apparently had had the actual throne called the Amyrlin Seat repainted and a stole
woven without blue, but Egwene had dug in her heels. If she was to be of all Ajahs and none, then she
would be of all Ajahs. Down the bright layered carpets that served as a ground-cloth, two lines of
benches slanted away from the entrance in groups of three, sitting atop cloth-covered boxes in the colors
of the Ajahs. Well, six of the Ajahs. By tradition, the two oldest Sitters could claim the places closest to
the Amyrlin Seat for their Ajahs, so Yellow and Blue held those spots here. After that, it was a matter of
who came first and wished to be seated where, the first arrival always choosing her Ajah’s place. There
were only nine Sitters present, too few for the Hall to be sitting yet, legally speaking, but an oddity in
the seating struck Egwene right away. Unsurprisingly, Romanda was already in place, an empty bench
between her and Salita, and Lelaine and Moria occupied the end benches of the Blue. Romanda, her hair
in a tight gray bun on the nape of her neck, was the oldest Sitter, and almost always the first to reach her
place when the Hall sat. Lelaine, next oldest despite her dark glossy hair, seemed unable to let the other
woman gain a jump on her even in something so small. The men who had shifted the boxes-they were
stored along the walls until the Hall was called to sit-must have just left through the back, because
Kwamesa, already seated on her bench, was the only Gray Sitter in evidence, and Berana, just climbing
to hers, the only White. But Malind, a round-faced Kandori with an eagle’s eyes, and the lone Green,
obviously had entered ahead of them, yet strangely, she had chosen to seat the Greens near the
pavilion’s entrance. The nearer the Amyrlin Seat the better, was the usual thing. And directly opposite
her, Escaralde stood in front of the brown-covered boxes, in hushed argument with Takima. Almost as
short as Nisao, Takima was a quiet bird-like woman, but she could be forceful when she wished, and
with her fists on her hips she looked a sparrow in a temper, feathers all puffed out to make her seem
larger. By the way she kept darting sharp looks toward Berana, the seating was what upset her. It was
too late for anything to be changed for this sitting, of course, but in any case, Escaralde loomed back at
Takima as if she expected to have to fight for her choice. It amazed Egwene how Escaralde could do
that. Loom, that was. She stood inches shorter even than Nisao. It must have been sheer force of will.
Escaralde never backed down when she thought she was in the right. And she always did think she was
in the right. If Moria really did want an immediate assault on Tar Valon, and Malind really wanted to
retreat, what did Escaralde want? For all Siuan’s talk of Sitters wanting to be warned, Egwene’s
entrance caused no great stir. For whatever reasons Malind and the others had called the Hall to hear
Akarrin’s report, they had not considered the matter so sensitive that it needed to be held for Sitters’ ears
alone, so little clusters of four or five Aes Sedai were standing behind the benches of their Ajah’s Sitters,
and they made their curtsies as Egwene walked down the carpets toward her own seat. The Sitters
themselves merely watched her, or perhaps inclined a head briefly. Lelaine eyed her coolly, then
returned to frowning faintly at Moria, a quite ordinary-appearing woman in plain blue wool. So
ordinary, in fact, that you could miss the ageless quality in her face at first glance. She sat staring
straight ahead, absorbed in her own thoughts. Romanda was one of those to tilt her head a fraction.
Inside the Hall, the Amyrlin Seat was still the Amyrlin Seat, but a little less so than outside it. Inside the
Hall, Sitters felt their power. In a way, the Amyrlin could be said to be only the first among equals,
inside the Hall. Well, perhaps a little more than that, but not by much. Siuan said as many Amyrlins had
failed by believing the Sitters were fully her equals as by believing the difference was wider than really
existed. It was like running along the top of a narrow wall with fierce mastiffs on either side. You
maintained a careful balance and tried to watch your feet more than the dogs. But you were always
aware of the dogs. Unpinning her cloak as she stepped up onto the striped box, Egwene folded it across
her bench before sitting. The benches were hard, and some Sitters brought cushions when they thought
the sitting would be long. Egwene preferred not to. The prohibition on speeches seldom stopped at least
one or two women from drawing their comments out at length, and a hard seat could help you remain
awake through the worst. Sheriam took the Keeper’s place standing to Egwene’s left, and there was
nothing to do but wait. Maybe she should have brought a cushion.
The other benches were beginning to fill, though slowly. Aledrin and Saroiya had joined Berana,
Aledrin plump enough to make the other two appear slim. Of course, the vertical lines of white
scrollwork running down Saroiya’s skirts had that effect anyway, while Aledrin’s wide white sleeves
and the snowy panel running down the front of her dress did just the opposite. Each apparently was
trying to find out whether the others knew what was afoot, from the way they were shaking their heads
at each other and shooting glances toward the Blues, the Browns and the Greens. Varilin, a red-haired
stork of a woman and taller than most men, had taken her seat beside Kwamesa, too. Adjusting and
readjusting her shawl restlessly, Varilin darted her eyes from Moria to Escaralde to Malind and back.
