“By the Light,” Seaine whispered. “She’s right.”
“This is pointless,” Yukiri said, standing again. “If we begin second-guessing, trying to confirm which Amyrlins might have been raised by members of the Black, then we’d have reason to suspect every Amyrlin who ever held the seat!”
“Oh?” Egwene asked. “And how many of them were raised by a Hall filled by only the exact minimum number of currently sitting members? This is only one reason why it was a grave mistake to unseat Siuan this way. When I was raised, we made certain that every Sitter in the city was aware of what was happening.”
“False Sitters,” Yukiri said, pointing. “Given their places unlawfully!”
Egwene turned toward her, glad they couldn’t hear her nervously pounding heart. She had to remain in control. She had to. “You call us false, Yukiri? Which Amyrlin would you rather follow? The one who has been making novices and Accepted out of Aes Sedai, banishing an entire Ajah, and causing divisions in the Tower more dangerous than any army that ever assaulted it? A woman who was raised partially through the help of the Black Ajah? Or would you rather serve the Amyrlin who is trying to undo all of that?”
“Surely you’re not saying that you think we served the Black in raising Elaida,” Doesine said.
“I think we all are serving the interests of the Shadow,” Egwene said sharply, “so long as we allow ourselves to remain divided. How do you imagine the Black reacted to the near-secret deposing of an Amyrlin Seat, followed by a division among the Aes Sedai? I would not be surprised to find, after some investigation, that this nameless Black sister you discovered was not the only Darkfriend among the group who worked to unseat the rightful Amyrlin.”
This brought another round of silence to the room.
Saerin settled back and sighed. “We cannot change the past. Enlightening though your arguments are, Egwene al’Vere, they are ultimately fruitless.”
“I agree that we cannot change what has happened,” Egwene said, nodding to her. “However, we can look to the future. As admirable as I find your work to discover the Black Ajah, I am far more encouraged by your willingness to work together to do it. In the current Tower, cooperation between the Ajahs is rare. I challenge you to take that as your main goal, bringing unity to the White Tower. Whatever the cost.”
She stood up, and she half-expected a sister to rebuke her, but they almost seemed to have forgotten that they were speaking with a “novice” and a rebel. “Meidani,” Egwene said. “You accept me as Amyrlin.”
“Yes, Mother,” the woman said, bowing her head.
“I charge you, then, to continue your work with these women. They are not our enemies and they never were. Sending you back as a spy was a mistake, one I wish I’d been able to stop. Now that you are here, however, you can be of use. I regret that you must continue your performance before Elaida, but I commend you for your courage in that regard.”
“I will serve as needed, Mother,” she said, though she looked sick.
Egwene glanced at the others. “Loyalty is better earned than forced. Do you have the Oath Rod here?”
“No,” Yukiri said. “It’s difficult to sneak away. We can only take it on occasion.”
“A pity,” Egwene said. “I’d have liked to take the oaths. Regardless, you will promptly take it and release Meidani from the fourth oath.”
“We’ll consider it,” Saerin said.
Egwene raised an eyebrow. “As you wish. But know that once the White Tower is whole again, the Hall will learn of this action you have taken. I would like to be able to inform them that you were being careful, rather than seeking unwarranted power. If you need me in the next few days, you may send for me—but kindly find a way to deal with the two Red sisters who are watching me. I’d rather not use Traveling within the Tower again, lest I unwittingly reveal too much to those who would be better left ignorant.”
She left that statement hanging before walking to the door. The Warder didn’t stop her, though he did watch with those suspicious eyes of his. She wondered whose Warder he was—she didn’t believe any of the sisters inside the room had Warders, though she wasn’t certain. Perhaps he belonged to one of the other spies sent from Salidar, and had been drafted by Saerin and the others. That would explain his disposition.
Meidani quickly followed Egwene from the room, glancing over her shoulder, as if expecting argument or censure to fly out behind her. The Warder simply pulled the door shut.
“I can’t believe you succeeded,” the Gray said. “They should have strung you up by your heels and had you howling!”
“They are too wise for that,” Egwene said. “They’re the only ones in this blasted Tower—besides maybe Silviana—who have anything resembling heads sitting atop their shoulders.”
