Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  "What kind of stone is that?" Gawyn asked, holding the knife up to the light.

  "I've never seen it before."

  Gawyn turned the knife over a few times. There weren't any inscriptions or carvings. "This came within half a breath of claiming my life."

  "You can take it, if you wish," Chubain said. "Maybe you can ask Bryne's men if they've ever seen one like it. We have a second one we found down the hallway."

  "It was also intended for my heart," Gawyn said, tucking the knife into his belt. "Thank you. I have a gift for you in return."

  Chubain raised an eyebrow.

  "You've been complaining of the men you lost," Gawyn said. "Well, I've a group of soldiers I can recommend strongly."

  "From Bryne's army?" Chubain asked, lips downturned. Like many of the Tower Guard, he still regarded Bryne's army as a rival force.

  "No," Gawyn said. "Men loyal to the Tower. Some of those who trained to be Warders and who fought with me on Elaida's side. They're feeling displaced now, and they would rather be soldiers than Warders. I'd appreciate it if you'd give them a home. They're solid men and excellent warriors."

  Chubain nodded. "Send them to me."

  "They'll come to you tomorrow," Gawyn said. "I only ask one thing. Try not to break the group apart. They've been through much together. Their bond gives them strength."

  "Shouldn't be difficult," Chubain said. "The Tenth Tower Company was destroyed nearly to a man by those flaming Seanchan. I'll set some veteran officers over your lads and form the new company out of them."

  "Thank you," Gawyn said. He nodded toward Egwene's quarters. "Watch over her for me, Chubain. I think she's determined to see herself dead."

  "It is ever my duty to defend and uphold the Amyrlin. But where will you be?"

  "She made it clear that she wants no Warder," Gawyn said, his mind drifting back to the things Bryne had said to him earlier. What did he want, aside from Egwene? Perhaps it was time to find out. "I think it's past time I went to visit my sister."

  Chubain nodded, and Gawyn took his leave. He visited the barracks and gathered his possessions—little more than a change of clothing and a winter cloak—then made his way to the stables and saddled Challenge.

  Then he led the horse to the Traveling ground. Egwene maintained a sister on duty there at all times. Tonight's Aes Sedai—a petite, drowsy-eyed Green named Nimri—didn't question him. She made him a gateway to a hillside about an hour's travel from Caemlyn.

  And so he left Tar Valon—and Egwene al'Vere—behind.

  What is that?" Lan demanded.

  The aged Nazar looked up from his saddlebags, leather hadori holding down his powdery white hair. A small stream gurgled near their camp in the middle of a forest of highland pines. Those pines shouldn't have borne half so many brown needles.

  Nazar had been tucking something into his saddlebags, and Lan had happened to spot a bit of gold peeking out. "This?" Nazar asked. He pulled the cloth out: a brilliant white flag with a golden crane embroidered in the center. It was a fine work, with beautiful stitching. Lan nearly grabbed it out of Nazar's fingers and ripped it in half.

  "Now, I see that expression on your face, Lan Mandragoran," Nazar said. "Weil, don't you be getting all self-centered about this. A man has a right to carry his kingdom's flag with him."

  "You're a baker, Nazar."

  "I'm a Borderlander first, son," the man said, tucking the banner away "This is my heritage."

  "Bah!" Lan said, turning away. The others were breaking up camp. He'd grudgingly allowed the three newcomers to join him—they were stubborn as boars, and in the end, he had had to succumb to his oath. He'd promised that he'd accept followers. These men, technically, hadn't asked to ride with him—they'd simply started doing it. That was enough. Besides, if they were going to travel in the same direction, then there was little sense in making two camps.

  Lan continued to wipe his face dry from the morning's washing. Bulen was getting bread ready for breakfast. This grove of pines was in eastern Kandor; they were getting close to the border into Arafel. Perhaps he could—

  He froze. There were several new tents in their camp. A group of eight men were chatting with Andere. Three of them looked plump around the waist—not warriors, judging by their soft clothing, though they did appear to be Malkieri. The other five were all Shienarans, topknots on their heads, leather bracers on their arms, and horsebows stored in cases on their backs beside long, two-handed swords.

  "What is this?" Lan demanded.