Magla, yellow-fringed shawl wrapped tightly around her broad shoulders, and Faiselle, a squarefaced
Domani in silks covered with dense green embroidery, were just entering the pavilion, each ignoring the
other even when their skirts brushed. Magla was firmly in Romanda’s camp and Faiselle in Lelaine’s,
and the two groups did not mix. Other sisters were trickling in by spurts, as well, Nisao and Myrelle
among half a dozen or so who slipped in behind Magla and Faiselle. Morvrin was already among the
Browns behind Takima and Escaralde, and Beonin stood on the edge of the Grays behind Varilin and
Kwamesa. At this rate, half the Aes Sedai in the camp would be crowded into the pavilion before long.
While Magla was still walking down the carpets toward the Yellow seats, Romanda rose to her
feet. "We are more than eleven now, so we may as well begin." Her voice was surprisingly highpitched.
You might have thought she had a beautiful singing voice, if you could imagine Romanda singing. Her
face always seemed more set for scolding, at least slightly disapproving. "I don’t think we need make
this a formal session," she added when Kwamesa stood. "I hardly see why this need be done in session
at all, but if it must, let us get it over and out of the way. Some of us have more important matters to deal
with. As I’m sure you do, Mother."
That last was said with a deep bow of her head, in a tone perhaps a hair too respectful. Not far
enough over the line to be called sarcasm, of course. She was too intelligent to place herself in jeopardy;
fools seldom attained a Sitter’s chair, or held it long, and Romanda had held a seat in the Hall for almost
eighty years. This was her second time as a Sitter. Egwene inclined her own head slightly, eyes cool. An
acknowledgment that she had been addressed and that she had marked the tone. A very careful balance.
Kwamesa was left looking around with her mouth open, uncertain whether she was to speak the phrases,
always uttered by the youngest Sitter present, that opened a formal sitting of the Hall. Romanda’s place
gave her considerable influence and some measure of authority, yet others could override her in this. A
number of Sitters frowned or shifted on their benches, but no one spoke. Lyrelle glided into the pavilion,
glided toward the Blue benches. Tall for a Cairhienin woman, which made her of average height for
almost anywhere else, she was elegant in blue-slashed silk embroidered on the bodice with red and gold,
her movements flowing. Some said she had been a dancer before coming to the Tower as a novice. By
comparison, Samalin, the fox-faced Green who entered on her heels, seemed to stride mannishly, though
there was nothing at all awkward about the Murandian woman. They both seemed surprised to see
Kwamesa on her feet, and hurried to their respective benches. In any case, Varilin began plucking at
Kwamesa’s sleeve, until the Arafellin woman finally sat down. Kwamesa’s face was a mask of cool
calmness, yet she managed to radiate displeasure. She put a great store in ceremony. "Perhaps there is
reason for formal session." Lelaine’s voice seemed low, after Romanda’s. Arranging her shawl as
though she had all the time in the world, she rose gracefully, very deliberately not looking at Egwene. A
beautiful woman, Lelaine still was dignity incarnate. "It seems that talks with Elaida have been
licensed," she said coolly. "I do understand that under the Law of War, we need not be consulted on this,
but I also believe we should discuss it in session, especially since many of us face the possibility of
being stilled if Elaida retains any power."
That word, "stilled," no longer carried quite the chill it had before Siuan and Leane were Healed
from stilling, but murmurs rose among the watching Aes Sedai crowded behind the benches. It seemed
that news of negotiations had not spread as quickly as Egwene expected. She could not tell whether the
sisters were excited or dismayed, but clearly they were surprised. Including some of the Sitters. Janya,
who had entered while Lelaine was speaking, stopped dead in her tracks, so that another knot of sisters
coming in nearly walked into her. She stared at the Blue, then longer and harder at Egwene herself.
Romanda plainly had not heard either, from the way her mouth hardened, and expressions among the
too-young Sitters ranged from Berana’s icy calm to amazed on Samalin’s part and openly appalled on
Salita’s. For that matter, Sheriam swayed on her feet for a moment. Egwene hoped the woman would
not sick up in front of the entire Hall. More interesting, though, were the reactions of those Delana had
reported as speaking of negotiation. Varilin sat very still and seemed to be suppressing a smile as she
studied her skirts, but Magla licked her lips hesitantly and cast glances at Romanda from the corner of
her eye. Saroiya had her eyes closed, and her mouth moved as though she might be uttering a prayer.
Faiselle and Takima gazed at Egwene wearing almost identical tiny frowns. Then each noticed the other
and gave a start, quickly assuming such regal serenity that they seemed to be mocking one another. It
was very strange. Surely by now Beonin had informed all of them what Egwene had said, yet except for
Varilin, they seemed upset. They could not possibly have thought they might really negotiate an end.
Every woman sitting in this Hall risked stilling and execution just by being there. If there ever had been
any path back except to remove Elaida, it had washed away months ago, when this Hall was chosen.
There was no going back from that. Lelaine appeared satisfied with the reactions to her words-smug as
a cat in the milkbarn, in fact-but before she finished settling back onto her bench, Moria bounded to
her feet. That caught every eye and caused a few more murmurs. No one called Moria particularly
graceful, but the Illianer was not a woman who bounded. "That do need discussion," she said, "but it
must come later. This Hall did be called by three Sitters asking the same question. That question must be
addressed before any other. What did Akarrin and her party find? I do ask they be brought in to make
their report before the Hall."
