“Colavaere has taken up farming,” Rand growled. They blinked at him, wondering whether that was a joke. “The Sun Throne is empty again, and waiting for Elayne.” He had considered weaving a ward against listeners, but a ward could be detected by anyone searching, man or woman, and its presence would announce that something interesting was being said. Well, everything said here would be known from the Dragonwall to the sea soon enough.
Fedwin was already rubbing his wrists, while Jalani sheathed her knife. No one looked at them twice; all eyes were on Rand. Frowning at Nerilea, he waggled his bound hands until Sulin sliced the cords. “I didn’t realize this was to be a family gathering.” Nerilea looked a trifle abashed, maybe, but no one else did.
“After you marry,” Davram murmured with a smile, “you will learn you must choose very carefully what to keep from your wife.” Deira glanced down at him, pursing her lips.
“Wives are a great comfort,” Bael laughed, “if a man does not tell them too much.” Smiling, Dorindha ran her fingers into his hair—and gripped for a moment as though she meant to tug his head off. Bael grunted, but not for Dorindha’s fingers alone. Melaine wiped her small belt knife on her heavy skirt and sheathed it. The two women grinned at one another over his head while he rubbed at his shoulder, where a small spot of blood stained his cadin’sor. Deira nodded thoughtfully; it seemed she had just gotten an idea.
“What woman could I hate enough to marry her to the Dragon Reborn?” Rand said coldly. That caused a silence solid enough to touch.
He tried to take rein on his anger. He should have expected this. Melaine was not just a Wise One, she was a dreamwalker, as were Amys and Bair. Among other things, they could talk to one another in their dreams, and to others; a useful skill, though they had only used it for him once. It was Wise Ones’ business. No wonder at all that Melaine was abreast of everything that had happened. No wonder that she told Dorindha everything, Wise Ones’ business or no; the two women were best friends and sisters rolled into one. Once Melaine let Bael know of the kidnapping, of course he had told Bashere; expecting Bashere to keep that from his wife was like expecting him to keep it secret that their house was on fire. Inch by inch he drew the anger in, forced it down.
“Has Elayne arrived?” He tried to make his voice casual, and missed. No matter. There were reasons everyone knew for him to be anxious. Andor might not be as unquiet as Cairhien, but Elayne on the throne was the fastest way to settle both lands. Maybe the only way.
“Not yet.” Bashere shrugged. “But tales have come north of Aes Sedai with an army somewhere in Murandy, or maybe Altara. That could be young Mat and his Band of the Red Hand, with the Daughter-Heir and the sisters who fled the Tower when Siuan Sanche was deposed.”
Rand rubbed his wrists where the cords had chafed. All that “captive” rigmarole had been on the chance Elayne was here already. Elayne, and Aviendha. So he could come and go without them learning of it till he was gone. Maybe he would have found a way to peek at them. Maybe. . . . He was a fool, and no maybe about that.
“Do you mean those sisters to swear oath to you, too?” Deira’s tone was icy as her face. She did not like him; as she saw it, her husband had set off down a road that likely would end with his head on a pike over a gate in Tar Valon, and Rand had put his feet on that road. “The White Tower will not hold still for your coercing Aes Sedai.”
Rand made her a small bow, and burn her if she took it for mocking. Deira ni Ghaline t’Bashere never gave him a title, never even used his name; she could as well have been talking to a footman, and not a very intelligent or trustworthy one. “Should they choose to swear, I’ll accept their oaths. I doubt many are exactly eager to return to Tar Valon. If they choose otherwise, they can go their own way, so long as they don’t put themselves against me.”
“The White Tower has put itself against you,” Bael said, leaning forward with his fists on his knees. His blue eyes made Deira’s voice seem warm. “An enemy who comes once, will come again. Unless they are stopped. My spears will follow wherever the Car’a’carn leads.” Melaine nodded, of course; she very likely wanted every last Aes Sedai shielded and kneeling under guard if not bound hand and foot. But Dorindha nodded as well, and Sulin, and Bashere knuckled his mustaches thoughtfully. Rand did not know whether to laugh or weep.