“Silviana?” Meidani asked with surprise. “Doesn’t she beat you every day?”
“Several times a day,” Egwene said absently. “She’s very dutiful, not to mention thoughtful. If we had more like her, the Tower wouldn’t have gotten to this state in the first place.”
Meidani regarded Egwene, an odd expression on her face. “You really are the Amyrlin,” she finally said. It was an odd comment. Hadn’t she just sworn that she accepted Egwene’s authority?
“Come on,” Egwene said, hastening her pace. “I need to get back before those Reds grow suspicious.”
CHAPTER 13
An Offer and a Departure
Gawyn stood, sword at the ready, facing down two Warders. The barn let in slots of light, air sparkling with dust and bits of straw kicked up from the fighting. Gawyn backed slowly across the packed dirt floor, passing through patches of light. The air was warm on his skin. Trickles of sweat ran down from his temples, but his grip was firm as the two Warders advanced on him.
The one in front was Sleete, a limber, long-armed man with rough-hewn features. In the barn’s uneven light, his face looked like an unfinished work one might find in a sculptor’s workshop, with long shadows across his eyes, his chin divided by a cleft, his nose crooked from being broken and not Healed. He wore long hair and black sideburns.
Hattori had been quite pleased when her Warder had finally arrived at Dorlan; she’d lost him at Dumai’s Wells, and his story was the sort gleemen and bards sang about. Sleete had lain wounded for hours before deliriously managing to grab his horse’s reins and pull himself into the saddle. It had loyally carried him, near unconscious, for hours before arriving at a nearby village. The villagers there had been tempted to sell Sleete to a local band of bandits—their leader had visited earlier promising them safety as a reward for revealing any refugees from the nearby battle. However, the mayor’s daughter had argued for Sleete’s life, convincing them that the bandits must be Darkfriends if they were seeking wounded Warders. The villagers had chosen to hide Sleete instead, and the girl had nursed him to safety.
Sleete had been forced to sneak away once he was well enough to travel; the girl had apparently taken quite a liking to him. Whispers among the Younglings said that Sleete’s escape had also come because he had begun feeling affection for the girl himself. Most Warders knew better than to let themselves grow attached. Sleete had left in the night, after the girl and her family fell asleep—but in return for the village’s mercy, he’d hunted down the bandits and seen to it that they would never plague the village again.
It was the marrow of stories and legends—at least, among regular, lesser men. For a Warder, Sleete’s story was almost commonplace. Men like him attracted legends as ordinary men attracted fleas. In fact, Sleete hadn’t wanted to share his tale; it had come out only owing to a vigorous campaign of questions from the Younglings. He still acted as if his survival were nothing to brag about. He was a Warder. Surviving against the odds, riding in delirium over miles of rough terrain, cutting down an entire band of thieves with wounds not fully healed—these were just the sorts of things you did when you were a Warder.
Gawyn respected them. Even the ones he had killed. Especially the o
nes he had killed. It took a unique kind of man to show this kind of dedication, this kind of vigilance. This kind of humility. While Aes Sedai manipulated the world and monsters like al’Thor got the glory, men like Sleete quietly did the work of heroes, each and every day. Without glory or recognition. If they were remembered, it was usually only by association with their Aes Sedai. Or it was by other Warders. You didn’t forget your own.
Sleete attacked, sword lancing forward in a straight thrust delivered for maximum speed. The Viper Flicks Its Tongue, a bold strike, made more effective because Sleete fought in tandem with the narrow, short man rounding toward Gawyn’s left. Marlesh was the only other Warder in Dorlan—and his arrival had been far less dramatic than Sleete’s. Marlesh had been with the original group of eleven Aes Sedai who had escaped Dumai’s Wells, and he had stayed with them the entire time. His own Aes Sedai, a pretty young Domani Green named Vasha, watched idly from the side of the barn.
