She focused on Sharina. The gray-haired woman stood patiently, waiting as Siuan worked through what she’d revealed.
“Why did you tell me this?” Siuan asked. “For all you know, I’m Lelaine’s lackey.”
Sharina raised her eyebrows. “Please, Siuan Sedai. These eyes aren’t blind, and they see a woman working very hard to keep the Amyrlin’s enemies occupied.”
“Fine,” Siuan said. “But you are still exposing yourself for very little reward.”
“Little reward?” Sharina asked. “Excuse me, Siuan Sedai, but what do you suppose my fate will be if the Amyrlin doesn’t return? No matter what she says now, we can sense Lelaine Sedai’s true opinions.”
Siuan hesitated. Though Lelaine now played the part of Egwene’s pious advocate, not too long ago she had been as displeased as everyone else over the too-old novices. Few liked it when traditions changed.
Now that the new novices had been entered into the novice book, it would be very difficult to put them out of the Tower. But that didn’t mean the Aes Sedai would continue to let older women in. Beyond that, there was a good chance that Lelaine—or whoever ended up with the Amyrlin Seat—would find a way to delay or disrupt the progression of the women who had been accepted against tradition. That would certainly include Sharina.
“I will let the Amyrlin know of your actions here,” Siuan said. “You will be rewarded.”
“My reward will be Egwene Sedai’s return, Siuan Sedai. Pray it be swift. She entangled our fate with her own the moment she took us in. After what I’ve seen, and what I’ve felt, I have no intention of stopping my training.” The woman hefted the basket. “I assume you wish these washed and returned to you?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I am a novice, Siuan Sedai. It is my duty and my pleasure.” The elderly woman bowed in respect and continued on down the path, walking with a step younger than her years.
Siuan watched her go, then stopped another novice. Another messenger to Bryne. Just in case. Hurry up, girl, Siuan thought to Egwene, glancing toward the spire of the White Tower. Sharina isn’t the only one whose fate is entangled with yours. You’ve got us all wound up in that net of yours.
CHAPTER 19
Gambits
Chaos. The entire world was chaos.
Tuon stood on the balcony of her audience hall in the palace of Ebou Dar, hands clasped behind her back. In the palace grounds—flagstones washed white, like so many surfaces in the city—a group of Altaran armsmen in gold and black practiced formations beneath the watchful eyes of a pair of her own officers. Beyond them, the city proper rose, white domes banded with colors spreading alongside tall, white spires.
Order. Here in Ebou Dar, there was order, even in the fields of tents and wagons outside the city. Seanchan soldiers patrolled and kept the peace; there were plans to clean out the Rahad. Just because one was poor was not a reason—or an excuse—to live without law.
But this city was just a tiny, tiny pocket of order in a world of tempest. Seanchan itself was broken by civil war, now that the Empress had died. The Corenne had come, but recapturing these lands of Artur Hawkwing progressed slowly, stalled by the Dragon Reborn in the east and Domani armies in the north. She still waited to hear news of Lieutenant-General Turan, but the signs were not good. Galgan maintained that they might be surprised at the outcome, but Tuon had seen a black dove the hour she was informed of Turan’s predicament. The omen had been clear. He would not return alive.
Chaos. She glanced to the side, where faithful Karede stood in his thick armor, colored blood-red and a deep green, nearly black. He was a tall man, square face nearly as solid as the armor he wore. He had fully two dozen Deathwatch Guards with him this day—the day after Tuon’s return to Ebou Dar—along with six Ogier Gardeners, all standing along the walls. They lined the sides of the high-ceilinged, white-pillared room. Karede sensed the chaos, and did not intend to let her be taken again. Chaos was the most deadly when you made assumptions about what it could and couldn’t infect. Here in Ebou Dar, it manifested in the form of a faction intent on taking Tuon’s own life.
She had been dodging assassinations since she could walk, and she had survived them all. She anticipated them. In a way, she thrived because of them. How were you to know that you were powerful unless assassins were sent to kill you?
