She eyed him.
“I trust General Bryne’s battlefield assessment, as does the Hall,” Egwene said as they rode past the Illianer Companions, each man’s brilliant breastplate worked with the Nine Bees of Illian on the front. They saluted her, faces hidden behind their conical helmets, barred at the front.
She wasn’t certain she liked having them in her army—they would be more loyal to Rand than to her—but Bryne had insisted on it. He said that her force, though enormous, lacked an elite group like the Companions.
“I still say we should have left sooner,” Gawyn said as the two of them passed through the gateway to the border of Kandor.
“It has only been a few days.”
“A few days while Kandor burns.” She could sense his frustration. She could also feel that he loved her, fiercely. He was her husband, now. The marriage had been performed by Silviana in a simple ceremony the night before. It still felt odd to know that Egwene had authorized her own wedding. When you were the highest authority, what else could you do?
As they moved into the camp on the Kandori border, Bryne rode by, giving terse orders to scouting patrols. When he reached Egwene, he climbed out of the saddle and bowed low, kissing her ring. He then remounted and continued. He was very respectful, considering that he’d essentially been bullied into leading this army. Of course, he’d made his demands and they had been met, so perhaps he’d bullied them as well. Leading the White Tower’s armies had been an opportunity for him; no man liked being put out to pasture. The great captain shouldn’t have found himself there in the first place.
Egwene noted Siuan riding at Bryne’s side and smiled in satisfaction. He is bound tightly to us now.
Egwene surveyed the hills on the southeastern border of Kandor. Though they lacked greenery—like most places in the world now—their peaceful serenity gave no hint that the country beyond them burned. The capital, Chachin, was now little more than rubble. Before withdrawing to join the fight with the other Borderlanders, Queen Ethenielle had turned over rescue operations to Egwene and the Hall. They had done what they could, sending scouts through gateways along major roadways looking for refugees, then bringing them away to safety—if anywhere could be called safe now.
The main Trolloc army had left the burning cities and was now moving southeast toward the hills and the river that made up Kandor's border with Arafel.
Silviana rode up beside Egwene, opposite Gawyn. She spared him only a glare—those two really would have to stop snapping at one another; it was growing tiresome—before kissing Egwene’s ring. “Mother.”
“Silviana.”
“We have received an update from Elayne Sedai.”
Egwene allowed herself a smile. Both of them, independently, had taken to calling Elayne by her White Tower title as opposed to her civil title. “And?”
“She suggests that we set up a location where the wounded can be sent for Healing.”
“We’d talked about having the Yellows move from battlefield to battlefield,” Egwene said.
“Elayne Sedai is worried about exposing the Yellows to attack,” Silviana said. “She wants a stationary hospital.”
“That would be more efficient, Mother,” Gawyn said, rubbing his chin. “Finding the wounded after a battle is a brutal affair. I don’t know what I’d think of sending sisters to comb through the dead. This war could stretch weeks, even months, if the great captains are right. Eventually, the Shadow is going to start picking off Aes Sedai on the field.”
“Elayne Sedai was quite . . . insistent,” Silviana said. Her face was a mask, her tone steady, yet she also managed to convey severe displeasure. Silviana was proficient at that.
I helped put Elayne in charge, Egwene reminded herself. Refusing her would set a bad precedent. As would obeying her. Perhaps they could remain friends through it.
“Elayne Sedai shows wisdom,” Egwene said. “Tell Romanda that it must be done this way. Have the entire Yellow Ajah gather for Healing, but not at the White Tower.”
“Mother?” Silviana asked.
“The Seanchan,” Egwene said. She had to smother the serpent deep inside of her that writhed whenever she thought of them. “I will not risk the Yellows being attacked while alone and exhausted from Healing. The White Tower is exposed, and is a focus for the enemy—if not the Seanchan, then the Shadow.”
“A valid point.” Silviana sounded reluctant. “But where else? Caemlyn has fallen, and the Borderlands are too exposed. Tear?”
