“I do,” Ituralde said as his two guards arrived. “You command this force?”
“For now,” the man said. “I am Yoeli. Can you ride?”
“Better that than staying here.”
Yoeli reached out a hand and pulled Ituralde into his saddle behind him. Ituralde’s leg protested with a flare of pain, but there wasn’t time to wait for a stretcher.
Two other horsemen took Ituralde’s guards onto their horses, and soon they three were riding for the city at a gallop.
“Bless you,” Ituralde said. “It took you long enough, though.”
“I know.” Yoeli’s voice sounded oddly grim. “I hope you are worth this, invader, for my actions this day will likely cost my life.”
“What?”
The man didn’t reply. He simply bore Ituralde on thundering hooves into the safety of the city—such as that safety was, considering the city was now besieged by a force of several hundred thousand Shadowspawn.
Morgase walked out of the camp. Nobody stopped her, though some did give her odd looks. She passed the wooded northern rim. The trees were burloak, spaced apart to allow for their great, spreading arms. She moved beneath the boughs, breathing deeply of the humid air.
Gaebril had been one of the Forsaken.
She eventually found a place where a tiny highland stream filled a cleft between two rocks and created a still, clear pool. The tall rocks around it clustered like an ancient, broken throne built for a giant fifteen spans tall.
The trees bore leaves above, though many looked sickly. A thinner patch of clouds blew past, allowing fingers of sunlight to reach down from the overcast sky. That splintered light shone in rays through the clear water, making patches of light on the pool’s bottom. Minnows darted between the patches, as if investigating the light.
Morgase rounded the pool, then settled atop a flat boulder. The sounds of the camp could be heard in the distance. Calling, posts being driven into the ground, carts rattling on pathways.
She stared into the pool. Was there anything more hateful than being made the pawn of another? Of being forced to dance upon their strings like a wooden puppet? In her youth, she’d grown well acquainted with bowing before the whims of others. That had been the only way for her to stabilize her rule.
Taringail had tried to manipulate her. In truth, he’d been successful much of the time. There had been others, too. So many who had pushed her this way or that. She’d spent ten years pandering to whichever faction was the strongest. Ten years slowly building alliances. It had worked. She’d eventually been able to maneuver on her own. When Taringail had died hunting, many had whispered that his passing released her, but those close to her had known that she had already gone a long way toward unseating his authority.
She could remember the very day when she’d cast off the last of those who had presumed to be the real power behind the throne. That was the day that, in her heart, she’d truly become Queen. She’d sworn that she’d never let another manipulate her again.
And then, years later, Gaebril had arrived. After that, Valda, who had been worse. At least with Gaebril, she hadn’t realized what was happening. That had numbed the wounds.
Footsteps on fallen twigs announced a visitor. The light from above dimmed, the thinner clouds moving on. The shafts of light faded, and the minnows scattered.
The footsteps stopped beside her stone. “I’m leaving,” Tallanvor’s voice said. “Aybara has given leave for his Asha’man to make gateways, starting with some of the distant cities. I’m going to Tear. Rumors say there’s a king there again. He’s gathering an army to fight in the Last Battle. I want to be with it.”
Morgase looked up, staring ahead through the trees. It wasn’t really a forest. “They say you were as single-minded as Goldeneyes,” she said softly. “That you would not rest, that you barely took time to eat, that you spent every moment searching for a way to free me.”
Tallanvor said nothing.
“I’ve never had a man do that for me,” she continued. “Taringail saw me as a pawn, Thom as a beauty to be hunted and romanced, and Gareth as a queen to be served. But none of them made me their entire life, their heart. I think Thom and Gareth loved me, but as something to be held and cared for, then released. I didn’t think you’d ever let go.”
“I won’t,” Tallanvor said softly.
“You go to Tear. Yet you said you’d never leave.”
“My heart stays here,” he said. “I know well what it is to love from afar, Morgase. I’d done it for years before this fool’s trip began, and I will do it for years yet. My heart is a traitor. Perhaps some Trolloc will do me a favor and rip it free of my chest.”
“So bitter,” she whispered.