Suroth’s betrayal, however . . . Chaos, indeed, when the leader of the Forerunners herself turned traitor. Bringing the world back into order was going to be very, very difficult. Perhaps impossible.
Tuon straightened her back. She had not thought to become Empress for many years yet. But she would do her duty.
She turned away from the balcony and walked back into the audience chamber to face the crowd awaiting her. Like the others of the Blood, she wore ashes on her cheeks to mourn the loss of the Empress. Tuon had little affection for her mother, but affection was not needed for an empress. She provided order and stability. Tuon had only begun to understand the importance of these things as the weight had settled on her shoulders.
The chamber was wide and rectangular, lit with candelabras between the pillars and the radiant glow of sunlight through the wide balcony behind. Tuon had ordered the room’s rugs removed, preferring the bright white tiles. The ceiling bore a painted mural of fishers at sea, with gulls in the clear air, and the walls were a soft blue. A group of ten da’covale knelt before the candelabras to Tuon’s right. They wore filmy costumes, waiting for a command. Suroth was not among them. The Deathwatch Guard saw to her, at least until her hair grew out.
As soon as Tuon entered the room, all of the commoners bowed on knees with foreheads to the ground. Those of the Blood knelt, bowing their heads.
Across from the da’covale, on the other side of the hall, Lanelle and Melitene knelt in dresses emblazoned with silver lightning bolts in red panels on their skirts. Their leashed damane knelt facedown. Tuon’s kidnapping had been unbearable to several of the damane; they had taken to inconsolable weeping during her absence.
Her audience chair was relatively simple. A wooden seat with black velvet on the arms and back. She sat down, wearing a pleated gown of the deepest sea blue, a white cape fluttering behind her. As soon as she did, the people in the room rose from their positions of adulation—all save the da’covale, who remained kneeling. Selucia stood and stepped up beside the chair, her golden hair in a braid down her right side, the left side of her head shaven. She did not wear the ashes, since she was not of the Blood, but the white band on her arm indicated that she—like the entire Empire—mourned the loss of the Empress.
Yuril, Tuon’s secretary and secretly her Hand, stepped up to the other side of the chair. The Deathwatch Guards moved in subtly around her, dark armor glittering faintly in the sunlight. They had been particularly protective of her lately. She didn’t blame them, recent events considered.
Here I am, Tuon thought, surrounded by my might, damane on one side and Deathwatch Guard on the other. And yet I feel no safer than I did with Matrim. How odd, that she should have felt safe with him.
Directly in front of her, lit by indirect sunlight from the open balcony behind, was a collection of the Blood, Captain-General Galgan highest of them. He wore armor this day, the breastplate painted a deep blue, nearly dark enough to be black. His powdery white hair ran in a crest with the sides of his head shaven, and was plaited to his shoulders, for he was of the High Blood. With him were two members of the low Blood—Banner-General Najirah and Banner-General Yamada—and several commoner officers. They waited patiently, carefully not meeting Tuon’s eyes.
A gathering of other members of the Blood stood several steps behind, to witness her acts. Wiry Faverde Nothish and long-faced Amenar Shumada led them. They were both important—important enough to be dangerous. Suroth wouldn’t be the only one who saw opportunity in these times. If Tuon were to fall, practically anyone could become Empress. Or Emperor.
The war in Seanchan would not end quickly; but when it did, the victor would undoubtedly raise
him- or herself to the Crystal Throne as well. And then there would be two leaders of the Seanchan Empire, divided by an ocean, united in desire to conquer one another. Neither could allow the other to live.
Order, Tuon thought, tapping the black wood of her armrest with a blue-lacquered fingernail. Order must emanate from me. I will bring the calm airs to those beset by storms.
“Selucia is my Truthspeaker,” she announced to the room. “Let it be published among the Blood.”
The statement was expected. Selucia bowed her head in acceptance, though she had no desire for any appointment other than to serve and protect Tuon. She would not welcome this position. But she was also honest and straightforward; she would make an excellent Truthspeaker.
At least this time, Tuon could be certain that her Truthspeaker wasn’t one of the Forsaken.
