The Gathering Storm

by Robert Jordan

  He rounded the back of the building, going about a perfectly legitimate inspection of the guards. Most of the Aes Sedai in the village didn’t have Warders—either they were Reds or they had left their Warders behind. Some few were old enough to have lost Warders to age and never chosen new ones. Two unfortunate women had lost their Warders at Dumai’s Wells. Gawyn and the others did their best to pretend they didn’t notice the red eyes or occasional sobs coming from their rooms.

  The Aes Sedai, of course, claimed that they didn’t need the Youngling guards as protection. They were probably right. But Gawyn had seen dead Aes Sedai at Dumai’s Wells; they weren’t invincible.

  At the back doors, Hal Moir saluted and let Gawyn enter to continue his inspection. Gawyn strode up a short, straight set of stairs and entered the upper hallway. There, he relieved Berden, the dark-skinned Tairen Youngling who was on watch. Berden was an officer, and Gawyn told him to go check on the food distribution in the camp. The man nodded, then left.

  Gawyn hesitated in front of Narenwin Sedai’s room. If he wanted to hear what was going on between the Aes Sedai, the obvious thing to do would be to eavesdrop. Berden had been the only guard on the second floor, and there were no Warders to protect against unwanted ears. But the thought of listening in left a sour taste in Gawyn’s mouth. He shouldn’t have to eavesdrop. He was the commander of the Younglings, and the Aes Sedai were taking good advantage of his troops. They owed him information. Therefore, rather than trying to listen, he gave a firm knock on the door.

  The knock was met by silence. Then the door cracked to show a sliver of Covarla’s frowning face. The light-haired Red had been in charge of the sisters in the city before being displaced, but she was still one of the more important women in Dorlan.

  “We were not to be interrupted,” she snapped through the sliver of open doorway. “Your soldiers had orders to keep everyone out, even other sisters.”

  “Those rules don’t apply to me,” Gawyn said, meeting her eyes. “My men are in serious danger in this village. If you won’t let me be part of the planning, then I demand at least to be able to listen.”

  Covarla’s impassive face seemed to show annoyance. “Your impudence seems to grow by the day, child,” she said. “Perhaps you need to be removed and a more suitable replacement raised to captain that group.”

  Gawyn clenched his jaw.

  “You think they wouldn’t set you aside if a sister asked it of them?” Covarla asked, smiling faintly. “A sorry excuse for an army they may be, but they know their place. A pity the same cannot be said for their commander. Go back to your men, Gawyn Trakand.”

  With that, she shut the door on him.

  Gawyn itched to force his way into the room. But that would be satisfying for all of about two breaths, which was how long it would take the Aes Sedai to truss him up with the Power. How would that be for the Younglings’ morale? Seeing their commander, the brave Gawyn Trakand, cast out of the building with a gag of Air in his mouth? He ignored his frustration, turning back down the stairs. He went into the kitchen and leaned against the far wall, staring at the steps to the second floor. Now that he’d relieved Berden, he felt he needed to remain on watch himself or send a runner to fetch another man. He wanted to think for a few moments first; if their conference above took long, he’d appoint a replacement.

  Aes Sedai. Sensible men stayed away from them when possible, and obeyed them with alacrity when staying away was impossible. Gawyn had trouble doing either; his bloodline prevented staying away, his pride interfered with obeying them. He had supported Elaida in the rebellion not because he liked her—she’d always been cold during her years acting as his mother’s advisor. No, he’d supported her because he’d disliked Siuan’s treatment of his sister and Egwene.

  But would Elaida have treated the girls any better? Would any of them have? Gawyn had made his decision in a moment of passion; it hadn’t been the coolheaded act of loyalty that his men assumed.

  Where was his loyalty, then?

  A few minutes later, footsteps on the stairs and faint voices from the hallway above announced that the Aes Sedai had finished their secret conference. Covarla came down the stairs in red and yellow, saying something to the sisters behind her. “. . . can’t believe the rebels set up their own Amyrlin.”

  Narenwin—thin and square-faced—came next, nodding. Then, shockingly, Katerine Alruddin walked out of the stairwell behind them. Gawyn stood up straight, stunned. Katerine had left the camp weeks before, the day after Narenwin’s arrival. The raven-haired Red had not been part of the original group that was ordered to Dorlan, and had used that as an excuse to return to the White Tower.