  "Weilin, Managan and Gorenellin," Andere said, gesturing to the Malkieri. "These others are Qi, Joao, Merekel, Ianor, Kuehn—"

  "I didn't ask who," Lan said, voice cold. "I asked what. What have you done?"

  Andere shrugged. "We met them before running into you. We told them to wait along the southern roadway for us. Rakim fetched them last night, while you were sleeping."

  "Rakim was supposed to be on watch!" Lan said.

  "I watched in his stead," Andere said. "I figured we'd want these fel-lows."

  All three of the plump merchants looked to Lan, then went down on their knees. One was weeping openly. "Tai'shar Malkier." The five Shienarans saluted Lan. "Dai Shan," one said. "We have brought what we could to the cause of the Golden Crane," another of the merchants added. "All that we could gather in a little time." "It is not much," said the third. "But we lend you our swords as well. We may look to have grown soft, but we can fight. We will fight." "I don't need what you brought," Lan said, exasperated. "I—" "Before you say too much more, old friend," Andere said, laying a hand on Lan's shoulder, "perhaps you should have a look at that." He nodded to

  the side.

  Lan frowned, hearing a rattling sound. He stepped past a patch of trees to look upon the path to the camp. Two dozen wagons were approaching, each piled high with supplies—weapons, sacks of grain, tents. Lan opened his eyes wide. A good dozen warhorses were hitched in a line, and strong oxen pulled the wagons. Teamsters and servants walked alongside them.

  "When they said they sold what they could and brought supplies," Andere said, "they meant it."

  "We will never be able to move quietly with all of this!" Lan said.

  Andere shrugged.

  Lan took a deep breath. Very well. He would work with it. "Moving quietly appears to be failing anyway. From now on, we will pose as a caravan delivering supplies to Shienar."

  "But—"

  "You will swear to me," he said, turning toward the men. "Each of you will swear not to reveal who I am or send word to anyone else who might be looking for me. You will swear it"

  Nazar looked like he would object, but Lan silenced him with a stern look. One by one, they swore.

  The five had become dozens, but it would stop there.

  CHAPTER

  24

  To Make a Stand

  Bed rest," Melfane announced, taking her ear from the wooden tube she'd placed against Elayne's chest. The midwife was a short, ample-cheeked woman who today wore her hair tied back by a translucent blue scarf. Her neat dress was of white and matching sky-blue, as if worn in defiance of the perpetually overcast sky.

  "What?" Elayne asked.

  "One week," Melfane said, wagging a thick finger at Elayne. "You aren't to be on your feet for one week."

  Elayne blinked, stunned, her exhaustion fleeing for the moment. Melfane smiled cheerfully as she consigned Elayne to this impossible punishment. Bed rest? For a week?

  Birgitte stood in the doorway, Mat in the room beyond. He'd stepped out for Melfane's inspection, but otherwise he'd hovered near her almost as protectively as Birgitte. You'd never know they cared for her by the way they spoke, however—the two of them had been sharing curses, each trying to top the other. Elayne had learned a few new ones. Who knew that hundred-legs did those things?

  Her babes were safe, so far as Melfane could tell. That was the important part. "Bed rest is, of course, impossible," Elayne said. "I have far too much to do."

  "Well, it
will have to be done from bed," Melfane replied, her voice pleasant but completely unyielding. "Your body and your child have undergone a great stress. They need time to recover. I will be attending you and making certain you maintain a strict diet."

  "But—"

  "I won't hear any excuses," Melfane interrupted.

  "I'm the Queenl" Elayne said, exasperated.

  "And I'm the Queen's midwife," Melfane replied, still calm. "There isn't a soldier or attendant in this palace who won't help me, if I determine that your health-—and that of your child—is at risk." She met Elayne's eyes. "Would you like to put my words to the test, Your Majesty?"

  Elayne cringed, imagining her own Guards forbidding her exit to her chambers. Or, worse, tying her down. She glanced at Birgitte, but received only a satisfied nod. "It's no more than you deserve," that nod seemed to say.

  Elayne sat back in her bed, frustrated. It was a massive four-poster, decorated in red and white. The room was ornate, sparkling with various creations of crystal and ruby. It would make a beautifully gilded prison indeed. Light! This wasn't fair! She did up the front of her gown.