Did she believe Falendre’s story, then? It stretched plausibility; it sounded like one of Matrim’s fanciful tales of imaginary creatures that lurked in the dark. And yet, the other sul’dam and damane had corroborated Falendre’s tale.
Some facts, at least, seemed straightforward. Anath had been working with Suroth. Suroth—after some persuasion—had admitted that she had met with one of the Forsaken. Or, at least, she thought she had. She hadn’t known that the Forsaken was the same as Anath, but she seemed to find the revelation believable.
Whether or not she really was Forsaken, Anath had met with the Dragon Reborn, imitating Tuon. And had then tried to kill him. Order, Tuon thought, keeping her face still. I represent order.
Tuon gestured rapidly to Selucia, who was still Tuon’s Voice—and her shadow—even with the added responsibility of Truthspeaker. When ordering those far beneath herself, Tuon would first pass the words to Selucia, who would speak them.
“You are required to send him in,” Selucia said to a da’covale beside the throne. He bowed himself to the ground, touching head to the floor, then hurried to the other end of the large room and opened the door.
Beslan, King of Altara and High Seat of House Mitsobar, was a slender youth with black eyes and hair. He had the olive skin common to the Altaran people, but he had taken to wearing clothing like that favored by the Blood. Loose trousers of yellow and a high-collared coat that came down only to the middle of his chest, a yellow shirt underneath. The Blood had left a clear passage down the middle of the room, and Beslan walked through it, eyes lowered. Upon reaching the supplication space before the throne, he went down on his knees, then bowed low. The perfect image of a loyal subject, except for the thin golden crown on his head.
Tuon gestured to Selucia.
“You are bidden to rise,” Selucia said.
Beslan rose, though he kept his gaze averted. He was a fine actor.
“The Daughter of the Nine Moons expresses her condolences to you for your loss,” Selucia said to him.
“I give the same to her for her loss,” he said. “My grief is but a candle to the great fire felt by the Seanchan people.”
He was too servile. He was a king; he was not required to bow himself so far. He was the equal of many of the Blood.
She could almost have believed he was just being submissive before the woman who would soon become Empress. But she knew too much of his temperament, through both spies and hearsay.
“The Daughter of the Nine Moons wishes to know the reason you have ceased holding court,” Selucia said, watching Tuon’s hands move. “She finds it distressing that your people cannot have audience with their king. Your mother’s death was as tragic as it was shocking, but your kingdom needs you.”
Beslan bowed. “Please have her know that I did not think it appropriate to elevate myself above her. I am uncertain how to act. I meant no insult.”
“Are you certain that is the true reason?” Selucia Voiced. “It is not, perhaps, because you are planning a rebellion against us, and do not have time for your other duties?”
Beslan looked up sharply, eyes wide. “Your Majesty, I—”
“You need not speak any further lies, child of Tylin,” Tuon said directly to him, causing gasps of surprise from the assembled Blood. “I know of the things you have said to General Habiger and your friend, Lord Malalin. I know of your quiet meetings in the basement of The Three Stars. I know of it all, King Beslan.”
The room fell silent, Beslan bowed his head for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he rose to his feet and stared her directly in the eyes. She wouldn’t have thought the soft-spoken youth had it in him. “I will not allow my people to—”
“I would still my tongue if I were you,” Tuon interrupted. “You stand on sand as it is.”
Beslan hesitated. She could see the question in his eyes. Wasn’t she going to execute him? If I intended to kill you, she thought, you would be dead already, and you would never have seen the knife.
“Seanchan is in upheaval,” Tuon said, regarding him. He appeared shocked at the words. “Oh, did you think I would ignore it, Beslan? I am not content to stare at the stars while my empire collapses around me. The truth must be acknowledged. My mother is dead. There is no empress.
“However, the forces of the Corenne are more than sufficient to maintain our positions here on this side of the ocean, Altara included.” She leaned forward, trying to project a sense of control, of firmness. Her mother had been able to do so at all times. Tuon did not have her mother’s height, but she would need that aura. Others had to feel safer, more secure, simply by entering her presence.
