Knife of Dreams

by Robert Jordan

  "I won't let her provoke me," Elayne replied. "Neither will anyone else. I mean you, Conail, and you, Lir." Conail, in gold-worked blue, colored as quickly as Hanselle had. He had gotten into a fight with a mercenary he thought had spoken disparagingly of Elayne and almost killed the man. It was well for him the other man had begun drawing his sword first. Even mercenaries deserved justice, and Andor was not Tear, where nobles could kill commoners with impunity. Well, before Rand changed so many of their laws. Burn him, why was he leaping about so?

  "I stood for you, Elayne, and that means I always stand up for you," Lir said smoothly. He looked every inch the self-confident courtier in silver-embroidered green silk with House Baryn's silver Winged Hammer on the collar, yet he was too smooth by half, Lir was. "But I'll hold my temper whatever Ellorien says." The bond surged with fleeting contempt. Trying to demonstrate how loyal he was to Elayne, Lir had fought with mercenaries three times. In two days. The man had to have been searching for fights to manage that.

  "If she tries to goad us, why should we bite our tongues?" Catalyn demanded. Her red dress, embroidered with broad bands of gold at the hem and on the sleeves, did not suit her coloring, especially when her plump cheeks were crimson with anger. Her chin was raised. Perhaps she wore that large enameled pin bearing Haevin's Blue Bear where she did so she would be forced to keep her chin high and look down her nose at everyone. "I've never allowed anyone to poke at me and walk away unscathed."

  "An ox responds to the goad and does as the ox-herd wants," Dyelin said drily. "The same way you will be doing what Ellorien wants if you respond to her goads." The crimson remained in Catalyn's cheeks, no doubt from embarrassment, now.

  Reene Harfor appeared in the doorway. "My Ladies," she said loudly, her voice echoing in the nearly empty chamber. "My Lords."

  This was informality, when two sides met and there was no knowing how far apart they were. Mistress Harfor announced the newly arrived lords and ladies in strict order of precedence, though among the Houses gathered here, there was not a great deal between them. Luan Norwelyn, hard-faced and more gray-haired than when Elayne last saw him, his blue coat undecorated except for Norwelyn's Silver Salmon on the high collar. Arathelle Renshar, her face creased and her brown hair thick with gray, in a red riding dress ornately worked with gold and a large ruby-studded pin that displayed the three Golden Hounds. Pelivar Coelan, tall and lean, his dark hair receding till he almost looked as if he had shaved the front of his head like a Cairhienin, in silver-embroidered blue with twinned red roses worked on his collar, the Roses of Coelan. Aemlyn Carand, plump in gray silk with the three Golden Arrows climbing her sleeves and so thick on her bosom she looked like a bristling quiver. Ellorien Traemane, not so plump as Elayne recalled but still pretty in green-slashed blue embroidered with golden-antlered white stags, the White Stag of Traemane, on the sleeves. Abelle Pendar, his angular face stern beneath gray hair, in dark gray with the three Golden Stars on his collar. They walked up the Grand Hall together, trailed by their servants, but not grouped as announced. Ellorien and Abelle walked with Luan, Pelivar and Aemlyn with Arathelle, two paces between the groups. So. They asked for safe conduct as one, yet they were not one. That made a demand for surrender a little less likely. Even open enemies could act in concert at times. Divided skirts and snug breeches glistened damply. The finest cloak could not protect a person completely in a downpour like this. They would not be in their best tempers.

  "Be welcome," she told them as their servants peeled away to join the others. "Will you take wine, or tea? The wine is hot and spiced. This seems a wintery day for spring."

  Luan opened his mouth, but Ellorien spoke first. "At least you're not sitting on the throne." Her face might have been carved from marble, and her voice was that hard and cold. "I half expected you to be." Thunder rolled overhead.

  Luan looked pained. Arathelle rolled her eyes as if she were hearing something she had heard all too often before. Lir stirred, but Elayne fixed him with a steady look, and he gave a small, apologetic bow.

  "I have no right to sit on the throne, Ellorien," she replied calmly. Light, please let her mood hold steady now. "Yet." There was an unintended touch of bite in that. Perhaps she was not so calm as she wished to be.

  Ellorien sneered. "If you're waiting for Danine to make your ten, you'll have a long wait. Danine spent the last Succession visiting her manors. She never declared for anyone."