Gawyn countered The Viper Flicks Its Tongue with Cat Dances on the Wall, knocking aside the strike and going for the legs in one sweep. It wasn’t intended to hit, however; it was a defensive move, meant to enable him to keep an eye on both opponents. Marlesh tried Leopard’s Caress, but Gawyn moved into Folding the Air, carefully knocking aside the blow and waiting for another from Sleete, who was the more dangerous of the two. Sleete repositioned, taking smooth steps, his blade to the side as he set his back to the massive piles of hay at the rear of the stuffy barn.
Gawyn moved into Cat on Hot Sand as Marlesh tried Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. Hummingbird wasn’t the right form to use in such an attack; it was rarely useful against someone on the defensive, but Marlesh was obviously tired of being parried. He was getting eager. Gawyn could use that. And would.
Sleete was advancing again. Gawyn brought his sword back in to guard as the Warders approached in tandem. Gawyn immediately moved into Apple Blossoms in the Wind. His blade flashed three times, pushing a wide-eyed Marlesh back. Marlesh cursed, throwing himself forward, but Gawyn brought his sword up from the previous form and moved fluidly into Shake Dew from the Branch. He stepped forward into a series of six sharp blows, three at each opponent, knocking Marlesh back and to the ground—the man had stepped back into the fight too quickly—and forcing Sleete’s blade aside twice, then ending with his blade against the man’s neck.
The two Warders looked at Gawyn, shocked. They had borne similar expressions the last time Gawyn had defeated them, and the time before that. Sleete carried a heron-mark blade and was near-legendary in the White Tower for his prowess. He was said to have bested even Lan Mandragoran twice out of seven bouts, back when Mandragoran had been known to spar with other Warders. Marlesh wasn’t as renowned as his companion, but he was still a fully capable and trained Warder, no easy foe.
But Gawyn had won. Again. Things seemed so simple when he was sparring. The world contracted down—compressed like berries squeezed for their juice—into something smaller and easier to see from up close. All Gawyn had ever wanted was to protect Elayne. He wanted to defend Andor. Maybe learn to be a little more like Galad.
Why couldn’t life be as simple as a sword match? Opponents clear and arranged before you. The prize obvious: survival. When men fought, they connected. You became brothers as you traded blows.
Gawyn removed his blade and stepped away, sheathing it. He offered a hand to Marlesh, who took it, shaking his head as he stood. “You are remarkable, Gawyn Trakand. Like a creature of light, color and shadow when you move. I feel like a babe holding a stick when I face you.”
Sleete said nothing as he sheathed his own sword, but he did nod his head to Gawyn in respect—just as he had the last two times they’d fought. He was a man of few words. Gawyn appreciated that.
In the corner of the barn there was a half-barrel filled with water, and the men walked to it. Corbet, one of the Younglings, hurriedly dipped a ladleful and handed it to Gawyn. Gawyn gave it to Sleete. The older man nodded again and took a drink while Marlesh took a cup off the dusty windowsill and got himself a drink. “I’m saying, Trakand,” the short man continued, “we’ll need to find you a blade with some herons on it. No one should have to face you without knowing what they’re getting into!”
“I’m not a blademaster,” Gawyn said quietly, taking the ladle back from crook-nosed Sleete and having a drink. It was warm, which felt good. Less of a shock, more natural.
“You killed Hammar, didn’t you?” Marlesh asked.
Gawyn hesitated. The simplicity he’d felt before, while fighting, was already crumbling. “Yes.”
“Well, then you’re a blademaster,” Marlesh said. “Should have taken his sword when he fell.”
“It wasn’t respectful,” Gawyn said. “Besides, I didn’t have time to claim prizes.”
Marlesh laughed, as if at a joke, though Gawyn hadn’t intended one. He glanced over at Sleete, who was watching him with curious eyes.
A rustle of skirts announced the approach of Vasha. The Green had long black hair and striking green eyes that at times seemed almost catlike. “Are you done playing, Marlesh?” she asked with a faintly Domani accent.
Marlesh chuckled. “You should be happy to see me play, Vasha. I seem to recall my ‘playing’ saving your neck a couple of times on the battlefield.”
She sniffed and raised an eyebrow. Gawyn had rarely seen an Aes Sedai and Warder with as casual a relationship as these two. “Come,” she said, turning on her heel and walking toward the open barn doors. “I want to see what has been keeping Narenwin and the others so long indoors. It smells of decisions being made.”