  "I see that you're not going to try my word," Melfane said, standing up from the side of the bed. "You show wisdom." She glanced at Birgitte. "I will allow you a meeting with the Captain-General to assess the evening's events. But no more than a half-hour, mind you. I won't have you exerting yourself!"

  "But—"

  Melfane wagged that finger at her again. "A half-hour, Your Majesty. You are a woman, not a plow beast. You need rest and care." She turned to Birgitte. "Do not upset her unduly."

  "I wouldn't dream of it," Birgitte said. Her anger was finally beginning to abate, replaced by amusement. Insufferable woman.

  Melfane withdrew to the outer chamber. Birgitte remained where she was, regarding Elayne through narrow eyes. Some displeasure still boiled and churned from the bond. The two regarded one another for a long moment.

  What are we do to with you, Elayne Trakand?" Birgitte finally asked. Lock me in my bedroom, it appears," Elayne snapped. "Not a bad solution."

  And would you keep me here forever?" Elayne asked. "Like Gelfina, from the stories, locked away for a thousand years in the forgotten tower?" Birgitte sighed. "No. But six months or so would help keep my anxiety levels down."

  "We don't have time for that," Elayne replied. "We don't have time for much, these days. Risks must be taken."

  "Risks involving the Queen of Andor going alone to face a mob of the Black Ajah? You're like some blood-besotted idiot on the battlefield, charg-ing ahead of his comrades, seeking death without a shield-mate to guard your back!

  Elayne blinked at the anger in the woman.

  "Don't you trust me, Elayne?" Birgitte asked. "Would you be rid of me, if you could?"

  "What? No! Of course I trust you."

  "Then why won't you let me help you? I'm not supposed to be here, now. I have no purpose other than what circumstance has given me. You made me your Warder, but you won't let me protect you! How can I be your bodyguard if you won't tell me when you're putting yourself in danger?"

  Elayne felt like pulling the covers up to shield herself from those eyes. How could Birgitte be the one who felt so hurt? Elayne had been the one who'd been wounded! "If it means anything," she said, "I don't intend to do this again."

  "No. You'll do something else reckless."

  "I mean, I intend to be more careful. Maybe you're right, and the viewing isn't a perfect guarantee. It certainly didn't stop me from panicking when I felt a real danger."

  "You didn't feel a real danger when the Black Ajah locked you up and tried to cart you away?"

  Elayne hesitated. She should have been frightened that time, but she hadn't been. Not only because of Min's viewing. The Black Ajah would never have killed her, not under those circumstances. She was too valuable.

  Feeling that knife enter her side, pierce her skin, dig toward her womb . . . that had been different. The terror. She could remember the world blackening around her, her heartbeat thudding, growing louder, like the drumbeats at the end of a performance. The ones that came before the silence.

  Birgitte regarded Elayne appraisingly. She could feel Elayne's emotions. She was Queen. She could not avoid risks. But. . . perhaps she could rein herself in.

  "Well," Birgitte said, "did you at least discover anything?"

  "I did," Elayne said. "I—"

  At that moment, a scarf-wrapped head appeared in the doorway. Mat had his eyes closed. "You covered up?"

  "Yes," Elayne said. "And in a far more fashionable way than you, Matrim Cauthon. That scarf looks ridiculous."

  He scowled, opening his eyes and pulling off the scarf, revealing the

  angular face beneath. "You try moving through the city without being rec-ognized," he said. "Every butcher, innkeeper and bloody backroom slipfin-ger seems to know what I look like these days." "The Black sisters were planning to have you assassinated," Elayne

  said.

  "What?" Mat asked.

  Elayne nodded. "One mentioned you. It sounded like Darkfriends had

  been searching for you for some time, with the intent of killing you."

  Birgitte shrugged. "They're Darkfriends. No doubt they want us all

  dead."

  "This was different," Elayne said. "It seemed more . . . intense. I suggest keeping your wits about you the next while."

  "That'll be a trick," Birgitte noted. "Seeing as to how he doesn't have any wits in the first place."

  Mat rolled his eyes. "Did I miss you explaining what you were doing in the flaming dungeons, sitting in a pool of your own blood, looking for all the world like you'd seen the losing end of a battlefield skirmish?"

