"Of course," Niall rose smoothly; she would have risen too, so he did not tower over her, but she was not sure her legs would support her. "I will return in a day or two. In the meantime, I wish to be sure of your safety. Ailron is so wrapped in his own concerns, there is no telling who might slip in, perhaps intent on harm. I have taken the liberty of posting a few of the Children here. With Ailron’s consent."
Morgase had always heard that the Whitecloaks were the true power in Amadicia, and she was certain she had just heard proof.
Niall was slightly more formal in his leaving than in coming, making a bow that might have done for an equal. One way and another, he was letting her know that she had no choice.
No sooner had he gone than Morgase pushed to her feet, but Breane was still quicker in darting for the doors. Even so, before either woman had gone three steps, one of them banged open, Tallanvor and the other two men spilling into the room.
"Morgase," Tallanvor breathed, trying to absorb her with his eyes. "I was afraid — "
"Afraid?" she said contemptuously. It was too much; he would not learn. "Is this how you protect me? A boy could have done as much! But then, a boy did."
That smoldering gaze remained on her a moment longer; then he turned and pushed his way past Basel and Lamgwin.
The innkeeper stood wringing his hands. "They were at least thirty, my Queen. Tallanvor would have fought; he tried to cry out, to warn you, but they clubbed him with a hilt. The old one said they didn’t mean to hurt you, but they didn’t need any but you, and if they had to kill us…" His eyes went to Lini and Breane, who was staring Lamgwin up and down to make sure he had taken no injury, The man appeared as concerned for her. "My Queen, if I’d thought we could do any good… I’m sorry. I failed you."
"‘The right medicine always tastes bitter,’" Lini murmured softly. "Most of all for a child who throws a sulky tantrum." At least for once she did not say it for the whole room to hear.
She was right. Morgase knew that. Except about the tantrum, of course. Basel looked miserable enough to welcome beheading. "You did not fail me, Master Gill. I may ask you to die for me one day, but only when there’s greater good to come of it. Niall only wanted to talk." Basel perked up right away, but Morgase could feel Lini’s eyes on her. Very bitter. "Will you ask Tallanvor to come to me. I— I wish to apologize to him for my hasty words."
"The best way to apologize to a man," Breane said, "is to trip him in a secluded part of the garden."
Something snapped in Morgase. Before she knew it she had hurled her goblet at the woman, spraying punch across the carpet. "Get out!" she shrieked. "All of you, get out! You can deliver my apologies to Tallanvor, Master Gill."
Breane calmly brushed punch from her dress, then took her time walking to Lamgwin and linking her arm through his. Basel was all but bouncing on his toes trying to herd them out.
To Morgase’s surprise, Lini went, too. That was not Lini’s way; she was much more likely to remain and lecture her old charge as if she were still ten. Morgase did not know why she put up with it. Still, she almost told Lini to stay. But then they were all gone, the door was shut — and she had more important matters to worry about than whether Lini’s feelings were bruised.
Pacing across the carpet, she tried to think. Ailron would demand trade concessions — and maybe Niall’s "sacrifice" — for help. She was willing to give him the trade concessions, but she feared Niall might be right about how many soldiers Ailron would spare her. Niall’s demands would be easier to grant, in a way. Probably free access to Andor for as many Whitecloaks as he chose. And freedom for them to root out the Darkfriends they found in every attic, to rouse mobs against friendless women they accused of being Aes Sedai, to kill real Aes Sedai. Niall might even demand a law against channeling, against women going to the White Tower.
It would be possible — but difficult, and bloody — to oust the Whitecloaks once they entrenched themselves, but was it necessary to let them in at all? Rand al’Thor was the Dragon Reborn — she was certain of that no matter what Niall said; she was almost certain — yet ruling nations was no part of the Prophecies of the Dragon that she knew. Dragon Reborn or false Dragon, he could not have Andor. Yet how was she to know?
A timid scratch at the door brought her around. "Come," she said sharply.
The door opened slowly to admit a grinning young man in gold-and-red livery, a tray in his hands bearing a fresh pitcher of iced punch, the silver already beading with cold. She had half-expected Tallanvor. Lamgwin stood guard alone in the corridor, as far as she could see. Or rather lounged against a wall like a tavern bouncer. She waved the young man to put his tray down.
