Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  This made Berelain frown. She was a master of political interactions, possessing a skill and subtlety that Faile envied. Despite her youth, Berelain had kept her tiny city-state free from the much larger and powerful Tear. Faile could only guess how much juggling, political double-dealing and sheer cleverness that must have required.

  "So why have you come to me?" Berelain asked, sitting down. "If your heart is at ease, then there is no problem."

  "We both know that whether or not you slept with my husband is not an issue here," Faile said, and Berelain's eyes widened. "It isn't what happened, but what is presumed, that angers me."

  "Rumors can be found in any place where people are gathered," Berelain said. "Particularly where men gossip."

  "Such strong, persistent rumors are unlikely to have happened without encouragement," Faile said. "Now everyone in the camp—including the refugees sworn to me—assumes that you bedded my husband while I was away. This not only makes me look like a fool, but casts a shadow upon Perrin's honor. He cannot lead if people take him for the type of man who will run to the arms of another woman the moment his wife is away."

  "Other rulers have overcome such rumors," Berelain said, "and for many of them, the rumors weren't unfounded. Monarchies survive infidelity."

  "Perhaps in Illian or Tear," Faile said, "but Saldaea expects better of its monarchs. As do the people of the Two Rivers. Perrin is not like other rulers. The way his men look at him rips him apart inside."

  "I think you underestimate him," Berelain said. "He will overcome and

  he will learn to use rumor for his gain. That will make him stronger as a

  man and a ruler."

  Faile studied the woman. "You don't understand him at all, do you?

  Berelain reacted as if she'd been slapped, pulling back. She obviously didn't like the bluntness of this conversation. That might give Faile some

  slight advantage.

  "I understand men, Lady Faile," Berelain said coldly. "And your husband is no exception. Since you have decided to be candid, I will return in kind. You were clever to take Aybara when you did, welding Saldaea to the Dragon Reborn, but do not think that he will remain yours without contest."

  Faile took a deep breath. It was time to make her play. "Perrin's reputation has been severely damaged by what you have done, my Lady First. For my own dishonor, I might have been able to forgive you. But not for his."

  "I don't see what can be done."

  "I do," Faile said. "And I'm pretty certain one of us is going to have

  to die."

  Berelain remained impassive. "Excuse me?"

  "In the Borderlands, if a woman finds that another has been bedding her husband, she is given the option of knife combat." That was true, though the tradition was an old one, rarely observed any longer. "The only way to clear my name is for you and me to fight."

  "What would that prove?"

  "If nothing else, if you were dead, it would stop anyone from thinking that you are still sleeping with my husband behind my back."

  "Are you actually threatening me in my own tent?"

  "This is not a threat," Faile said, remaining firm. Light, she hoped this went the right way. "This is a challenge."

  Berelain studied her, eyes calculating. "I will make a public statement. I will publicly chastise my maids for their rumors, and will tell the camp that nothing happened."

  "Do you really think that would stop the rumors? You didn't object to them before my return; that is seen as proof. And, of course, now you would be expected to act as if nothing happened."

  'You can't be serious about this . . . challenge."

  In regards to my husband's honor, Berelain, I am always serious." She

  met the woman's eyes, and saw concern there. Berelain didn't want to fight

  her. And, of course, Faile didn't want to fight Berelain, and not just because

  she wasn't certain if she could win or not. Though she had always wanted

  to get revenge on the First for that time when Berelain had taken her knife

  from her.

  "I will make the challenge formally this evening, before the entire camp," Faile said, keeping her voice even. "You will have one day to respond or leave."

  "I will not be a party to this foolishness."

  "You already are," Faile said, rising. "This is what you set in motion the moment you let those rumors begin."

  Faile turned to walk from the tent. She had to work hard to hide her nervousness. Had Berelain seen how her brow prickled with sweat? Faile felt as if she walked on the very edge of a sword. Should word of this challenge get to Perrin, he would be furious. She had to hope that—

  "Lady Faile," Berelain said from behind. The First's voice was edged with concern. "Surely we can come to another accommodation. Do not force this."