“Hardly,” Egwene said. That was Rand’s territory, and it seemed too obvious. “Send back to Elayne with a suggestion. Perhaps the First of Mayene will be willing to provide a suitable building, a very large one.” Egwene tapped the side of her saddle. “Send the Accepted and the novices with the Yellows. I don’t want those women on the battlefield, but their strength can be put to use in Healing.”
Linked to a Yellow, the weakest of novices could lend a trickle of strength and save lives. Many would be disappointed; they imagined slaying Trollocs. Well, this would be a way for them to fight without getting underfoot, untrained in combat as they were.
Egwene glanced over her shoulder. Movement through the gateways would not be finished any time soon. “Silviana, relay my words to Elayne Sedai,” Egwene said. “Gawyn, I have something I want to do.”
They found Chubain supervising the setup of a command camp in a valley west of the river that formed the boundary between Kandor and Arafel. They’d press forward into this hilly country to meet the oncoming Trollocs, deploying harrying forces in the adjoining valleys, with archers atop the hills alongside defensive units. The plan would be to strike hard at Trollocs as they tried to take the hills, doing as much damage as possible. The harrying units could swipe at enemy flanks while the defenders held the hills as long as they could.
The odds were good that they would eventually be pushed out of those hills and across the border into Arafel, but on the wide plains of Arafel their cavalries could be used to better advantage. Egwene’s force, like Lan’s, was meant to delay and slow the Trollocs until Elayne could defeat those in the south. Ideally they would hold until reinforcements could arrive.
Chubain saluted and led them to a tent that had already been erected nearby. Egwene dismounted and started to enter, but Gawyn laid a hand on her arm. She sighed, nodded and let him enter first.
Inside, on the floor with legs folded, sat the Seanchan woman that Nynaeve had called Egeanin, although the woman insisted on being called Leilwin. Three members of the Tower Guard watched over her and her Illianer husband.
Leilwin looked up as Egwene entered, then immediately rose to her knees and performed a graceful bow, forehead touching the tent floor. Her husband did as she did, though his motions seemed more reluctant. Perhaps he was merely a worse actor than she was.
“Out,” Egwene said to the three guards.
They did not argue, though their withdrawal was slow. As if she couldn’t handle herself with her Warder against two people who could not channel. Men.
Gawyn took up position at the side of the tent, leaving her to address the two prisoners.
“Nynaeve tells me you are marginally trustworthy, Egwene said to Leilwin. “Oh, sit up. Nobody bows that low in the White Tower, not even the lowest of servants.”
Leilwin sat up, but kept her eyes lowered. I have failed greatly in the duty assigned me, and in so doing have endangered the Pattern itself.”
“Yes,” Egwene said. “The bracelets. I’m aware. Would you like a chance to repay that debt?”
The woman bowed herself, forehead to the ground again. Egwene sighed, but before she could order the woman to rise, Leilwin spoke. “By the Light and my hope for salvation and rebirth,” Leilwin said, “I vow to serve you and protect you, Amyrlin, ruler of the White Tower. By the Crystal Throne and the blood of the Empress, I bind myself to you, to do as commanded in all things, and to put your life before my own. Under the Light, may it be so.” She kissed the floor.
Egwe
ne looked at her, stunned. Only a Darkfriend would betray an oath such as that one. Of course, every Seanchan was close to being a Darkfriend.
You think I m not well protected?” Egwene asked. “You think that I need another servant?”
“I think only of repaying my debt,” Leilwin said.
In her tone, Egwene sensed a stiffness, a bitterness. That rang of authenticity. This woman did not like humbling herself in this manner.
Egwene folded her arms, troubled. “What can you tell me of the Seanchan military, its arms and strength, and of the plans of the Empress?”
‘I know some things, Amyrlin,” Leilwin said. “But I was a ship’s captain. What I do know is of the Seanchan navy, and that will be of little use to you.”
Of course, Egwene thought. She glanced at Gawyn, who shrugged.