Angrily — Tallanvor should have come; he should have come! — she resumed her pacing. Basel and Lamgwin might hear rumors in the nearest village, but they would be rumors, and maybe planted by Niall. The same held true for the palace servants.
"My Queen. May I speak, my Queen?"
Morgase turned in amazement. Those were the accents of Andor. The young man was on his knees, grin flashing from uncertain to cocky and back. He might have been good-looking except that his nose had been broken and not properly tended. On Lamgwin it looked rugged, if low; this lad looked as if he had tripped and fallen on his face.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "How did you come here?"
"I’m Paitr Conel, my Queen. From Market Sheran. In Andor?" he added, as if she might not realize that. Impatiently she motioned him to go on. "I came to Amador with my uncle Jen. He’s a merchant from Four Kings, and he thought he might find some Taraboner dyes. They’re dear, with all the troubles in Tarabon, but he thought they might be cheaper —" Her mouth tightened, and he went on in a rush. "We heard about you, my Queen, that you were here in the palace, and given the law in Amadicia, and you being trained in the White Tower and all, we thought we could help you…" He swallowed hard, and finished in a small voice. "Help you escape."
"And are you prepared to help me… escape?" Not the best plan, but she could always ride north to Ghealdan. How Tallanvor would gloat. No, he would not, and that would be worse.
But Paitr shook his head wretchedly. "Uncle Jen had a plan, but now there’s Whitecloaks all over the palace. I didn’t know what else to do but come on to you, the way he told me. He’ll think of something, my Queen. He’s smart."
"I’m sure he is," she murmured. So Ghealdan went glimmering again. "How long are you gone from Andor? A month? Two?" He nodded. "Then you don’t know what is happening in Caemlyn," she sighed.
The young man licked his lips. "I… We’re staying with a man in Amador who has pigeons. A merchant. He gets messages from everywhere. Caemlyn, too. But it’s all bad news that I hear, my Queen. It may take a day or two, but my uncle will figure out another way. I just wanted to let you know help was nearby."
Well, that was as might be. A race between Pedron Niall and this Paitr’s uncle Jen. She wished she were not so sure how to bet. "In the meantime, you can tell me just how bad matters are in Caemlyn."
"My Queen, I was just supposed to let you know about the help. My uncle will be angry if I stay — "
"I am your Queen, Paitr," Morgase said firmly, "and your uncle Jen’s, too. He will not mind if you answer my questions."
Paitr looked as though he might bolt, but she settled herself in a chair and began digging for the truth.
Pedron Niall was feeling quite good as he dismounted in the main courtyard of the Fortress of the Light and tossed his reins to a stableman. Morgase was well in hand, and he had not had to lie once. He did not like lying. It had all been his own interpretation of events, but he was sure of it. Rand al’Thor was a false Dragon and a tool of the Tower. The world was full of fools who could not think. The Last Battle would not be some titanic struggle between the Dark One and a Dragon Reborn, a mere man. The Creator had abandoned mankind to its own devices long ago. No, when Tarmon Gai’don came, it would be as in the Trolloc Wars two thousand years ago and more, when hordes of Trollocs and other
Shadowspawn poured out of the Great Blight, tore through the Borderlands and nearly drowned humanity in a sea of blood. He did not mean to let mankind face that divided and unprepared.
A ripple of bows from white-cloaked Children followed him through the stone-walled corridors of the Fortress, all the way to his private audience chamber. In the anteroom, his pinch-faced secretary, Balwer, leaped to his feet with a fussy recitation of papers awaiting the Lord Captain’s signature, but Niall’s attention was on the tall man who rose easily from one of the chairs against the wall, a crimson shepherd’s crook behind the golden sun on his cloak and three golden knots of rank below.
Jaichim Carridin, Inquisitor of the Hand of the Light, looked as hard as he was, but with more gray at his temples than the last time Niall had seen him. His dark, deep-set eyes held a tinge of worry, and it was no wonder. The last two missions he had been given ended in disaster; not auspicious for a man who aspired to be High Inquisitor one day, and perhaps even Lord Captain Commander.