  "I was interrogating the Black Ajah," Elayne said. "The details are none of your concern. Birgitte, have you a report from the grounds?"

  "Nobody saw Mellar leave," the Warder said. "Though we found the secretary's body on the ground floor, still warm. Died from a knife to the back."

  Elayne sighed. "Shiaine?"

  "Gone," Birgitte said, "along with Marillin Gemalphin and Falion Bhoda."

  "The Shadow couldn't leave them in our possession," Elayne said with a sigh. "They know too much. They had to end up either rescued or executed."

  'Well," Mat said, shrugging, "you're alive, and three of them are dead. Seems like a reasonably good outcome."

  But the ones who escaped have a copy of your medallion, Elayne thought. She didn't speak it, however. She also didn't mention the invasion that Chesmal had spoken of. She would talk of it with Birgitte soon, of course, but first she wanted to consider it herself.

  Mat had said the night's events had a "reasonably good outcome." But

  the more Elayne thought about it, the more dissatisfied she was. An inva-

  sion of Andor was coming, but she didn't know when. The Shadow wanted

  Mat dead, but as Birgitte had pointed out, that was no surprise. In fact, the

  only certain result of the evening's adventures was the sense of fatigue

  Elayne felt. That and a week confined to her rooms.

  "Mat," she said, taking off his medallion. "Here, it's time I gave this back. You should know that it probably saved my life tonight."

  He walked over and took it back eagerly, then hesitated. "Were you able to . . ."

  "Copy it? Not perfectly. But to an extent."

  He put it back on, looking concerned. "Well, that feels good to have back. I've been wanting to ask you something. Now might not be the time"

  "Speak of it," Elayne said, tired. "Might as well."

  "Well, it's about the gholam . . ."

  "The city has been emptied of most civilians," Yoeli said as he and Ituralde walked through Maradon's gate. "We're close to the Blight; this is not the first time we've evacuated. My own sister, Sigril, leads the Lastriders, who will watch from the ridge to the southeast and send word if we should we fall. She will have sent word to our watchposts around Saldaea, requesting aid.
She will light a watchfire to alert us if they come."

  The lean-faced man looked at Ituralde, his expression grim. "There will be few troops who could come to our aid. Queen Tenobia took many with her when she rode to find the Dragon Reborn."

  Ituralde nodded. He walked without a limp—Antail, one of the Ashaman, was quite skilled with Healing. His men made a hasty camp in the courtyard just inside the city gates. The Trollocs had taken the tents they'd left behind, then lit them on fire at night to illuminate them feasting on the wounded. Ituralde had moved some of his troops into the empty buildings, but he wanted others close to the gate in case of an assault.

  The Ashaman and Aes Sedai had worked to Heal Ituralde's men, but only the worst cases could get attention. Ituralde nodded to Antail, who was working with the wounded in a roped-off section of the square. Antail didn't see the nod. He concentrated, sweating, working with a Power Ituralde didn't want to think about.

  "Are you certain you want to see them?" Yoeli asked. He held a horsemans long spear on his shoulder, the tip tied with a triangular black and yellow pendant. It was called the Traitor's Banner by the Saldaeans here.

  The city bristled with hostility, different groups of Saldaeans regarding one another with grim expressions. Many wore strips of black cloth and yellow cloth twisted about one another and tied to their sword sheaths. They nodded to Yoeli.

  Desya gavane cierto cuendar isain carentin, Ituralde thought. A phrase in the Old Tongue. It meant "A resolute heart is worth ten arguments." He could guess what that banner meant. Sometimes a man knew what he must do, though it sounded wrong. The two of them walked for a time through the streets. Maradon was like most Borderland cities: straight walls, square buildings, narrow streets. The houses looked like fortressed keeps, with small windows and sturdy doors The streets wound in odd ways, and there were no thatched roofs—only slate shingles, fireproof. The dried blood at several key intersections was difficult to make out against the dark stone, but Ituralde knew what to look for. Yoeli's rescue of his troops had come after fighting among the Saldaeans.

  They reached a nondescript building. There would be no way for an outsider to know that this particular dwelling belonged to Vram Torku-men, distant cousin to the Queen, appointed lord of the city in her absence. The soldiers at the door wore yellow and black. They saluted Yoeli.