Marlesh shrugged and tossed the cup to Corbet. “Whatever they’re deciding, I hope it involves moving. I don’t like sitting around in this village with those soldiers creeping up on us. If it gets any more tense in camp, I’m likely to run off and join the Tinkers.”
Gawyn nodded at that comment. It had been weeks since he’d last dared send the Younglings to raid. Bryne’s search parties were getting closer and closer to the village, and that allowed fewer and fewer rides out across the countryside.
Vasha passed out the doors, but Gawyn could still hear her say, “You can sound like such a child at times.” Marlesh just shrugged, waving farewell to Gawyn and Sleete before stepping out of the barn.
Gawyn shook his head, refilling the ladle and taking another drink. “Those two remind me of nothing so much as a brother and sister at times.”
Sleete smiled.
Gawyn replaced the ladle, nodded to Corbet, then moved to leave. He wanted to check on the Younglings’ evening meal and make certain it was being distributed properly. Some of the youths had taken to sparring and practicing when they should have been eating.
As he left, however, Sleete reached out and took his arm. Gawyn looked back in surprise.
“Hattori only has one Warder,” the man said in his gravelly, soft voice.
Gawyn nodded. “That’s not unheard-of for a Green.”
“It isn’t because she isn’t open to having more,” Sleete said. “Years ago, when she bonded me, she said that she would only take another if I judged him worthy. She asked me to search. She doesn’t think much on these kinds of things. Too busy with other matters.”
All right, Gawyn thought, wondering why he was being told this.
Sleete turned, meeting Gawyn’s eyes. “It’s been over ten years, but I’ve found someone worthy. She will bond you this hour, if you wish it.”
Gawyn blinked in surprise at Sleete. The lanky man was shrouded once more in his color-shifting cloak, wearing nondescript brown and green beneath. Others complained that because of his long hair and sideburns, Sleete looked more scruffy than a Warder should. But “scruffy” was the wrong term for this man. Rough, perhaps, but natural. Like uncut stones or a gnarled—yet sturdy—oak.
“I’m honored, Sleete,” Gawyn said. “But I came to the White Tower to study because of Andoran traditions, not because I was going to be a Warder. My place is beside my sister.” And
if anyone is going to bond me, it will be Egwene.
“You came for those reasons,” Sleete said, “but those reasons have passed. You’ve fought in our war, you’ve killed Warders and defended the Tower. You are one of us. You belong with us.”
Gawyn hesitated.
“You search,” Sleete said. “Like a hawk, glancing this way and that, trying to decide whether to perch or to hunt. You’ll tire of flying eventually. Join us, and become one of us. You’ll find that Hattori is a good Aes Sedai. Wiser than most, far less prone to squabbles or foolishness than many in the Tower.”
“I can’t, Sleete,” Gawyn said, shaking his head. “Andor. . . .”
“Hattori is not regarded as influential by the White Tower,” Sleete said. “The others rarely care what she does. To have you, she’d see herself assigned to Andor. You could have both, Gawyn Trakand. Think on it.”
Gawyn hesitated again, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll think on it.”
Sleete released his arm. “As much as a man can ask.”
Gawyn moved to leave, but then stopped, looking back toward Sleete in the dusty barn. Then Gawyn gestured toward Corbet and gestured with a curt sign. Leave and watch, it meant. The Youngling nodded eagerly—he was one of the youngest among them, always looking for something to do to prove himself. He’d watch the doors and give warning if anyone approached.
Sleete watched with curiosity as Corbet positioned himself, hand on his sword. Gawyn then stepped forward and spoke more quietly, too soft for Corbet to hear. “What do you think of what happened in the Tower, Sleete?”
The rough man frowned, then stepped back and leaned against the inside barn wall. With a glance during the casual move, Sleete checked out the window to make certain nobody was listening from that side.
“It’s bad,” Sleet finally said, tone hushed. “Warder shouldn’t fight Warder. Aes Sedai shouldn’t fight Aes Sedai. Should never happen. Not now. Not ever.”
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