Lelaine scowled at her fellow Blue, and she could scowl with the best, her eyes as sharp as awls,
yet Tower law was quite plain on the subject, for once, and well known to everyone. Often enough, it
was neither. In an unsteady voice, Sheriam asked Aledrin, the youngest after Kwamesa, to go and escort
Akarrin and the others before the Hall. Egwene decided she had best talk to the fire-haired woman as
soon as this sitting was done. If Sheriam kept on this way, she would soon become worse than useless as
Keeper. Delana darted into the pavilion amid a cluster of sisters, the last Sitter to arrive, and was on her
bench draping her shawl across her elbows by the time the plump White Sitter returned with the six
sisters and led them to stand before Egwene. They must have left their cloaks on the walkway outside,
because none was wearing one now. Delana peered at them, an uncertain frown drawing her eyebrows
down. She seemed out of breath, as though she had run to get there.
Apparently, Aledrin felt that whether or not the sitting was formal, she, at least, should carry on
with proper formality. "You have been called before the Hall of the Tower to relate what you have
seen," she said in a strong Taraboner accent. Her combination of dark golden hair and brown eyes was
not unusual in Tarabon, though she wore her shoulder-length hair caught in a lacy white net rather than
in beaded braids. "I charge you to speak of these things without the evasion or holding back, and to
answer all questions in complete fullness, leaving out nothing. Say now that you will do so, under the
Light and by your hope of the rebirth and salvation, or suffer the consequences." Those ancient sisters
who made this part of the Hall’s ceremony had been well aware of how much leeway the Three Oaths
gave. A little left out here, a touch of vagueness there, and the whole meaning of what you said could be
stood on its head, all while you spoke only the truth. Akarrin spoke the assurance loudly and somewhat
impatiently, the other five with varying levels of formality and selfconsciousness. Many sisters had lived
their entire lives without being called to testify in front of the Hall. Aledrin waited until the last had
repeated every word before marching back toward her bench. "Tell us what you did see, Akarrin,"
Moria said as soon as the White Sitter turned away. Aledrin stiffened visibly, and when she took her
seat, her face was utterly expressionless, but bright spots of color highlighted her cheeks. Moria should
have waited. She must have been very anxious.
By tradition-there were many more traditions and customs than laws, and the Light knew there
were more laws than anyone really knew, often contradictory layers of law laid down over the centuries,
but tradition and custom ruled Aes Sedai as much as Tower law ever had, perhaps more so-by
tradition, Akarrin addressed her response to the Amyrlin Seat.
"What we saw, Mother, was a roughly circular hole in the ground," she said, nodding for
emphasis at nearly every other word. She seemed to choose those words carefully, as if to make sure she
was absolutely clear to everyone. "It may have been a precise circle, originally, shaped like half of a
ball, but the sides have collapsed in some places. The hole is approximately three miles across and
perhaps a mile and a half deep." Someone gasped loudly, and Akarrin frowned as though whoever it was
had tried to interrupt. She went on without pausing, however. "We could not be entirely certain of the
depth. The bottom is covered with water and ice. We believe it may become a lake, eventually. In any
event, we were able to ascertain our exact location without too much difficulty, and we are prepared to
say that the hole is located where the city called Shadar Logoth once stood." She fell silent, and for a
long moment the only sound was the rustle of skirts as Aes Sedai shifted uneasily.
Egwene wanted to shift, too. Light, a hole that size would cover half of Tar Valon! "Do you have
any idea how this . . . hole . . . was created, Akarrin?" she asked finally. She was quite proud of how
steady her voice was. Sheriam was actually trembling! Egwene hoped no one else noticed. A Keeper’s
actions always reflected on the Amyrlin. If the Keeper showed fear, a good many sisters would think
that Egwene was afraid. That was hardly something she wanted anyone to suspect.
"Each of us was chosen because we have some ability at reading residues, Mother. Better than
most, in truth." So they had not been chosen simply because no one stronger was interested. There was a
lesson in that. What Aes Sedai did was seldom as simple as it appeared on the surface. Egwene wished
she could stop having to relearn lessons she had thought already learned. "Nisain is the best of us at
that," Akarrin went on. "With your permission, Mother, I will let her answer."
Nisain smoothed her dark woolen skirts nervously and cleared her throat. A gangly Gray with a
strong chin and startlingly blue eyes, she had some small repute in matters of law and treaties, but she
was obviously uneasy about speaking before the Hall. She looked straight at Egwene with the air of
someone who did not want to actually see all the Sitters assembled. "Given the amount of saidar used
there, Mother, it was no surprise to find the residues near as thick as the snow." More than a hint of
Murandy clung to her tongue, a lilting sound. "Even after so long, I should have been able to grasp some
idea of what was woven, if it was at all like anything I’m familiar with, but I have none. I could all but
trace the weave, Mother, and it made no sense at all. None. In fact, it seemed so alien, it might not have
been. . . . " Clearing her throat again, she swallowed. Her face grew a little paler. "It might not have
been woven by a woman. We thought it must have been the Forsaken, of course, so I tested for
resonance. We all did." Halfturning to gesture to her companions, she hurriedly turned back. She
definitely preferred looking at Egwene to the Sitters, all leaning forward intently. "I can’t say what was
done, beyond scooping three miles out of the earth, or how it was done, but saidin was definitely used,
too. The resonance was so strong, we should have been able to smell it. There was more saidin used than
saidar, much more, Dragonmount beside a foothill. And that is all I can say, Mother." A sound fluttered
through the pavilion, the sound of sisters letting out the breath they had been holding. Sheriam’s
exhalation seemed the loudest, but perhaps that was just because she was nearest.