  Faile stopped, heart thumping. She turned back. The First looked genuinely worried. Yes, she believed that Faile was bloodthirsty enough to make this challenge.

  "I want you out of Perrin's life, Berelain," Faile said. "I will have that, one way or another."

  "You wish me to leave?" Berelain asked. "The tasks the Lord Dragon gave me are finished. I suppose I could take my men and march another direction."

  No, Faile didn't want her to go. The disappearance of her troops would be a blow, in the face of that looming Whitecloak army. And Perrin would have need of the Winged Guard again, Faile suspected.

  "No," Faile said. "Leaving will do nothing for the rumors, Berelain."

  "It will do as much as killing me would," the woman said dryly. "If we fight, and you somehow managed to kill me, all that would be said is that you discovered your husband's infidelity and became enraged. I fail to see how that would help your position. It would only encourage the rumors."

  "You see my problem, then," Faile said, letting her exasperation show through. "There seems to be no way to be rid of these rumors."

  Berelain studied her. The woman had once promised she would take Perrin. Had all but vowed it. She seemed to have backed off on that, in part, recently. And her eyes showed hints of worry.

  She realizes that she let this go too far, Faile thought, understanding. Or course. Berelain hadn't expected Faile to return from Maiden. That was why she'd made such a bold move.

  Now she realized she'd overextended herself. And she legitimately thought Faile unhinged enough to duel her in public.

  "I never wanted this, Berelain," Faile said, walking back into the tent. "And neither did Perrin. Your attentions are an annoyance to us both."

  "Your husband did little to dissuade me," Berelain said, arms folded. "During your absence, there were points where he directly encouraged me."

  "You understand him so little, Berelain." It was amazing how the man could be so blind while being so clever in other ways.

  "So you claim," Berelain said.

  "You have two choices right now, Berelain," Faile said, stepping up to her. "You can fight me, and one of us will die. You're right, that wouldn't nd the rumors. But it would end your chances at Perrin. Either you'd be dead or you'd be the woman who killed his wife.

  "Your other choice," Faile said, meeting Berelain's eyes, "is to come up with a way to destroy these rumors once and for all. You caused this mess.

  You will fix it."

  And there was her gamble. Faile couldn't think of a way out of the situation, but Berelain was much more accomplished in this regard than she was. So Faile came, prepared to manipulate Berelain into thinking she was ready to do something unreasonable. Then let the woman's impressive political acumen attack the situation.

  Would it work?

  Faile met Berelain's eyes, and allowed herself to feel her anger. Her outrage at what had happened. She was being beaten, frozen and humiliated by their common enemy. And during that, Berelain had the gall to do something like this?

  She held the First's eyes. No, Faile did not have as much political experience as Berelain. But she had something the woman didn't. She lov
ed Perrin. Deeply, truly. She would do anything to keep him from being hurt.

  The First studied her. "Very well," she said. "So be it. Be proud of yourself, Faile. It is . . . rare that I take myself off a prize I have long desired."

  "You haven't said how we could get rid of the rumors." "There may be a method," Berelain said. "But it will be distasteful." Faile raised an eyebrow.

  We will need to be seen as friends," Berelain explained. "Fighting, being at odds, this will fuel the rumors. But if we are seen spending time with one another, it will disarm them. That, mixed with a formal renunciation on my part of the rumors, will likely be enough."

  Faile sat down in the chair she had been using earlier. Friends? She detested this woman.

  It would have to be a believable act," Berelain said, rising and walking over to the serving stand at the corner of the tent. She poured herself some chilled wine. "Only that would work."

  "You'll find another man, as well," Faile said. "Someone you can give

  your attentions to, for a time at least. To prove that you are not intere

  in Perrin."

  Berelain raised the cup. "Yes," she said. "I suspect that would help too.

  Can you put on such an act, Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara?"

  You believed I was ready to kill you over this, didn't you, Faile thought, "I

  promise it."