  When had she come back to Dorlan? How had she come back? His men would have reported to Gawyn if they’d seen her. He doubted the watchposts could have missed her arrival.

  She eyed Gawyn as the three Aes Sedai passed through the kitchen, smiling slyly. She’d noticed his shock.

  “Yes,” Katerine said, turning to Covarla. “Imagine it—an Amyrlin without an actual seat to sit upon! They’re a group of foolish girls creating a child’s puppet show with dolls dressed up like their betters. Of course they would pick a wilder to do the duty, and a mere Accepted at that. They knew how pathetic the decision was.”

  “But at least she was captured,” Narenwin noted, pausing at the doorway as Covarla passed through.

  Katerine laughed sharply. “Captured and made to howl half the day. I wouldn’t want to be that al’Vere girl right now. Of course, it’s no less than she deserves for letting them put the Amyrlin’s shawl on her shoulders.”

  What? Gawyn thought with shock.

  The three passed out of the kitchen, voices fading. Gawyn barely noticed. He staggered back, hitting the wall for support. It couldn’t be! It sounded like . . . Egwene . . . He had to have misheard!

  But Aes Sedai couldn’t lie. He’d heard rumors that the rebels had their own Hall and Amyrlin . . . but Egwene? It was ridiculous! She was only Accepted!

  But who better to set up for a potential fall? Perhaps none of the sisters had been willing to put their necks on the line by taking the title. A younger woman like Egwene would have made a perfect pawn.

  Pulling himself together, Gawyn hurried out of the kitchen and after the Aes Sedai. He passed into the late afternoon to find Vasha standing, mouth drooping, as she stared at Katerine. Apparently, Gawyn wasn’t the only one shocked by the Red’s sudden return.

  Gawyn caught Tando, one of the Youngling guards at the front of the building, by the arm. “Did you see her enter the building?”

  The young Andoran shook his head. “No, my Lord. One of the men inside reported seeing her meet with the other Aes Sedai—she came down out of the attic suddenly, it seems. But none of the guards knows how she got in!”

  Gawyn released the soldier and dashed after Katerine. He caught up to the three women in the middle of the dusty town square. All three turned ageless faces toward him, wearing identical thin-mouthed frowns. Covarla’s eyes were particular harsh, but Gawyn didn’t care if they took the Younglings from him or if they tied him up in air. Humiliation didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered.

  “Is it true?” he demanded. Then, cringing, he forced respect into his voice. “Please, Katerine Sedai. Is it true what I overheard you saying about the rebels and their Amyrlin?”

  She eyed him, measuring him. “I suppose it would be good to pass this news among your soldiers. Yes, the rebel Amyrlin has been captured.”

  “And her name?” Gawyn asked.

  “Egwene al’Vere,” Katerine said. “Let the rumors spread truth, for once.” She nodded to him with dismissive curtness, then began walking with the other two again. “Put what I have taught you to good use. The Amyrlin insists that the raids be stepped up, and these weaves should lend you unprecedented mobility. Don’t be surprised if the rebels anticipate you, however. They know that we have their so-called Amyrlin, and have probably guessed that we have the new weaves as well. It won�
��t be long before Traveling is had by all. Use the edge you’ve been given before it dulls.”

  Gawyn was barely listening. A piece of his mind was shocked. Traveling? A thing of legends. Was that how Gareth Bryne was keeping his army supplied?

  However, the greater part of Gawyn’s brain was still numb. Siuan Sanche had been stilled and slated for execution, and she had simply been a deposed Amyrlin. What would they do with a false Amyrlin, a leader of a rebel faction?

  Made to howl half the day. . . .

  Egwene was being tortured. She would be stilled! She probably had been already. After that, she would be executed. Gawyn watched the three Aes Sedai walk away. Then he turned slowly, strangely calm, laying his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  Egwene was in trouble. He blinked deliberately, standing in the square, cattle calling distantly, water bubbling in the canal beside him.

  Egwene would be executed.

  Where is your loyalty, Gawyn Trakand?