Egwene schooled her face to stillness. The Forsaken, and a weave that could tear away half of
Tar Valon. If Malind did propose flight, could she try to make the sisters remain and face that? Could
she abandon Tar Valon, and the Tower, and the Light knew how many tens of thousands of lives? "Does
anyone else have a question?" she asked.
"I have one," Romanda said in a dry tone. Her calm had not cracked by a hair. "But not for these
sisters. If no one has any further questions for them, I’m sure they would like to be away from having
the Hall stare at them."
It was not precisely her place to suggest that, but neither was it precisely not, so Egwene let it
pass. No one else had questions for Akarrin or her companions, as it turned out, and Romanda offered
them surprisingly warm thanks for their efforts. Again, not precisely her place.
"Who is your question for?" Egwene asked as Akarrin and the other five scattered to join the
growing numbers of sisters crowding among the stand-lamps and braziers. They were eager, as
Romanda had said, to get out from under the Hall’s eyes, but they did want to hear what came of their
work. It was very difficult for Egwene to keep asperity out of her voice. Romanda affected not to notice.
Or perhaps did not notice.
"For Moria," she said. "We suspected the Forsaken from the start. We knew that whatever
happened was powerful, and far away. All we’ve learned, really, is that Shadar Logoth is gone, and of
that I can only say, the world is better off without that sinkhole of the Shadow." She fixed the Blue Sitter
with a frown that had made many an Aes Sedai squirm like a novice. "My question is this. Has anything
changed for us?"
"It should," Moria replied, meeting the other woman’s stare levelly. She might not have been in
the Hall as long as Romanda, but Sitters were at least supposedly on an equal footing. "We have long
had preparations in case the Forsaken do come against us. Every sister does know to form a circle if she
be able, or join one she does find forming, until every circle does reach thirteen. Everyone is to be
brought in, even the novices, even the newest." Lelaine looked up at her sharply, but however much she
wanted to chide Moria, they were of the same Ajah. They must give at least the appearance of a
common front. The effort of keeping her mouth shut thinned Lelaine’s lips, though.
Romanda was under no such constraint. "Must you explain what everyone here already knows?
We are the ones who made those arrangements. Perhaps you have forgotten?" This time, her voice was
cutting. Open displays of anger were forbidden in the Hall, but not goading.
If Moria felt the prick, though, she gave no outward sign beyond adjusting her shawl. "I must
explain from the beginning, because we have no thought far enough. Malind, can our circles stand
against what Akarrin and Nisain described?" Despite her fierce eyes, Malind’s full mouth always looked
ready to smile, but she was quite stern as she stood, and she stared at each Sitter in turn as if to impress
her words on them. "They cannot. Even if we rearrange matters so the strongest sisters are always in the
same circle-and that means they must live, eat and sleep together, if they’re to link on the moment-
even then, we would be mice facing a cat. Enough mice can overwhelm even a large hungry cat, but not
before many mice are dead. If enough of these mice die, though, the White Tower dies." Again that
ripple of sighs ran though the pavilion like an unsteady breeze. Egwene managed to keep her face calm,
but she had to force her fists to relax their grip on her skirt. Which would they propose, an assault or
flight? Light, how could she oppose them? Same Ajah or not, Lelaine could take the strain no longer.
"What are you suggesting, Moria?" she snapped. "Even if we reunite the Tower this very day, that won’t
change the facts." Moria smiled slightly, as if the other Blue had said just what she was hoping someone
would say. "But we must change the facts. The fact at present do be that our strongest circles be too
weak. We do have no angreal, much less sa’angreal, so we might as well ignore them. I’m no certain
there be anything even in the Tower that would make a large enough difference, anyway. How, then, do
we make our circles stronger? Strong enough, we must hope, to face what happened at Shadar Logoth
and stop it. Escaralde, what have you to say on the matter?"
Startled, Egwene leaned forward. They were working together. But to what end? She was not the
only one to realize that the three Sitters who had called the Hall were all on their feet. By remaining
standing, Moria and Malind had made a clear declaration. Escaralde stood like a queen, yet the tiny
Brown seemed all too aware of the eyes sliding between her and Malind and Moria, the thoughtful
frowns and too-still faces. She shifted her shawl twice before speaking. She sounded as though she were
lecturing a class, her voice thin yet forceful.
"The ancient literature is quite clear, though little studied, I fear. It gathers dust rather than
readers. Writings collected in the earliest years of the Tower make it plain that circles were not limited
to thirteen, in the Age of Legends. The precise mechanism-I should say, the precise balance-is
unknown, but it should not be too difficult to work out. For those of you who have not spent the time
you should have in the Tower library, the manner of increasing the size of a circle involves . . . " For the
first time, she faltered, and visibly forced herself to continue. " . . . involves the inclusion of men who
can channel."