“Don’t you think I’ve enough on my plate without a war against the White Tower? Elaida grabbed my throat and was slapped down.” The ground erupting in fire and torn flesh. Ravens and vultures gorging. How many dead? Slapped down. “If she has sense enough to stop there, I will too.” So long as they did not ask him to trust. The chest. He was shaking his head, half-aware of Lews Therin suddenly moaning about the dark and the thirst. He could ignore, he had to ignore, but not forget, or trust.
Leaving Bael and Bashere arguing over whether Elaida did have sense enough to stop, now that she had begun, he moved to a map-covered table against the wall, beneath a tapestry of some battle where the White Lion of Andor stood prominent. Apparently Bael and Bashere used this room for their planning. A little rooting around found the map he needed, a large roll displaying all of Andor from the Mountains of Mist to the River Erinin, and parts of the lands to the south as well, Ghealdan and Altara and Murandy.
“The women held captive in the treekillers’ lands are allowed to cause no trouble, so why should any others?” Melaine said, apparently in answer to something he had not heard. She sounded angry.
“We will do what we must, Deira t’Bashere,” Dorindha said calmly; she was seldom anything but. “Hold to your courage, and we will arrive where we must go.”
“When you leap from a cliff,” Deira replied, “it is too late for anything but holding to your courage. And hoping there’s a haywain at the bottom to land in.” Her husband chuckled as though she was making a joke. She did not sound it.
Spreading the map out and weighting the corners with ink jars and sand bottles, Rand measured off distances with his fingers. Mat was not moving very fast if rumor placed him in Altara or Murandy. He took pride in how fast the Band could march. Maybe the Aes Sedai were slowing him, with servants and wagons. Maybe there were more sisters than he had thought. Rand realized his hands were clenched into fists and made them straighten. He needed Elayne. To take the throne here and in Cairhien; that was why he needed her. Just that. Aviendha. . . . He did not need her, not at all, and she had made it clear she had no need for him. She was safe, away from him. He could keep them both safe by keeping them as far from him as possible. Light, if he could only look at them. He needed Mat, though, with Perrin being stubborn. He was not sure how Mat had suddenly become expert on everything to do with battle, but even Bashere respected Mat’s opinions. About war, anyway.
“They treated him as da’tsang,” Sulin growled, and some of the other Maidens growled wordlessly in echo.
“We know,” Melaine said grimly. “They have no honor.”
“Will he truly hold back after what you describe?” Deira demanded in disbelieving tones.
The map did not extend far enough south to show Illian—no map on the table showed any part of that country—but Rand’s hand drifted down across Murandy, and he could imagine the Doirlon Hills, not far inside Illian’s borders, with a line of hillforts no invading army could afford to ignore. And some two hundred and fifty miles to the east, across the Plains of Maredo, an army such as had not been seen since the nations gathered before Tar Valon in the Aiel War, maybe not since Artur Hawkwing’s day. Tairen, Cairhienin, Aiel, all poised to smash into Illian. If Perrin would not lead, then Mat must. Only there was not enough time. There was never enough time.
“Burn my eyes,” Davram muttered. “You never mentioned that, Melaine. Lady Caraline and Lord Toram camped right outside the city, and High Lord Darlin as well? They didn’t come together by chance, now right at this time, they did not. That’s a pit of vipers to have on your doorstep, whoever you are.”
“Let the algai’d’siswai dance,” Bael replied. “Dead
vipers bite no one.”
Sammael had always been at his best defending. That was Lews Therin’s memory, from the War of the Shadow. With two men inside one skull, maybe it was to be expected that memories would drift between them. Had Lews Therin suddenly found himself recalling herding sheep, or cutting firewood, or feeding the chickens? Rand could hear him faintly, raging to kill, to destroy; thoughts of the Forsaken almost always drove Lews Therin over the brink.
“Deira t’Bashere speaks truly,” Bael said. “We must stay on the path we have begun until our enemies are destroyed, or we are.”
“That was not how I meant it,” Deira said dryly. “But you are right. We have no choice, now. Until our enemies are destroyed, or we are.”
Death, destruction and madness floated in Rand’s head as he studied the map. Sammael would be at those forts soon after the army struck, Sammael with the strength of a Forsaken and the knowledge of the Age of Legends. Lord Brend, he called himself, one of the Council of Nine, and Lord Brend they called him who refused to admit the Forsaken were loose, but Rand knew him. With Lews Therin’s memory, he knew Sammael’s face, knew him to the bone.