  He crossed the village, walking with a strangely sure step. The Younglings would be unreliable in an action against the White Tower. He couldn’t use them to mount a rescue. But he was unlikely to be able to manage one on his own. That left him with only one option.

  Ten minutes later found him in his tent, carefully packing his saddlebags. Most of his things would have to stay. There were far scout outposts, and he had visited them before in surprise inspections. That would make a good excuse for him to leave the camp.

  He couldn’t arouse suspicions. Covarla was right. The Younglings followed him. They respected him. But they were not his—they belonged to the White Tower, and would turn on him as quickly as he had turned on Hammar if it were the will of the Amyrlin. If any of them got a hint of what he was planning, he wouldn’t manage to get a hundred yards away.

  He closed and latched his saddlebags. That would have to do. He pushed his way out of the tent, slinging the bags over his shoulder, then made his way toward the horse lines. As he walked, he flagged down Rajar, who was showing a squad of soldiers some advanced swordplay techniques. Rajar set another man in charge, then hurried over to Gawyn, frowning at the saddlebags.

  “I’m going to inspect the fourth outpost,” Gawyn said.

  Rajar glanced at the sky; it was already dimming. “So late?”

  “Last time I inspected in the morning,” Gawyn said. Odd, how his heart wasn’t racing. Calm and even. “Time before that, it was the afternoon. But the most dangerous time to be surprised is evening, when it’s still light enough for an attack but late enough that men are tired and full of supper.”

  Rajar nodded, joining Gawyn as he walked. “Light knows we need them for watchful scouts now,” he agreed. Bryne’s own scouts had been investigating villages not half a day’s ride from Dorlan. “I’ll get you an escort.”

  “Not needed,” Gawyn said. “Last time, Outpost Four saw me coming from a good half a mile. A squad raises too much dust. I want to see how keen their eyes are when it’s just one rider.”

  Rajar frowned again.

  “I’ll be safe,” Gawyn said, forcing out a wry smile. “Rajar, you know I will be. What? Are you afraid I’ll be taken by bandits?”

  Rajar relaxed, chuckling. “You? They’d sooner catch Sleete. All right, then. But make certain to send a messenger for me when you get back into camp. I’ll stay up half the night worrying if you don’t return.”

  Sorry to cost you the sleep then, my friend, Gawyn thought, nodding. Rajar ran back to supervise the sparring, and Gawyn soon found himself just outside the camp, undoing Challenge’s hobble as a village boy—doubling as a stablehand—fetched his saddle.

  “You have the look of a man who has made up his mind,” a quiet voice said suddenly.

  Gawyn spun, hand falling to his sword. One of the shadows nearby was moving. Looking closely, he was able to make out the form of a shadowed man with a crooked nose. Curse those Warder cloaks!

  Gawyn tried to feign casualness as he had with Rajar. “Happy to have something to do, I suppose,” he said, turning from Sleete as the stableboy approached. Gawyn tossed him a copper and took the saddle himself, dismissing the boy.

  Sleete continued to watch from the shadow of a massive pine as Gawyn put the saddle on Challenge’s back. The Warder knew. Gawyn’s act had fooled everyone else, but he could sense that it wouldn’t work on this man. Light! Was he going to have to kill another man he respected? Burn you, Elaida! Burn you, Siuan Sanche, and your entire Tower. Stop using people. Stop using me!

  “When shall I tell your men that you aren’t returning?” Sleete asked.

  Gawyn pulled the saddle straps tight and waited for his horse to exhale. He looked over Challenge, frowning. “You don’t plan to stop me?”

  Sleete chuckled. “I fought you thrice today and didn’t win a single bout, although I had a good man to lend me aid. You have the look about you of a man who will kill if needed, and I don’t thirst for death so eagerly as some might assume.”

  “You’d fight me,” Gawyn said, finally doing up the saddle and lifting the bags into place, tying them on. Challenge snorted. The horse never did like carrying extra weight. “You’d die if you thought it was necessary. If you attacked, even if I killed you, it would raise a ruckus. I’d never be able to explain why I’d killed a Warder. You could stop me.”

  “True,” Sleete said.

  “Then why let me go?” Gawyn said, rounding the gelding and taking the reins. He met those shadowed eyes and thought he caught the faintest hint of a smile on the lips beneath them.