Faiselle popped to her feet. "What are you suggesting?" she demanded and sat down
immediately, as though someone might think she was standing in support.
"I do ask that the Hall be cleared!" Magla said, rising. Like Moria, she was Illianer, and agitation
thickened her accent markedly. "This do no be a matter for discussion before any save the Hall in closed
sitting." She, too, dropped back onto her bench as soon as she finished, and sat glowering, wide
shoulders hunched and hands opening and closing on her skirts.
"I do fear it be too late for that," Moria said loudly. She had to speak loudly, to be heard over the
murmur of sisters talking excitedly behind the benches, a hum like a huge beehive. "What has been said
has been said, and heard by too many sisters for anyone to try shutting the words away now." Her
bosom rose as she pulled in a deep breath, and she raised her voice a notch louder. "I do put before the
Hall the proposal that we do enter into an agreement with the Black Tower, that we may bring men into
our circles at need." If she sounded a trifle strangled at the end, it was no wonder. Few Aes Sedai could
say that name without emotion, disgust if not outright hatred. It struck against the buzz of voices-and
produced absolute silence for the space of three heartbeats. "That is madness!" Sheriam’s shriek
shattered the stillness in more ways than one. The Keeper did not enter discussions in the Hall. She
could not even enter the Hall itself without the Amyrlin. Face flooding with red, Sheriam drew herself
up, perhaps to face the inevitable rebuke, perhaps to defend herself. The Hall had other things on its
mind than rebuking her, though.
Leaping up from their benches just long enough to get their words out, Sitters began to speak, to
shout, sometimes on top of one another.
"Madness hardly begins to describe it!" Faiselle shouted, at the same time that Varilin cried,
"How can we ally ourselves with men who can channel?"
"These so-called Asha’man are tainted!" Saroiya called out with no sign of the vaunted White
Ajah reserve. Hands knotted in her shawl, she trembled so hard that the long snowy fringe swayed.
"Tainted with the Dark One’s touch!"
"Even suggesting such a thing puts us against all the White Tower stands for," Takima said
roughly. "We would be despised by every woman who calls herself Aes Sedai, by Aes Sedai long in
their graves!"
Magla went so far as to shake a fist, with a fury she did not attempt to mask. "Only a Darkfriend
could suggest this! Only a Darkfriend!" Moria paled at the accusation, then went bright red with anger
of her own.
Egwene did not know where she stood on this. The Black Tower was Rand’s creation, and
perhaps necessary, if there was to be any hope of winning the Last Battle, yet the Asha’man were men
who could channel, a thing feared for three thousand years, and they channeled Shadow-stained saidin.
Rand himself was a man who could channel, yet without him, the Shadow would win at Tarmon
Gai’don. The Light help her for seeing it so coldly, but it was hard truth. Wherever she stood on the
matter, matters were getting out of hand there and then. Escaralde was exchanging insults with Faiselle,
both at the tops of their lungs. Open insults!
In the Hall! Saroiya had abandoned the last shreds of White Ajah coolness and was screaming at
Malind, who screamed back, neither waiting on the other. It would have been a wonder if either could
understand what the other was saying, and perhaps a blessing if they could not. Surprisingly, neither
Romanda nor Lelaine had opened her mouth since the beginning. They sat staring at one another,
unblinking. Likely each was trying to read how the other would stand just so she could stand in
opposition. Magla got down from her bench and stalked toward Moria with the glare of someone eager
to come to blows. Not words, but fists. Magla’s were clenched at her sides. Her vine-worked shawl slid
off onto the carpets, unnoticed.
Standing, Egwene embraced the Source. Except for certain exactly prescribed functions,
channeling was forbidden in the Hall-another of the customs that pointed to darker days in the Hall’s
history-but she made a simple weave of Air and Fire. "A proposal has been laid before the Hall," she
said, and released saidar. That was not as hard as it once had been. Not easy, not close to easy, but not
as hard. A memory of the Power’s sweetness remained, enough to sustain her until the next time.
Magnified by the weave, her words boomed in the pavilion like thunder. Aes Sedai shrank back,
wincing and covering their ears. The silence after seemed incredibly loud. Magla gaped at her in
astonishment, then gave a start at realizing that she was standing halfway to the Blue benches. Hastily
unloosing her fists, she paused to snatch up her shawl and hurried back to her own seat. Sheriam stood
weeping openly. Surely it had not been that loud. "A proposal has been laid before the Hall," Egwene
repeated into the silence. After that Power-magnified blare, her voice rang in her own ears. Perhaps it
had been louder than she thought. That weave had never been intended for use inside walls, even
patched canvas walls. "How speak you in support of an alliance with the Black Tower, Moria?" She sat
down as soon as she finished. How did she stand on this? What difficulties would it present her? How
could it be used to advantage? The Light help her, indeed. Those were the first two things to come to
mind. She wished Sheriam would dry her eyes and straighten her backbone. She was the Amyrlin Seat,
and she needed a Keeper, not a milksop. It took a few minutes for order to restore itself, Sitters
straightening clothes and smoothing skirts unnecessarily, avoiding each other’s eyes and especially not
looking at the watching sisters crowded behind the benches. Some Sitter’s faces became stained with red
that had nothing to do with anger. Sitters did not shriek at one another like farmhands at shearing. Most
especially not in front of other sisters.