Tossing his cloak to Balwer, Niall motioned Carridin to follow into the audience chamber proper, where captured battle flags and the banners of old enemies made trophies on the dark paneled walls and a huge sunburst set into the floor held enough gold to make most men stare. Aside from that, it was a plain, soldier’s room, a reflection of Niall himself. Niall seated himself in a high-backed chair, well made but undecorated. The long twin hearths at either end of the room stood cold and swept at a time of year when they should have held roaring fires. Proof enough that the Last Battle was near. Carridin bowed deeply and knelt on the sunburst, worn smooth by centuries of feet and knees.
"Have you speculated on why I sent for you, Carridin?" After Almoth Plain and Falme, after Tanchico, the man could not be blamed if he believed he was to be arrested. But if he suspected such a possibility, nothing showed in his voice. As usual, he could not help showing that he knew more than anyone else. Definitely more than he was supposed to.
"The Aes Sedai in Altara, my Lord Captain Commander. A chance to wipe out half the Tar Valon witches, right on our doorstep." An exaggeration; a third were in Salidar, perhaps, but no more.
"And have you speculated aloud, among your friends?" Niall doubted that Carridin had any, but there were those he drank with. Of late, got drunk with. The man had certain skills, though; useful skills.
"No, my Lord Captain Commander. I know better than that."
"Good," Niall said. "Because you are not going anywhere near this Salidar, and neither is any other of the Children." He could not be sure whether it was relief that flashed across Carridin’s face. If so, it was out of character; the man had never shown any lack of courage. And relief certainly did not suit his reply.
"But they are waiting to be snapped up. This is proof the rumors are true, the Tower is divided. We can destroy this lot without the others raising a hand. The Tower could be weakened enough to fall."
"Think you so?" Niall said dryly. He laced his fingers across his middle and kept his voice mild. Questioners — the Hand despised that name, but even he used it — Questioners never saw anything not shoved under their noses. "Even the Tower can hardly come out openly for this false Dragon al’Thor. What if he turns, as Logain did? But a rebel group? They could support him, and the White Tower’s skirts are clean whatever happens." He was sure that was the way of it. If not, there would be ways to use any real split to further weaken the Tower, but he believed he was right. "In any case, what the world sees, matters. I will not let them see merely a struggle between the Children and the Tower." Not until the world saw the Tower for what it was, a sink of Darkfriends meddling with forces mankind was not meant to touch, the force that had caused the Breaking of the World. "This struggle is the world against the false Dragon al’Thor."
"Then if I am not going to Altara, my Lord Captain Commander, what are my orders?"
Niall let his head fall back with a sigh. He felt tired suddenly. He felt all of his years and more. "Oh, you will be going to Altara, Carridin."
Rand al’Thor’s name and face had been known to him since shortly after the supposed invasion from across the sea at Falme, an Aes Sedai plot that had cost the Children a thousand men and begun the spread of the Dragonsworn and chaos across Tarabon and Arad Doman. He had known what al’Thor was and believed he could use him as a goad to force the nations to unite. Once bound together, behind his leadership, they could have disposed of al’Thor and been ready for the Trolloc hordes. He had sent emissaries to every ruler of every land to point out the danger. But al’Thor moved faster than he could believe even now. He had meant to let a rabid lion roam the streets long enough to frighten everyone, but the lion had become a giant that moved like lightning.
Yet all was not lost; he had to keep reminding himself. More than a thousand years ago, Guaire Amalasan had named himself the Dragon Reborn, a false Dragon who could channel. Amalasan had conquered more land than al’Thor now held, before a young king named Artur Paendrag Tanreall took the field against him and began his own climb to empire. Niall did not consider himself another Artur Hawkwing, but he was what the world had. He would not give up while he lived.
Already he had begun to counter al’Thor’s growing strength. Besides emissaries to rulers, he had sent men to Tarabon and Arad Doman. A few men to find the right ears, to whisper that all their troubles could be laid at the feet of the Dragonsworn, those fools and Darkfriends who had declared for al’Thor. And at the feet of the White Tower. Plenty of rumors already came out of Tarabon of Aes Sedai involved in the fighting, rumors to ready men’s ears to hear the truth. Now was time to launch the next part of his new plan, to show the fence-sitters which side to choose. Time. He had so little time. Yet he could not help smiling. There were those, now dead, who had once said, "When Niall smiles, he is going for the throat."