“What does Dyelin Taravin intend with Naean Arawn and Elenia Sarand?” Dorindha asked. “I confess I do not understand this shutting people away.”
“What she does there is hardly important,” Davram said. “It is her meetings with those Aes Sedai that concern me.”
“Dyelin Taravin is a fool,” Melaine muttered. “She believes the rumors about the Car’a’carn kneeling to the Amyrlin Seat. She will not brush her hair unless those Aes Sedai give her permission.”
“You mistake her,” Deira said firmly. “Dyelin is strong enough to rule Andor; she proved that at Aringill. Of course she listens to the Aes Sedai—only a fool ignores Aes Sedai—but to listen is not to obey.”
The wagons that had been brought from Dumai’s Wells would have to be searched again. The fat-little-man angreal had to be there somewhere. None of the sisters who escaped could have had a clue what it was. Unless, perhaps, one had stuck a souvenir of the Dragon Reborn in her pouch. No. It had to be in the wagons somewhere. With that, he was more than a match for any of the Forsaken. Without it. . . . Death, destruction and madness.
Suddenly what he had been hearing rushed forward. “What was that?” he demanded, turning from the ivory-inlaid table.
Surprised faces turned toward him. Jonan straightened from where he had been slouching against the doorframe. The Maidens, squatting easily on their heels, suddenly appeared alert. They had been talking idly among themselves; even they were wary around him now.
Fingering one of her ivory necklaces, Melaine shared a decided look between Bael and Davram, then spoke before anyone else. “There are nine Aes Sedai at an inn called The Silver Swan, in what Davram Bashere calls the New City.” She said the word “inn” in an odd way, and “city” as well; she had only known them from books before coming across the Dragonwall. “He and Bael say we must leave them alone unless they do something against you. I think you have learned about waiting for Aes Sedai, Rand al’Thor.”
“My fault,” Bashere sighed, “if fault there is. Though what Melaine expects to do, I can’t say. Eight sisters stopped at The Silver Swan almost a month ago, just after you left. Now and then a few more come or go, but there are never more than ten at one time. They keep to themselves, cause no trouble, and ask no questions that Bael or I can learn. A few Red sisters have come into the city, as well; twice. Those at The Silver Swan all have Warders, but these never do. I’m sure they are Reds. Two or three appear, ask after men heading for the Black Tower, and after a day or so, they leave. Without learning much, I’d say. That Black Tower is as good as a fortress for holding in secrets. None of them has made trouble, and I would rather not trouble them until I know it is necessary.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Rand said slowly. He sat down in a chair opposite Bashere, gripping the carved arms till his knuckles hurt. Aes Sedai gathering here, Aes Sedai gathering in Cairhien. Happenstance? Lews Therin rumbled like thunder on the horizon about death and betrayal. He would have to warn Taim. Not about the Aes Sedai at The Silver Swan—Taim certainly knew already; why had he not mentioned it?—about staying away from them, keeping the Asha’man away. If Dumai’s Wells was to be an end, there could be no new beginnings here. Too many things seemed to be spinning out of control. The harder he tried to gather them all in, the more there were and the faster they spun. Sooner or later, everything was going to fall, and shatter. The thought dried his throat. Thom Merrilin had taught him to juggle a little, but he had never been very good. Now he had to be very good indeed. He wished he had something to wet his throat.
He did not realize he had spoken that last aloud until Jalani straightened from her crouch and strutted across the room to where a tall silver pitcher stood on a small table. Filling a hammered silver goblet, she brought it back to Rand with a smile, her mouth opening as she proffered it. He expected something rude, but a change came over her face. All she said was, “Car’a’carn,” then went back to her place with the other Maidens, so dignified it seemed she was imitating Dorindha, or maybe Deira. Somara gestured in handtalk, and suddenly every Maiden was red-faced and biting her lips to keep from laughing. Every Maiden but Jalani, who was just red-faced.
The wine punch tasted of plums. Rand could remember fat sweet plums from the orchards across the river when he was young, climbing the trees to pick them himself. . . . Tilting his head back, he drained the goblet. There were plum trees in the Two Rivers, but no orchards of them, and certainly not across any river. Keep your bloody memories to yourself, he snarled at Lews Therin. The man in his head laughed at something, giggling quietly to himself.