  Berelain paused, winecup halfway to her lips. Then she smiled, and

  drank. "We shall see, then," she said, lowering the cup, "what comes of this"

  CHAPTER

  19

  Talk of Dragons

  Mat tugged on a sturdy brown coat. The buttons were brass, but other than that, it was free of ornamentation. Made of a thick wool, it had a few holes from arrows that really should have killed him. One of the holes had a bloodstain around it, but that had mostly been washed out. It was a nice coat. He would have paid good coin for a coat like this one, when he lived back in the Two Rivers.

  He rubbed his face, looking in the mirror of his new tent. He had shaved off that bloody beard, finally. How did Perrin manage that bloody itching? The man must have sandpaper for skin. Well, Mat would find another way to disguise himself, when needed.

  He had nicked himself a few times while shaving. But it was not as if he had forgotten how to take care of himself. He did not need a manservant to do what he could manage on his own. Nodding to himself, he pulled on his hat and grabbed his ashandarei from the corner of the tent; the ravens on the blade seemed to perch excitedly in anticipation of battles to come. "Bloody right you do," Mat said, resting the ashandarei on his shoulder as he walked out or the tent. He grabbed his pack and slung it over his other shoulder, Starting tonight, he would be spending nights in the city.

  He strode through camp, nodding to a group of passing Redarms. He had doubled the watch. He was worried about the gholam, but also about the many military camps in the area. Half were mercenaries, half were the

  retainers of this minor lord or that, coming to pay respects to the Queen suspiciously arriving after the righting was done.

  No doubt each and every one was professing his heartfelt allegiance to Elayne, explaining that his men supported her all along. Their words prob-ably fell a little flat, since Mat had it on good authority from three separate drunks in taverns that Elayne had used Traveling extensively in recruiting her defense. It was easier to feign a delayed arrival when you were responding to a written message.

  "Mat! Mat!"

  Mat stopped on the pathway outside his tent as Olver came racing up The boy had taken to wearing a red band around his arm, much as the Redarms did, but he still wore his brown trousers and coat. He was carrying his rolled-up cloth for Snakes and Foxes under one arm and a pack slung over the other.

  Setalle stood in the near distance, along with Lussin and Edder, two Redarms that Mat had assigned to watch over her and the boy. They'd be departing for the city soon.

  "Mat," Olver said, panting. "You're leaving?"

  "I don't have time to play with you now, Olver," Mat said, lowering his ashandarei to the crook of his arm. "I have to go meet with a Queen."

  "I know," Olver said. "I figured that since we're both going to town, we could ride together and plan. I have some ideas about how to defeat the snakes and the foxes! We're going to show them, Mat. Burn me, but we bloody will!"

  "Who taught you that language?"

  "Mat," he said. "This is important! We have to plan! We haven't talked about what we're going to do."

  Silently, Mat cursed himself for discussing the quest to rescue Moi-raine where Olver could hear. The boy was not going to take it well when he was left behind.

  "I need to think about what I'm going to say to the Queen," Mat said, rubbing his chin. "But I guess you're right, planning is important. Why don't you go tell Noal about your ideas?"

  "I already did," Olver said. "And Thorn too. And Talmanes."

  Talmanes? He was not going with them into the Tower! Light, how much had Olver been spreading the news around?

  "Olver," Mat said, squatting down to be on eye level with the boy, "you need to keep quieter. We don't want too many people knowing what we're doing."

  "I didn't tell nobody we don't trust, Mat," Olver said. "Don't worry, Most were Redarms."

  Great, Mat thought. What would the soldiers think of their commander planning to go off and fight a bunch of creatures from children's stories? Hopefully they would see Olver's comments as the fancies of a young boy.

  "Just be careful," Mat said. "I'll come stop by your inn tomorrow, and

  can play a game then and talk about it. All right?"

  Olver nodded. "All right, Mat. But . . . blood and bloody ashes!" He turned and walked away.

  "And stop swearing!" Mat called after him, then shook his head. Bloody soldiers would have Olver corrupted by the time he was twelve.