  Elayne smiled, but it was difficult. A Succession was when one House succeeded another on the throne. "I will have tea."

  Ellorien blinked, but it sparked the others to announce what they would take. Only Elayne, Birgitte, Branlet and Perival took tea. Everyone sniffed at their cups, whether silver cups of wine or porcelain teacups, before taking a sip. Elayne felt no insult. Food and wine could be fine in the kitchens and tainted by the time it reached the table. There was never any telling where or when spoilage would strike. The tea had a faint tang of ginger, but not enough to overwhelm the taste of good Tremalking black.

  "I see you've gathered most of your support among the children and Arymilla's leavings," Ellorien said. Catalyn turned as red as her dress, and Branlet straightened angrily, until Perival put a hand on his arm and shook his head. A level-headed boy, Perival, and bright beyond his years. Lir managed to restrain himself this time, but Conail started to say something sharp before Elayne's firm look snapped his teeth shut. Karind merely returned Ellorien's spiteful stare stolidly. Karind was not very intelligent, but little ruffled her.

  "You must have had a reason for asking this meeting," Elayne said. "If it was merely to offer insults. . . ." She let that trail off. She had her own reasons for wanting this meeting. If they had asked for her to come to them, she would have. Without asking for safe conduct. Feeling a pulse of anger through the bond, she cook a firm rein on hers. Birgitte wore a scowl directed at Ellorien like a dagger. If they began feeding one another's temper. . . . That did not bear thinking about, not here, not now.

  Ellorien opened her mouth again, and this time, Luan cut her off. "We've come to ask for a truce, Elayne." A flash of lightning lit the northern windows, and those in the ceiling, but the interval to thunder said it had been some distance off.

  "A truce? Are we at war, Luan? Has someone declared for the throne that I haven't heard of?" Six sets of eyes swung to Dyelin, who grunted.

  "Fools. I told you and told you, and you wouldn't believe me. Perhaps you'll believe this. When Sylvase, Karind and Lir sent their proclamations of support, I sent my own. Taravin stands for Trakand, and the whole of Andor will know it soon enough."

  Ellorien colored angrily and managed to make even that seem cold. Aemlyn took a long drink, looking thoughtful. Arathelle allowed a touch of disappointment to touch her face before it returned to a mask nearly as hard as Ellorien's.

  "Be that as it may," Luan said, "we still want ... if not a truce, then a temporary agreement." He drank a small swallow from his winecup and shook his head sadly. "Even gathering everything we can, we'll have a difficult time defeating the Borderlanders, but if we fail to act together, they'll carve up Andor once they decide to move. Frankly, I'm surprised they've remained in one place this long. Their men ought to be well rested by now even after a thousand-league march." Lightning lit the southern windows brightly, and thunder crashed so loudly it seemed the glass panes should shiver. Close, that one.

  "I expected them to be into Murandy by now myself," Elayne said. "But I believe their reason for sitting in one place is a fear of sparking a war if they come too near Caemlyn. They seem to be trying to find a way to Murandy using country roads. You know what condition those are in this time of year. They want no war with us. When I gave them permission to cross Andor, they told me they were looking for the Dragon Reborn."

  Ellorien spluttered, and chips of ice should have come from her mouth. "When you what? You prate of how you have no right to sit on the throne—yet—and then you arrogate to yourself the right of—!"

  "Of an
Aes Sedai, Ellorien." Elayne held up her right hand so they could not miss the golden Great Serpent encircling the third finger. Her own voice was frosty despite all she could do. "I did not speak as Daughter-Heir or even High Seat of House Trakand. I spoke as Elayne Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah. Had I not, they would have come anyway. They were very short of food and fodder. Had I tried to stop them, had anyone tried to stop them, there would have been war. They are determined to find the Dragon Reborn. It would have been a war Andor had faint chance of winning. You speak of acting together, Luan? Gather all of Andor's strength, and we could nearly match their numbers, but two in three of ours would be men who can handle a halberd or spear but spend most of their days behind a plow. Every man of theirs is a long-serving armsman who would not be surprised to face Trollocs any day of his life. Instead of a war that would soak Andor in blood and cripple her for a generation, we have the Borderlanders crossing our nation peacefully. I have them watched. They pay for the food and fodder they need, and pay well." Another time, with other listeners, she would have laughed over that. Andoran farmers would try to pry high prices out of the Dark One. "The worst they've done is flog a few horse-thieves, and if they should have been handed over to a magistrate, I can't fault the Borderlanders for it. Now tell me, Ellorien. What would you have done differently, and how?"