"We do be faced with two seemingly insurmountable difficulties," Moria said finally. Her voice
was composed and cool once more, but a hint of flush still hung in her cheeks. "The Forsaken have
discovered a weapon-discovered or uncovered; they surely would have used it before now, had they
possessed it-a weapon we can no counter. A weapon we can no match, though the Light do know why
we would wish to, but most importantly, a weapon we can neither survive nor stop. At the same time,
the . . . Asha’-man . . . have grown like weeds. Reliable reports do put their numbers at nearly equal to
all the Aes Sedai living. Even if that number do be inflated, we can no afford to believe it exaggerated
far. And more men come every day. The eyes-and-ears do be too consistent to believe anything else. We
should take these men and gentle them, of course, but we have ignored them because of the Dragon
Reborn. We have put them off, to be dealt with later. The bitter truth do be that it be too late to try taking
them. They do be too many. Maybe it did be too late when we did first learned what they were doing.
"If we can no gentle these men, then we must control them somehow. An agreement with the
Black Tower-alliance be too strong a word-with a carefully worded agreement, we can take the first
steps toward protecting the world from them. We also can bring them into our circles." Raising a
cautionary finger, Moria ran her gaze along the benches, but her voice remained cool and composed.
And firm. "We must make it clear that a sister will always meld the flows-I do not suggest letting a
man control a linked circle! But with men in the circles, we can expand them. With the blessings of the
Light, perhaps we can expand the circles far enough to counter this weapon of the Forsaken. We do kill
two hares with one stone. But these hares do be lions, and if we do no cast that stone, one of them will
surely kill us. It is as simple as that."
Silence fell. Excepting Sheriam, at least. Standing hunched in on herself a few feet from
Egwene, shoulders shaking, she still had not mastered her weeping.
Then Romanda sighed heavily. "Perhaps we can expand the circles enough to counter the
Forsaken," she said in a quiet voice. In a way, that gave her words more weight than if she had shouted.
"Perhaps we can control the Asha’man. A thin word, perhaps, in either context."
"When you do be drowning," Moria replied, equally quiet, "you do grab at whatever branch
floats by, even when you can no be sure it will support your weight until you have hold. The water has
no closed over our heads yet, Romanda, but we be drowning. We do be drowning."
Again there was silence, but for Sheriam’s sniveling. Had she forgotten all self-control? But
then, no one among the Sitters wore a pleasant expression, not even Moria or Malind or Escaralde. It
was not a pleasant prospect that lay in front of them. Delana’s face had turned decidedly greenish. She
looked as if she might be the one to sick up rather than Sheriam.
Egwene stood once more, long enough to ask the required question. Even when the unthinkable
was proposed, the rituals must be followed. Perhaps more so then than ever. "Who speaks against this
proposal?"
There was no shortage of speakers there, though everyone had regained herself enough for them
to follow protocol. Several Sitters moved at once, but Magla was first on her feet, and the others sat back
with no outward displays of impatience. Faiselle followed Magla, and Varilin followed Faiselle. Then
came Saroiya, and finally Takima. Each spoke at length, Varilin and Saroiya coming very near making
the forbidden speeches, and each spoke with all the eloquence she could summon. No one reached a
Sitter’s chair lacking eloquence at need. Even so, it soon became clear that they were repeating
themselves and each other, just in different words. The Forsaken and their weapon were never
mentioned. The Black Tower was the Sitters’ topic, the Black Tower and the Asha’-man. The Black
Tower was a blight on the face of the earth, as great a threat to the world as the Last Battle itself. The
very name suggested connections to the Shadow, not to mention being a direct slap at the White Tower.
The so-called Asha’man-no one used the name without adding "so-called," or saying it with a sneer;
"guardians" it meant in the Old Tongue, and they were anything but guardians-the so-called Asha’man
were men who could channel. Men doomed to go insane if the male half of the Power did not kill them
first. Madmen wielding the One Power. From Magla to Takima, every one of them invested that with
every scrap of horror in them. Three thousand years of the world’s horror, and the Breaking of the
World before that. Men like this had destroyed the world, destroyed the Age of Legends and changed
the face of the world to desolation. This was who they were being asked to make alliance with. If they
did so, they would be anathema in every nation, and rightly. They would be scorned by every Aes Sedai,
and rightly. It could not be. It could not.
When Takima finally sat, arranging her shawl carefully along her arms, she wore a small but
quite satisfied smile. Together they had managed to make the Asha’man seem more fearsome, more
dangerous, than the Forsaken and the Last Battle combined. Maybe even a match for the Dark One
himself. Since Egwene had begun the ritual questions, it was for her to finish, and she rose long enough
to say, "Who stands for an agreement with the Black Tower?" She had only thought there was silence in
the pavilion before. Sheriam had finally governed her weeping, though tears glistened on her cheeks
still, but her gulp sounded like shouts in the quiet that followed that question. Takima’s smile slid
sideways when Janya stood as soon as the question left Egwene’s mouth. "Even a slim branch is better
than no branch when you’re drowning," Janya said. "I’d rather try than trust to hope until I go under."