“You have made it amply clear that my attentions are not wanted. A queen and a simple guardsman. Pure foolishness.”
“A queen no longer,” she said.
“Not in name, Morgase. Just in mind.”
A leaf fell from above and struck the pool. With a lobed margin and verdant richness, it should have had a long life yet.
“Do you know the worst part of this?” Tallanvor asked. “It’s the hope. The hope I let myself feel. Traveling with you, protecting you, I thought maybe you would see. Maybe you would care. And forget about him.”
“Him?”
“Gaebril,” Tallanvor snapped. “I can see that you still think of him. Even after what he did to you. I leave my heart here, but you left yours in Caemlyn.” From the corner of her eye, she could see him turn away. “Whatever it is you saw in him, I don’t have it. I’m only a simple, common, idiot of a Guardsman who can’t say the right words. You fawned over Gaebril, and he all but ignored you. That’s how love is. Bloody ashes, I’ve all but done the same thing with you.”
She said nothing.
“Well,” he said, “that’s why I have to go. You’re safe now, and that’s all that matters. Light help me, but that’s still all that I care about!”
He began to walk away, feet crunching twigs.
“Gaebril was one of the Forsaken,” she said.
The crunching twigs stopped.
“He was really Rahvin,” she continued. “He took over Andor through use of the One Power, forcing people to do as he said.”
Tallanvor hissed, twigs crunching as he hastened back to her. “Are you certain?”
“Certain? No. But it does make sense. We can’t ignore what is happening in the world, Tallanvor. The weather, the way food spoils in a heartbeat, the movements of this Rand al’Thor. He is no false Dragon. The Forsaken must be loose again.
“What would you do, if you were one of them? Raise up an army and conquer? Or simply stroll into a palace and take the Queen as your consort? Twist her mind so that she lets you do as you wish. You’d gain the resources of an entire nation, all with minimal effort. Barely a finger raised…”
She raised her head and stared off into the distance. Northward. Toward Andor. “They call it Compulsion. A dark, foul weave that removes the will from your subject. I’m not supposed to know that it exists.
“You say that I think of him. That is true. I think about him and hate him. Hate myself for what I let him do. And a part of my heart knows that if he were to appear here and demand something from me, I’d give it. I couldn’t help myself. But this thing I feel for him—this thing that blends my desire and my hatred like two locks in a braid—it is not love.”
She turned and looked down at Tallanvor. “I know love, Tallanvor, and Gaebril never had it from me. I doubt that a creature like him could comprehend love.”
Tallanvor met her eyes. His were dark gray, soft and pure. “Woman, you give me that monster hope again. Be wary of what lies at your feet.”
“I need time to think. Would you refrain, for now, from going to Tear?”
He bowed. “Morgase, if you want anything from me—anything—all you ever need to do is ask. I thought I made that clear. I’ll remove my name from the list.”
He withdrew. Morgase w
atched him, her mind a tempest despite the stillness of the trees and pond before her.
Chapter 22
The End of a Legend
At night, Gawyn couldn’t see the White Tower’s wounds.
In darkness, one couldn’t tell the difference between a beautifully intricate mural and a wall full of mismatched tiles. At night, the most beautiful of Tar Valon’s buildings became another dark lump.
And at night, the holes and scars on the White Tower were patched with a bandage of darkness. Of course, on a night as dark as these clouds caused, one also couldn’t tell the Tower’s color. White or black; at night, it didn’t really matter.
Gawyn walked the White Tower grounds, wearing stiff trousers and coat of red and gold. Like a uniform, but of no specific allegiance. He didn’t seem to have a specific allegiance these days. Almost unconsciously, he found himself walking toward the eastern tower entrance as if to climb up to Egwene’s sleeping chambers. He set his jaw, turning the other way.
He should have been sleeping. But after nearly a week of guarding Egwene’s door at night, he was—as soldiers liked to say—on a midnight lunch. Perhaps he could have stayed in his rooms to relax, but his quarters in the White Tower’s barracks felt confining.