  Ellorien blinked, icily sullen, then sniffed dismissively and sipped at her wine.

  "And what do you plan for this Black Tower?" Abelle asked quietly. "I . . . suspect you have a plan for them, too." Did he suspect her other reason for letting the Borderlanders cross Andor? Let him, so long as he did not give it voice. So long as he kept silent, her motives seemed purely for Andor's good. That was hypocritical, no bones about it, but realistic as well. She had spoken truthfully concerning her other reasons, but that one, spoken aloud, could cost her. She still needed one more House, and it looked as if Candraed had to be it, but Danine would never move if she thought Elayne was trying to force her into it.

  "Nothing," she told him. "I send Guardsmen periodically to ride around the Black Tower grounds and remind them they are in Andor and subject to Andor's laws, but aside from that, I can do no more than I could if the White Tower were somehow transported to Caemlyn." For a long moment they stared at her, all six of them unblinking.

  "Pendar stands for Trakand," Abelle said suddenly, and right atop him, Luan said, "Norwelyn stands for Trakand." Lightning flashed overhead, brightening the colored windows in the ceiling.

  Elayne kept herself from swaying with an effort. Birgitte's face was smooth, but the bond carried amazement. It was done. She had eleven, and the throne was hers.

  "The more who stand for her, the better for Andor." Dyelin sounded a touch dazed herself. "Stand with me for Trakand."

  There was another pause, longer, full of exchanged glances, but then, one by one, Arathelle, Pelivar and Aemlyn announced that their Houses stood for Trakand. Doing so for Dyelin, though. Elayne would have to remember that. Perhaps she could win their loyalty in time, but for the present, they supported her for Dyelin's sake.

  "She has the throne," Ellorien said, as cold as ever. "The rest is fluff and feathers."

  Elayne tried to make her voice warm. "Will you dine with us this evening, Ellorien? At least remain until the rain abates."

  "I have my own cooks." Ellorien replied, turning away toward the doors. Her serving woman came running to take her cup and return it to the table. "As soon as the rain stops, I will be leaving for Sheldyn. I've been away too long."

  "Tarmon Gai'don is coming soon, Ellorien," Elayne said. "You won't be able to remain on your estates then."

  Ellorien paused, looking over her shoulder. "When Tarmon Gai'don comes, Traemane rides for the Last Battle, and we ride behind the Lion of Andor." Thunder boomed as she strode out of the Grand Hall with her serving woman at her heels.

  "Will you all join me in my apartments?'' Elayne asked the others.

  Behind the Lion of Andor, but not a word about behind Elayne Trakand. Nearly half her support was suspect one way or another, Jarid Sarand was still on the loose with a not inconsiderable force, and she would have trouble from Ellorien eventually. It was never this way in stories. In stories, everything was always wrapped up neatly by the end. Real life was much . . . messier. Still, she had the throne at last. There was still the coronation, but that was a formality now. As she led the procession from the Grand Hall, chatting with Luan and Pelivar, thunder rolled overhead like martial drums beating the march for Tarmon Gai'don. How long before Andor's banners had to march to the Last Battle?

  CHAPTER 36 Under an Oak

  The sun stood well above the mountains as Karede rode through the trees toward the so-called Malvide Narrows, perhaps two leagues ahead. The five-mile-wide gap in the mountains carried the road from Ebou Dar to Lugard, a mile south of him. Well short of the Narrows, though, he would find the camp Ajimbura had located for him. Ajimbura had not been fool enough to try entering the camp, so Karede still did not know whether he was riding into a deathtrap for nothing. No, not for nothing. For the High Lady Tuon. Any Deathwatch Guard was ready to die for her. Their honor was duty, and duty often meant death. The sky held only billowing white clouds with no threat of rain. He had always hoped to die in sunlight.