  “Perhaps I just like to see men care,” Sleete said. “Perhaps I hope you’ll find a way to help end this. Perhaps I am feeling lazy and sore with a bruised spirit from so many defeats. May you find what you seek, young Trakand.” And with a rustle of the cloak, Sleete withdrew, fading into the darkness of oncoming night.

  Gawyn slung himself into his saddle. There was only one place he could think to go for help in rescuing Egwene.

  With a kick of the heels, he left Dorlan behind.

  CHAPTER 14

  A Box Opens

  “So this is one of the Shadowsouled,” Sorilea said. The white-haired Wise One circled around the prisoner, looking thoughtfully at Semirhage. Of course, Cadsuane had not expected fear from one such as Sorilea. The Aiel woman was a rugged creature, like a statue that had weathered storm after storm, patient before the winds. Among the Aiel, this Wise One was a particular specimen of strength. She had arrived at the manor house only recently, coming with those who had brought al’Thor a report from Bandar Eban.

  Cadsuane had anticipated finding many things among the Aiel who followed Rand al’Thor: fierce warriors, strange ways, honor and loyalty, inexperience with subtlety and politics. She had been right. One thing she had certainly not expected to find, however, was an equal. Certainly not in a Wise One who could barely channel. And yet, oddly, that was how she regarded the leathery-faced Aiel woman.

  Not that she trusted Sorilea. The Wise One had her own goals, and they might not completely coincide with Cadsuane’s. However, she did find Sorilea capable, and there were blessed few people in the world these days who deserved that word.

  Semirhage flinched suddenly, and Sorilea cocked her head. The Forsaken was not floating this time; she stood upright, wearing the stiff brown dress, her short, dark hair tangled from lack of brushing. She still projected superiority and control. Just as Cadsuane herself would have in a similar situation.

  “What are these weaves?” Sorilea asked, gesturing. The weaves in question were the source of Semirhage’s occasional flinching.

  “A personal trick of mine,” Cadsuane said, undoing the weaves and remaking them to show how they were done. “They ring a sound in your subjects’ ears every few minutes and flash a light in their eyes, keeping them from sleep.”

  “You hope to make her so fatigued that she will talk,” Sorilea said, studying the Forsaken again.

  Semirhage was warded to keep her from hearing them, of course. Despite two
days without decent sleep, the woman wore a serene expression, eyes open but blocked by glowing lights. She had likely mastered some kind of mental trick to help her stave off exhaustion.

  “I doubt it will break her,” Cadsuane admitted. “Phaw! It barely even makes her flinch.” She, Sorilea and Bair—an aged Wise One with no channeling ability—were the only ones in the room. The Aes Sedai maintaining Semirhage’s shield sat in their places outside.

  Sorilea nodded. “One of the Shadowsouled will not be manipulated so easily. Still, you are wise to try, considering your . . . limitations.”

  “We could speak to the Car’a’carn,” Bair said. “Convince him to turn this one over to us for a time. A few days of . . . delicate Aiel questioning and she would speak whatever you wish.”

  Cadsuane smiled noncommittally. As if she would let another handle the questioning! This woman’s secrets were too valuable to risk, even in the hands of allies. “Well, you are welcome to ask,” she said, “but I doubt al’Thor will listen. You know how the fool boy can be when it comes to hurting women.”

  Bair sighed. It was odd to think of this grandmotherly lady engaging in “delicate Aiel questioning.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You are right, I suspect. Rand al’Thor is twice as stubborn as any clan chief I’ve known. And twice as arrogant too. To presume that women cannot bear pain as well as men!”

  Cadsuane snorted at that. “To be honest, I considered having this one strung up and whipped, al’Thor’s prohibitions be blackened! But I don’t think it would work. Phaw! We’ll need to find something other than pain to break this one.”

  Sorilea was still regarding Semirhage. “I would speak with her.”

  Cadsuane made a motion, dismissing the weaves that kept Semirhage from hearing, seeing or speaking. The woman blinked—just once—to clear her vision, then turned to Sorilea and Bair. “Ah,” she said. “Aiel. You were such good servants, once. Tell me, how strongly does it bite, knowing how you betrayed your oaths? Your ancestors would cry for punishment if they knew how many deaths lay at the hands of their descendants.”