  Mat continued on his way, leaning his spear on his shoulder again. He found Thorn and Talmanes mounted at the front of the camp along with a force of fifty Redarms. Thorn wore an extravagant wine-red coat and trousers, gold work at the arms, with a shirt bearing white lace at the cuffs and a silken cravat tied at the neck. The buttons were of gleaming gold. His mustaches had been trimmed and neatly combed. The entire outfit was new, including the black cloak, its inner lining of gold.

  Mat froze in place. How had the man so perfectly transformed from an old scamp of a gleeman into a royal courtier? Light!

  "I see from your reaction that the presentation is effective," Thorn said.

  "Blood and bloody ashes!" Mat exclaimed. "What happened? Did you take ill from a bad sausage at breakfast?"

  Thorn whipped his cloak back, revealing that he had his harp out and at his side. He looked like a court-bard! "I figured that if—after all of these years—I was going to make an appearance in Caemlyn, I should look the part."

  "No wonder you've been singing for coin every day," Mat said. "The people in those taverns have way too much money."

  Talmanes raised an eyebrow—as good as a grin, from that man. At times, he seemed so dour as to make thunderclouds feel cheerful. He also wore a fine outfit, his of deep cobalt and silver. Mat felt at his cuffs. He could have used some lace. If Lopin had been here, he would have set out the proper outfit without Mat even asking. A little lace was good for a man. Made him look presentable.

  Is that what you're wearing to visit the Queen, Mat?" Talmanes asked. "Of course it is." The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think about them. "It's a good coat." He walked over to take Pips' reins, "Good for sparring in, maybe," Talmanes said.

  "Elayne is the Queen of Andor now, Mat," Thorn said. "And queens are a particular lot. You should show her respect."

  "I am showing her bloody respect," Mat said, handing his spear to one of the soldiers, then climbing into the saddle. He took the spear back, then turned Pips so he could regard Thorn. "This is a good enough coat for a farmer."

  "You're not a farmer anymore, Mat," Talmanes sa
id.

  "I am too," Mat said stubbornly.

  "But Musenge called you—" Thorn began.

  "He was mistaken," Mat said. "Just because a man marries someone doesn't mean he suddenly becomes bloody nobility."

  Thorn and Talmanes exchanged a look.

  "Mat," Thorn said. "That's actually exactly how it works. It's pretty much one of the only ways to become nobility."

  "That's the way we do it here, maybe," Mat said. "But Tuon is from Seanchan. Who knows what they do there? We all know how strange they can be. We can't know anything until we talk to her."

  Thorn frowned. "I'm certain, from things she said, that—"

  "We can't know anything until we talk to Tuon," Mat repeated, louder this time. "Until then, I'm Mat. None of this Prince of Whatever nonsense."

  Thorn looked confused, but Talmanes' lips turned ever so slightly up at the side. Burn that man. Mat was inclined to think his solemn nature was all an act. Was he secretly laughing inside?

  "Well, Mat," Talmanes said, "you never have made any sense, so why should we expect you to now? Onward, then, to meet the Queen of Andor. Certain you don't want to roll in the mud first?"

  "I'll be fine," Mat said dryly, pulling his hat down as a soldier tied his pack to the back of his saddle.

  He kicked Pips into motion, and the procession began the now-familiar ride to Caemlyn. Mat spent most of the time going over his plan in his head. He had Aludra's papers tucked into a leather folder, and they included her demands. Every bellfounder in Caemlyn, large quantities or bronze and iron, and powders worth thousands of crowns. And she claimed that was the minimum of what she needed.

  How under the Light was Mat going to get bloody Elayne Trakand to give him all that? He would have to do a lot of smiling. But Elayne had proven resistant to his smiles before, and Queens were not like ordinary folk. Most women, they would smile back or they would scowl at you, so you knew where you stood. Elayne seemed the type to smile at you, then toss you in prison all the same.

  For once, it would be nice if his luck could see him off somewhere enjoy-pipe and a game of dice, with a pretty serving girl on his knee and no beyond his next throw. Instead, he was married to a Seanchan High Blood and was off to beg the Queen of Andor for her help. How did he get these situations? Sometimes he thought that the Creator must be like Talmanes. Straight of face, but secretly having a grand time laughing at Mat.