Please, Leilwin said softly. “Allow me to prove myself to you somehow. I have little left to me. My name itself is no longer my own.”
First, Egwene said, “you will talk of the Seanchan. I don’t care if you think it’s irrelevant. Anything you tell me might be helpful.” Or, it might reveal Leilwin as a liar, which would be equally useful. “Gawyn, fetch me a chair. I’m going to listen to what she says. After that, we’ll see . . .
Rand rifled through the pile of maps, notes and reports. He stood with his arm folded behind his back, a single lamp burning on the desk. Sheathed in glass, the flame danced as breezes eddied through the tent where he stood alone.
Was the flame alive? It ate, it moved on its own. You could smother it, so in a way, it breathed. What was it to be alive?
Could an idea live?
A world without the Dark One. A world without evil.
Rand turned back to the maps. What he saw impressed him. Elayne was preparing well. He had not attended the meetings planning each battle. His attention was directed toward the north. Toward Shayol Ghul. His destiny. His grave.
He hated the way these battle maps, with notes for formations and groups, reduced men’s lives to scribbles on a page. Numbers and statistics. Oh, he admitted that the clarity—the distance—was essential for a battlefield commander. He hated it nonetheless.
Here before him was a flame that lived, yet here were also men who were dead. Now that he could not lead the war himself, he hoped to stay away from maps such as this one. He knew seeing these preparations would make him grieve for the soldiers he could not save.
A sudden chill ran across him, the hairs on his arms standing on end—a distinct shiver halfway between excitement and terror. A woman was channeling.
Rand raised his head and found Elayne frozen in the tent doorway. “Light!” she said. “Rand! What are you doing here? Are you trying to kill me with fright?”
He turned, settling his fingers on the battle maps, taking her in. Now here was life. Flushed cheeks, golden hair with a hint of honey and rose, eyes that burned like a bonfire. Her dress of crimson showed the swell of the children she bore. Light, she was beautiful.
“Rand al’Thor?” Elayne asked. “Are you going to talk to me, or do you wish to ogle me further?”
“If I can’t ogle you, whom can I ogle?” Rand asked.
“Don’t grin at me like that, farmboy,” she said. “Sneaking into my tent? Really. What would people say?”
“They’d say that I wanted to see you. Besides, I didn’t sneak in. The guards let me in.”
She folded her arms. “They didn’t tell me.”
“I asked them not to.”
“Then, for all intents and purposes, you were sneaking.” Elayne brushed by him. She smelled wonderful. “Honestly, as if Aviendha weren’t enough . . .
I didn’t want the regular soldiers to see me,” Rand said. “I worried it would disturb your camp. I asked the guards not to mention that I was here.” He stepped up to her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I had to see you again, before . . .”
“You saw me at Merrilor.”
“Elayne . . ”
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning back to him. “I am happy to see you, and I am glad you came. I’m just trying to get into my head how you fit into all of this. How we fit into all of this.”
“I don’t know,” Rand said. “I’ve never figured it out. I’m sorry.”
She sighed, sitting down in the chair beside her desk. “I suppose it is good to find there are some things you can’t fix with a wave of your hand.
There is much I can’t fix, Elayne.” He glanced at the desk, and the maps. “So much.”
Don't think about that.
He knelt before her, getting a cocked eyebrow until he placed his hand on her belly—hesitantly, at first. “I didn’t know,” he said. “Not until just recently, the night before the meeting. Twins, it is said?”
“Yes.”
“So Tam will be a grandfather,” Rand said. “And I will be . . .”
How was a man supposed to react to this news? Was it supposed to shake him, upend him? Rand had been given his share of surprises in life. It seemed he could no longer take two steps without the world changing on him.
But this . . . this wasn’t a surprise. He found that deep down, he’d hoped that someday he would be a father. It had happened. That gave him warmth. One thing was going right in the world, even if so many had gone wrong.
Children. His children. He closed his eyes, breathing in, enjoying the thought.