Bashere frowned at the Maidens, then glanced at Bael and his wives, all impassive as stone, and shook his head. He got on well with Bael, but Aiel in general mystified him. “Since no one is bringing me any drink,” he said, rising, and went to pour his own. He took a long swallow that wet his heavy mustaches. “Now, that’s cooling. Taim’s way of enrolling men seems to sweep up every fellow who’d like to follow the Dragon Reborn. He has delivered a goodly army to me, men who lack whatever it is your Asha’man need. They all talk wide-eyed about walking though holes in the air, but none has been anywhere near the Black Tower. I’m trying out a few thoughts young Mat had.”
Rand waved that away with the empty goblet. “Tell me about Dyelin.” Dyelin of House Taravin would be next in line for the throne should anything happen to Elayne, but he had told her he was having Elayne brought to Caemlyn. “If she thinks she can take the Lion Throne, I can find a farm for her, too.”
“Take the throne?” Deira said incredulously, and her husband laughed out loud.
“I have no understanding of wetlander ways,” Bael said, “but I do not think that is what she has done.”
“Far from it.” Davram carried the pitcher over to pour more punch for Rand. “Some lesser lords and ladies who thought to curry favor proclaimed for her at Aringill. She moves quickly, Lady Dyelin. Within four days she had the two leaders hanged, for treason to the Daughter-Heir Elayne, and ordered another twenty flogged.” He chuckled approvingly. His wife sniffed. Likely she would have had the road lined with gibbets all the way from Aringill to Caemlyn.
“Then what was that about her ruling Andor?” Rand demanded. “And imprisoning Elenia and Naean.”
“They are the ones who tried to claim the throne,” Deira said, dark eyes sparkling angrily.
Bashere nodded. He was much calmer. “Only three days ago. When word arrived of Colavaere’s coronation, and the rumors from Cairhien that you had gone to Tar Valon began to sound more real. With trade beginning again, there are so many pigeons in the air between Cairhien and Caemlyn, you could walk on their backs.” Putting the pitcher back, he returned to his chair. “Naean proclaimed for the Lion Throne in the morning, Elenia before midday, and by sunset Dyelin, Pelivar and Luan had arrested them both. They announced Dyelin as Regen
t the next morning. In Elayne’s name, until Elayne returns. Most of the Houses of Andor have declared support for Dyelin. I think some would like her to take the throne herself, but Aringill keeps even the most powerful careful of their tongues.” Closing one eye, Bashere pointed at Rand. “You, they do not mention at all. Whether that is good or bad, it will take a wiser head than mine to say.”
Deira offered a cool smile, looking down that nose of hers. “Those . . . lickspittles . . . you allowed to make free of the palace have all fled the city, it seems. Fled Andor, some of them, according to rumor. You should know, they were all behind either Elenia or Naean.”
Rand carefully set his full goblet on the floor beside his chair. He had only let Lir and Arymilla and the rest remain in order to try pushing Dyelin and those who supported her into cooperation with him. They would never have left Andor to the likes of Lord Lir. With time and Elayne’s return, it might yet work. But everything was whirling faster and faster, whirling away from his fingers. There were a few things he could control, though.
“Fedwin, there, is an Asha’man,” he said. “He can bring messages to me in Cairhien, if there’s need.” That with a glare for Melaine, who returned the blandest sort of look. Deira studied Fedwin as she might a dead rat some overeager dog had dropped on her rug. Davram and Bael were more considering; Fedwin tried to stand straighter under their gaze. “Don’t let anyone know who he is,” Rand went on. “No one. That’s why he isn’t wearing black. I am taking two more to Lord Semaradrid and High Lord Weiramon tonight. They’ll have need when they face Sammael in the Doirlon Hills. I will be busy chewing on Cairhien for a while yet, it seems.” And maybe Andor, too.
“Does this mean you will send the spears forward at last?” Bael said. “You give the orders tonight?”
Rand nodded, and Bashere gave a great hoot of laughter. “Now, that calls for a good wine. Or it would if it wasn’t hot enough to make a man’s blood thick as porridge.” Laughter slid into a grimace. “Burn me, but I wish I could be there. Still, I suppose holding Caemlyn for the Dragon Reborn is no small thing.”
A Crown of Swords Page 19