“In times such as these,” Tuon continued, “threats of rebellion cannot be tolerated. Many will see opportunity in the Empire’s weakness, and their divisive squabbling—if left unchecked—would prove the end of us all. Therefore, I must be firm. Very firm. With those who defy me.”
“Then why,” Beslan said, “am I still alive?”
“You started planning your rebellion before events in the Empire were made known.”
He frowned, dumbfounded.
“You began your rebellion when Suroth led here,” Tuon said, “and when your mother was still queen. Much has changed since then, Beslan. Very much. In times like these, there is potential for great accomplishment.”
“You must know I have no thirst for power,” Beslan said. “The freedom of my people is all I desire.”
“I do know it,” Tuon said, clasping her hands before her, lacquered nails curling, elbows on the armrests of her chair. “And that is the other reason you are still alive. You rebel not out of lust for station, but out of sheer ignorance. You are misguided, and that means you can change, should you receive the proper knowledge.”
He looked at her, confused. Lower your eyes, fool. Don’t make me have you strapped for insolence! As if he had heard her thoughts, he averted his eyes, then lowered them. Yes, she had judged correctly regarding this one.
How precarious her position was! True, she had armies—but so many of them had been thrown away by Suroth’s aggression.
All kingdoms on this side of the ocean would need to bow before the Crystal Throne, eventually. Each marath’damane would be leashed, each king or queen would swear the oaths. But Suroth had pushed too hard, particularly in the fiasco with Turan. A hundred thousand men, lost in one battle. Madness.
Tuon needed Altara. She needed Ebou Dar. Beslan was well loved by the people. Putting his head on a pike after the mysterious death of his mother. . . . Well, Tuon would have stability in Ebou Dar, but she would rather not have to leave battlefronts unmanned to accomplish it.
“Your mother’s death is a loss,” Tuon said. “She was a good woman. A good queen.”
Beslan’s lips tightened.
“You may speak,” Tuon said.
“Her death . . . is unexplained,” he said. The implication was obvious.
“I do not know if Suroth caused her to be killed,” Tuon said, softening her voice. “She claims that she did not. But the matter is being investigated. If it turns out that Suroth was behind the death, you and Altara will have an apology from the throne itself.”
“Yes,” he said, voice bitter. “And she gave up the throne.”
“No,” Tuon said curtly. “The throne belongs to you. This is the ignorance of which I spoke. You must lead your people. They must have a king. I have neither time nor desire to do your duty for you.
“You assume that the Seanchan dominance of your homeland will mean your people lack freedom. That is false. They will be more free, more protected, and more powerful when they accept our rule.
“I sit above you. But is this so undesirable? With the might of the empire, you will be able to hold your borders and patrol your lands outside of Ebou Dar. You speak of your people? Well, I have ordered something prepared for you.” She nodded to the side, where a willowy-limbed da’covale stepped forward with a leather satchel.
“Inside,” Tuon said, “you will find numbers gathered by my scouts and guard forces. You can see directly the reports of crimes during our occupation here. You will have reports and manifests, comparing how the people were before the Return and after it.
“I believe you know what you will find. The Empire is a resource to you, Beslan. A powerful, powerful ally. I will not insult you by offering you thrones you do not want. I will entice you by promising stability, food, and protection for your people. All for the simple price of your loyalty.”
He hesitantly accepted the satchel.
“I offer you a choice, Beslan,” Tuon said. “You may choose execution, if you wish. I will not make you da’covale. I will let you die with honor, and it will be published that you died because you rejected the oaths and chose not to accept the Seanchan. If you wish it, I will allow it. Your people will know that you died in defiance.
“Or, you may choose to serve them better. You may choose to live. If you do so, you will be raised to the High Blood. You will step forward and reign as your people need you to do. I promise you that I will not direct the affairs of your people. I will demand resources and men for my armies, as is proper, and your word cannot countermand my own. Aside from that, your power in Altara will be absolute. No Blood will have the right to command, harm, or imprison your people without your permission.
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