She had the habit of speaking when she was not supposed to.
Samalin rose to stand beside Malind, and suddenly there was a rush, Salita and Berana and
Aledrin together, with Kwamesa only a tick behind. Nine Sitters on their feet, and there it hung as the
moments stretched out. Egwene realized she was biting her lip and stopped hurriedly, hoping no one had
noticed. She could still feel the impression of her teeth. She hoped she had not drawn blood. Not that
anyone was looking at her. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.
Romanda sat frowning up at Salita, who was staring straight ahead, her face gray and her lips
trembling. The Tairen sister might not be able to hide her fear, but she was going ahead. Romanda
nodded slowly and then, shockingly, stood. She, too, decided to violate custom. "Sometimes," she said,
looking straight at Lelaine, "we must do things we would rather not."
Lelaine met the gray-haired Yellow’s eyes without blinking. Her face might have been cast in
porcelain. Her chin rose by slow increments. And suddenly, she stood, glancing down impatiently at
Lyrelle, who gaped at her a moment before coming to her feet. Everyone stared. No one made a sound.
It was done. Almost done, anyway. Egwene cleared her throat, trying to catch Sheriam’s attention. The
next part was the Keeper’s, but Sheriam stood scrubbing the tears from her cheeks with her fingers and
running her eyes along the benches as if counting how many Sitters were standing and hoping to find
she had miscounted. Egwene cleared her throat more loudly, and the green-eyed woman gave a start and
turned to stare at her. Even then, it seemed to take forever before she recalled herself to her duty. "The
lesser consensus standing," she announced in an unsteady voice, "an agreement will be sought with . . .
with the Black Tower." Inhaling deeply, she straightened to her full height, and her voice gained
strength. She was back onto familiar ground. "In the interest of unity, I ask for the greater consensus to
stand." That was a powerful call. Even on matters that could be decided by the lesser consensus,
unanimity was always preferred, always strived for. Hours of discussion, days, might go into reaching it,
but the effort would not stop until every Sitter agreed or it was clear as well water that there could be no
agreement. A powerful call, one that tugged at every sister. Delana rose like a puppet drawn up against
her will, looking around uncertainly. "I cannot stand for this," Takima said, against all decorum. "No
matter what anyone says, no matter how long we sit, I cannot and I will not! I-will-not\" No one else
stood, either. Oh, Faiselle shifted on her bench, half moved as if to stand, adjusted her shawl, twitched
again as if she might stand. That was as close as anyone came. Saroiya was biting her knuckle with an
expression of horror, and Varilin wore the look of a woman who had been hit between the eyes with a
hammer. Magla gripped the ends of her bench, holding herself in place and staring bleakly at the carpets
in front of her. Plainly, she was aware of the scowl Romanda was aiming at the back of her neck, but her
only response was to hunch her shoulders.
Takima should have been the end of it. There was no point in seeking the greater consensus
when someone made it plain she would not stand. But Egwene decided to make her own break with
decorum and protocol. "Is there anyone who feels she must leave her chair over this?" she asked in a
loud, clear voice. Gasps filled the pavilion, but she was holding her breath. This could shatter them, but
better to have it out in the open now, if that was what was to come of it. Saroiya looked at her wildly,
but no one moved.
"Then we will go forward," she said. "Carefully. It will take time to plan exactly who is to
approach the Black Tower, and what they are to say." Time for her to plant a few safeguards, it was to
be hoped. Light, she was going to have to scramble to deal with this. "First, are there suggestions for our
. . . embassy?"
CHAPTER 20
In the Night
ong before the sitting ended, in spite of the cloak folded beneath her, Egwene’s bottom was quite
numb from the hard wooden bench. After listening to endless discussion, she wished her ears were
numb, as well. Sheriam, forced to stand, had begun shifting her feet as if wishing for a chair. Or maybe
just to sit down on the carpets. Egwene could have left, freeing herself and Sheriam. Nothing required
the Amyrlin to stay, and at best her comments were listened to politely. After which the Hall galloped
off in its own direction. This had nothing to do with the war, and with the bit between their teeth, the
Hall was not about to let her get a hand on the reins. She could have walked out at any time-with a
slight interruption in the discussions for the required ceremonies-but if she did, she feared that first
thing in the morning she might be handed a fully fledged plan, one the Sitters were already carrying out,
and her with no idea what was coming until she read it. At least, that was her fear in the beginning.
Who spoke at the greatest length was no surprise, not any longer. Magla and Saroiya, Takima
and Faiselle and Varilin, each fretting visibly when another Sitter had the floor. Oh, they accepted the
decision of the Hall, at least on the surface. There was nothing else for them to do except resign their
chairs; however hard the Hall might be willing to struggle for consensus if need be, once a course of
action was decided, by whatever consensus, then everyone was expected to follow, or at the very least
not hinder. That was the rub. What, exactly, constituted hindrance? None of the five spoke against a
Sitter from her own Ajah, of course, but the other four leaped to their feet when any Sitter took her
bench again, and all five if the Sitter was Blue. And whoever got the floor spoke very persuasively as to
why the previous speaker’s suggestions were utterly wrong and perhaps a recipe for disaster. Not that
there was any real sign of collusion that Egwene could see. They eyed each other as warily as they did
anyone else, frowned at each other as hard if not harder and, plainly, trusted none of the others to make
her arguments.