  He had brought just a small party. Ajimbura on his white-footed chestnut to show the way, of course. The wiry little man had cut off his white-streaked red braid, a measure of his great devotion. The hill tribes took those braids as trophies from those they killed in their endless feuds, and to be without one was to be disgraced in the eyes of all the tribes and families, a self-proclaimed coward. That devotion was to Karede rather than the High Lady or the Crystal Throne, but Karede's own devotion was such that it came to the same thing. Two of the Guards rode at Karede's back, their red-and-green armor buffed till it shone, like his own. Hartha and a pair of Gardeners strode along with their long-hafted axes on their shoulders, easily keeping pace with the horses. Their armor glistened as well. Melitene, the High Lady's der’sul’dam, her long, graying hair tied with a bright red ribbon today, was on a high-stepping gray, the silvery length of an a'dam connecting her left wrist to Mylen's neck. There had been little that could be done to make those two appear more impressive, but the a'dam and Melitene's blue dress, the red panels on skirts and bosom holding silver forked lightning bolts, should draw the eye. Taken altogether, no one should notice Ajimbura at all. The rest were back with Musenge, in case it truly was a deathtrap.

  He had considered using another damane than Mylen. The tiny woman with the face he could never put an age to almost bounced in her saddle with eagerness to lay eyes on the High Lady again. She was not properly composed. Still, she could do nothing without Melitene, and she was useless as a weapon, a fact that had made her hang her head when he pointed it out to the der’sul’dam. She had needed consoling, her sul'dam petting her and telling her what beautiful Sky Lights she made, how wonderful her Healing was. Even thinking about that made Karede shudder. Taken in the abstract, it might seem a wonderful thing, wounds undone in moments, but he thought he would need to be near death before he would let anyone touch him with the Power. And yet, if it could have saved his wife Kalia. . . . No, the weapons had been left with Musenge. If there was a battle today, it would be of a different sort.

  The first birdcall he heard seemed no different from others he had heard that morning, but it was repeated ahead, and then again. Just one call each time. He spotted a man up in a tall oak with a crossbow that tracked him as he rode. Seeing him was not easy; his breastplate and open-faced helmet were painted a dull green that faded into the tree's foliage. A length of red cloth tied around his left arm helped, though. If he really wanted to hide, he should have removed that.

  Karede motioned to Ajimbura and the wiry little man grinned at him, a wizened, blue-eyed rat, before allowing his chestnut to fall back behind the Guards. His long knife was under his coat today. He should pass for a servant.

  Soon enoug
h Karede was riding into the camp itself. It had no tents or shelters of any kind, but there were long horselines laid out in orderly fashion, and many more men in green breastplates. Heads turned to watch his party pass, but few men were on their feet, and fewer held a crossbow. A fair number of them were asleep on their blankets, doubtless tired from all the hard riding they had been doing by night. So the birdcall had told them he was not enough to present a danger. They had the look of well-trained soldiers, but he had expected as much. What he had not expected was how few they were. Oh, the trees might be hiding some, but surely the camp held no more than seven or eight thousand men, far too few to have carried out the campaign Loune had described. He felt a sudden tightness in his chest. Where were the rest? The High Lady might be with one of the other bands. He hoped Ajimbura was taking note of the numbers.

  Before he had gone far, a short man mounted on a tall dun met him and reined in where he had to stop or ride the man down. The front half of his head was shaved, and appeared to be powdered, of all things. He was no popinjay, though. His dark coat might be silk, yet he wore the same dull green breastplate as the common soldiers. His eyes were hard and expressionless as he scanned Melitene and Mylen, the Ogier. His face did not change as his gaze returned to Karede.

  "Lord Mat described that armor to us," he said in accents even quicker and more clipped than those of the Altarans. "To what do we owe the honor of a visit from the Deathwatch Guard?"

  Lord Mat? Who under the Light was Lord Mat? "Furyk Karede," Karede said. "I wish to speak with the man who calls himself Thom Merrilin."

  "Talmanes Delovinde," the man said, finding manners. "You want to talk to Thom? Well, I see no harm in it. I will take you to him."

  Karede heeled Aldazar after Delovinde. The man had made no mention of the obvious, that he and the others could not be allowed to leave and carry word of this army's location. He had some manners. At least, they would not be allowed to leave unless Karede's mad plan worked. Musenge gave him only one chance in ten of success, one in five of living. Personally, he himself believed the odds longer, but he had to make the attempt. And Merrilin's presence argued in favor of the High Lady's presence.