"Altara and Murandy," he told Carridin, "are about to be tormented by a plague of Dragonsworn."
The chamber had the appearance of a palace sitting room — vaulted ceiling of worked plaster, finely woven carpets on the white-tiled floor, elaborately carved paneling for the walls — though it was far from any palace. Indeed, it was far from anywhere, in any way that most humans would understand. Mesaana’s russet silk dress rustled as she moved around a lapis-inlaid table, amusing herself with the placement of ivory dominoes in a complex tower, each level larger than the one below. She prided herself on doing this purely with a knowledge of stresses and leverage, not a thread of the Power. She had the tower to nine levels.
In truth, more than amusing herself, she was avoiding conversation with her companion. Semirhage sat doing needlework in a high-backed chair covered in red tapestry, long slender fingers deftly making minuscule stitches to form a labyrinthine pattern of tiny flowers. It was always a surprise that the woman liked an activity so… ordinary. Her black dress was a sharp contrast against the chair. Not even Demandred dared suggest to Semirhage’s face that she wore black so often because Lanfear wore white.
For the thousandth time Mesaana tried to analyze why she felt uncomfortable around the other woman. Mesaana knew her own strengths and weaknesses, with the One Power and elsewhere. She matched well with Semirhage on most points, and where she did not, she had other strengths to lay against weaknesses in Semirhage. It was not that. Semirhage took delight in cruelty, a pure pleasure in giving anguish, but that surely was not the problem. Mesaana could be cruel where necessary, and she did not care what Semirhage did to others. There had to be a reason, but she could not find it.
Irritably she placed another domino, and the tower collapsed with a clatter, spilling ivory tiles onto the floor. With a click of her tongue, she turned from the table, folding her arms beneath her breasts. "Where is Demandred? Seventeen days since he went to Shayol Ghul, but he waits until now to inform us of a message, then does not appear." She had been to the Pit of Doom twice in that time herself, made that nerve-racking walk with the stone fangs brushing her hair. To find nothing except a strange too-tall Myrddraal that woul
d not speak. The Bore had been there, certainly, but the Great Lord had not answered. She did not remain long either time. She had thought herself beyond fear, at least the sort a Halfman’s gaze brought, but twice the Myrddraal’s silent eyeless stare had sent her away with quickening steps that only tight self-control kept from becoming a run. Had channeling there not been a sure way to die, she would have destroyed the Halfman, or Traveled from the Pit itself. "Where is he?"
Semirhage raised her eyes from her stitchery, unblinking dark eyes in a smooth dark face, then put aside the needlework and stood gracefully. "He will come when he comes," she said calmly. She was always calm, just as she was always graceful. "If you do not want to wait, then go."
Unconsciously Mesaana raised herself a little on her toes, but she still had to look up. Semirhage stood taller than most men, though so perfectly proportioned that you did not realize it until she stood over you, looking down. "Go? I will go. And he can — "
There was no warning, of course. There never was, when a man channeled. A bright vertical line appeared in the air, then widened as the gateway turned sideways to open long enough for Demandred to step through, giving them each a small bow. He was all in dark gray today, with a little pale lace at his neck. He adapted easily to the fashions and fabrics of this Age.
His hawk-nosed profile was handsome enough, though not quite the sort to make every woman’s heart beat faster. In a way, "almost" and "not quite" had been the story of Demandred’s life. He had had the misfortune to be born one day after Lews Therin Telamon, who would become the Dragon, while Barid Bel Medar, as he was then, spent years almost matching Lews Therin’s accomplishments, not quite matching Lews Therin’s fame. Without Lews Therin, he would have been the most acclaimed man of the Age. Had he been appointed to lead instead of the man he considered his intellectual inferior, an overcautious fool who too often managed to scrape up luck, would he stand here today? Now, that was idle speculation, though she had made it before. No, the important point was that Demandred despised the Dragon, and now that the Dragon had been Reborn, he had transferred that contempt whole.
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