In any event, little of what was suggested came close to conformity. The Sitters disagreed on
how many sisters should be sent to the Black Tower and how many from each Ajah, on when those
sisters were to be sent, what they must demand, what they should be allowed to agree to and what
ordered to refuse entirely. In a matter this delicate, any error could lead to disaster. On top of which,
every Ajah except the Yellow considered itself uniquely qualified to provide the leadership of the
mission, from Kwamesa’s insistence that the goal was negotiating a treaty, of sorts, to Escaralde’s claim
that historical knowledge was a necessity for such an unprecedented undertaking. Berana even pointed
out that an agreement of this nature must be reached by absolute rationality; dealing with the Asha’man
was sure to inflame passions, and anything except cold logic would surely lead to disaster on the spot.
She grew rather heated about it, in fact. Romanda did want the party led by a Yellow, yet since it hardly
seemed there would be any great need for Healing, she was reduced to a stubborn insistence that anyone
else might be swayed by her Ajah’s special interests and forget the point of what they were doing.
Sitters of the same Ajah supported one another only to the extent of not openly opposing, and no two
Ajahs were willing to stand together on much beyond the fact that they had agreed to send an embassy
to the Black Tower. Whether it should be called an embassy remained in dispute, even by some who had
stood in its. favor at the start. Moria herself seemed taken aback by the very idea.
Egwene was not the only one who found the constant argument and counterargument wearing,
the points chopped so fine that nothing remained and everything had to begin over. Sisters drifted away
from behind the benches. Others replaced them and then drifted away in turn after a few hours. By the
time Sheriam uttered the ritual "Depart now in the Light," night had descended, and only a few dozen
remained besides Egwene and the Sitters, several of whom sagged as though they had been run through
a mangle like damp bed-linens. And nothing at all had been decided except that more talk was necessary
before anything could be decided. Outside, a pale half-moon hung in a velvet-black sky dusted with
glittering stars, and the air was bitter cold. Her breath curling a pale mist in the darkness, Egwene
walked away from the Hall smiling as she listened to the Sitters scattering behind her, some still
arguing. Romanda and Lelaine were walking together, but the Yellow’s clear high voice rose perilously
close to shouting, and the Blue’s was not far behind. They usually argued when forced into one
another’s company, but this was the first time Egwene had seen them choose it when they did not have
to. Sheriam halfheartedly offered to fetch the reports on wagon repairs and fodder that she had asked for
that morning, but the weary-eyed woman did not attempt to hide her relief when Egwene sent her off to
her bed. With a hurried curtsy, she went scurrying away into the night clutching her cloak around her.
Most of the tents stood dark, shadows in the moonlight. Few sisters remained awake long after nightfall.
Lamp-oil and candles were never in generous supply. For the moment, delay suited Egwene perfectly,
but that was not the only reason for her smile. Somewhere in all that argument, her headache had gone
away entirely. She would have no difficulty at all going to sleep this night. Halima always remedied
that, yet her dreams were always troubled after one of Halima’s massages. Well, few of her dreams were
light, but these were darker than any others, and, strangely, she could never remember anything except
that they were dark and troubled. Doubtless both things came from some remnant of the pains that
Halima’s fingers would not reach, yet the last was disturbing in itself. She had learned to remember
every dream. She had to remember every dream. Still, with no headache tonight, she should have no
problems, and dreaming was the least of what she had to do.
Like the Hall and her study, her tent stood in a little clearing with its own strip of wooden
walkway, the nearest tents a dozen spans off to give the Amyrlin a bit of privacy. At least, that was how
the spacing was explained. It might even have been the truth, now. Egwene al’Vere was certainly not
irrelevant anymore. The tent was not large, short of four paces on a side, and crowded inside, with four
brass-bound chests full of clothing stacked against one wall, two cots and a tiny round table, a bronze
brazier, a washstand, a stand-mirror and one of the few real chairs in the camp. A simple piece with a
little plain carving, it took up entirely too much room, but it was comfortable, and a great luxury when
she wanted to curl her feet beneath her and read. When she had time to read anything for pleasure. The
second cot was Halima’s, and she was surprised to see the woman was not already there waiting on her.
The tent was not unoccupied, however. "You had nothing but bread for breakfast, Mother," Chesa said
in a mildly accusing voice as Egwene ducked through the entry flaps. Not far from stout in her plain
gray dress, Egwene’s maid was sitting on the tent’s stool, darning stockings by the light of an oil lamp.
She was a pretty woman, without a touch of gray in her hair, yet sometimes it seemed that Chesa had
been in her employ forever rather than just since Salidar. She certainly took all the liberties of an old
servant, including the right to scold. "You ate nothing at all midday, as far as I can learn," she went on,
holding up a snowy silk stocking to study the patch she was making in th