He would never know them. He would leave them fatherless before they were even born. But, then, Janduin had left Rand fatherless—and he had turned out all right. Just a few rough edges, here and there.
“What will you name them?” Rand asked.
“If there is a boy, I’ve been thinking of naming him Rand.”
Rand let himself go still as he felt her womb. Was that motion? A kick? “No,” Rand said softly. “Please do not name either child after me, Elayne. Let them live their own lives. My shadow will be long enough as it is.
Very well.”
He looked up to meet her eyes, and he found her smiling with fondness. She rested a smooth hand on his cheek. “You will be a fine father.”
“Elayne—”
“Not a word of it,” she said, raising a finger. “No talk of death, of duty.
We cannot ignore what will happen.”
“We needn’t dwell on it either,” she said. “I taught you so much about being a monarch, Rand. I seem to have forgotten one lesson. It is all right to plan for the worst possibilities, but you must not bask in them. You must not fixate on them. A queen must have hope before all else.”
“I do hope,” Rand said. “I hope for the world, for you, for everyone who must fight. That does not change the fact that I have accepted my own death.”
“Enough,” she said. “No more talk of this. Tonight, I will have a quiet dinner with the man I love.”
Rand sighed, but rose, seating himself in the chair beside hers as she called to the guards at the tent flap for their meal.
“Can we at least discuss tactics?” Rand asked. “I am truly impressed by what you’ve done here. I don’t think I could have done a better job.”
“The great captains did most of it.”
“I saw your annotations,” Rand said. “Bashere and the others are wonderful generals, geniuses even, but they think only of their specific battles. Someone needs to coordinate them, and you are doing that marvelously. You have a head for this.”
“No, I don’t,” Elayne said. “What I do have is a lifetime spent as the Daughter-Heir of Andor, being trained for wars that might come. Thank General Bryne and my mother for what you see in me. Did you find anything in my notes that you would change?”
“There is more than a hundred and fifty miles between Caemlyn and Braem Wood, where you plan to ambush the Shadow,” Rand noted. “That’s risky. What if your forces get overrun before they reach the Wood?”
“Everything depends on them beating the Trollocs to the Wood. Our harrying forces will be using the strongest, fastest mounts available. It will be a
grueling race, there’s no question, and the horses will be near death by the time they reach the Wood. But we are hoping that the Trollocs will be the worse for wear by then as well, which should make our job easier.”
They talked tactics, and evening became night. Servants arrived with dinner, broth and wild boar. Rand had wished to keep his presence in the camp quiet, but there was nothing for that now that the servants knew.
He settled himself to dine, and let himself flow into the conversation with Elayne. Which battlefield was in the most danger? Which of the great captains should she champion when they disagreed, which they often did? How would this all work with Rand’s army, which still waited for the right time to attack Shayol Ghul?
The conversation reminded him of their time in Tear, stealing hidden kisses in the Stone between sessions of political training. Rand had fallen in love with her during those days. Real love. Not the admiration of a boy falling off a wall, looking at a princess—back then, he hadn’t understood love any more than a farmboy swinging a sword understood war.
Their love was born of the things they shared. With Elayne, he could speak of politics and the burden of rule. She understood. She truly did, better than anyone he knew. She knew what it was to make decisions that changed the lives of thousands. She understood what it was to be owned by the people of a nation. Rand found it remarkable that, though they had often been apart, their connection held. In fact, it felt even stronger. Now that Elayne was queen, now that they shared the children growing within her. “You wince,” Elayne said.
Rand looked up from his broth. Elayne’s dinner was half-finished—he had been making her speak a great deal. She seemed through anyway, and held a warm cup of tea.
“I what?” Rand asked.
“You wince. When I mentioned the contingents fighting for Andor, you flinched, just a little.”
It was not surprising she had noticed—Elayne had been the one to teach him to watch for minor tells in the expressions of those with whom he spoke.
“All of these people fight under my name,” Rand said. “So many people I do not even know will die for me.”
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