Nearby, two small feral cats stalked through tufts of grass, eyes reflecting the torchlight of a guard post. The cats hunkered low, watching him as if considering—for a brief moment—whether or not he’d be worth attacking. An unseen owl cruised in the air above, the only evidence of its passing a solitary feather that floated down. It was easier to pretend at night. Some men lived their entire lives that way, preferring the curtains of darkness to the open windows of daylight, because they let them see the world all in shadow.
It was summer now, but though the day had been hot, the night was strangely cold. He shivered at a passing breeze. There hadn’t been any murders since the death of that unfortunate White. When would the killer strike again? He—or she—could be moving through the hallways at this moment, searching for a solitary Aes Sedai as those cats searched for mice.
Egwene had sent him away from her door, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be on the watch. What good was it to walk the grounds? He should be indoors, where he had a chance of doing some good. Gawyn made his way to one of the servant entrances.
The low-ceilinged hallway inside was clean and well lit, like the rest of the Tower, though the floor was set with dull gray slate instead of glazed tiles. An open room to his right resounded with laughter and chatting, off-duty guardsmen enjoying time with their comrades. Gawyn gave them barely a glance, but then froze.
He looked back in, recognizing some of the men. “Mazone? Celark? Zang? What are you men about?”
The three looked up with alarm, then chagrin. They were among about a dozen Younglings who were dicing and smoking pipes with the off-duty Tower guardsmen. The Younglings stumbled to their feet and gave salutes, though he was no longer their commander. They didn’t seem to realize that.
Celark, foremost among them, hastened over to Gawyn. He was a lean fellow with light brown hair and thick fingers. “My Lord,” he said. “Nothing important, my Lord. Just a little harmless fun.”
“The Warders don’t like this kind of behavior,” Gawyn said. “You know that, Celark. If it gets around that you’re staying up this late dicing, you’ll never convince an Aes Sedai to take you.”
Celark grimaced. “Yes, my Lord.”
There was something reluctant in that grimace. “What?” Gawyn said. “Out with it, man.”
“Well, my Lord,” Celark said. “It’s that some of us, we aren’t so sure that we want to be Warders. Not all of us came here for that, you know. Some were like you, wanting to train with the best. And the rest of us…well, things have changed now.”
“What things?” Gawyn asked.
“Foolish things, my Lord,” the man said, looking down. “You’re right, of course. There’s early sparring tomorrow. But, well, we’ve seen war. We’re soldiers now. Being a Warder, it’s all a man should aspire to. But some of us, we’d rather not see what we have now end. You know?”
Gawyn nodded slowly.
“When I first came to the Tower,” Celark said, “I wanted nothing more than to be a Warder. Now I don’t know that I want to spend my life protecting one woman, solitary, roving about the countryside.”
“You could be Warder to a Brown or White,” Gawyn said. “And stay in the Tower.”
Celark frowned. “With all respect, my Lord, I think that might be just as bad. Warders…they don’t live like other men.”
“That’s for certain,” Gawyn said, eyes lifting upward, toward Egwene’s distant quarters. He would not go seeking that door. He forced his gaze back down to Celark. “There’s no shame in choosing a different path.”
“The others make it sound like there is.”
“The others are wrong,” Gawyn said. “Gather those of you who want to remain with the Younglings and report to Captain Chubain tomorrow. I’ll speak with him. I’ll wager he could use you as a division in the Tower Guard. He lost a lot of men in the Seanchan attack.”
Celark relaxed visibly. “You’d do that, my Lord?”
“Of course. It was an honor to lead you men.”
“Do you think…maybe you could join with us?” The youth’s voice was hopeful.
Gawyn shook his head. “I’ve another path to take. But, the Light willing, I’ll end up close enough to keep an eye on you.” He nodded toward the room. “Go back to your games. I’ll speak to Makzim for you as well.” Makzim was the stern, thick-armed Warder currently leading the training sessions.
Celark nodded gratefully, hurrying back to the others. Gawyn continued down the corridor, wishing his choices were as easy as those of his men.
Lost in thought, he’d climbed halfway to Egwene’s rooms before he stopped to realize what he was doing. I need something to distract me. The hour wasn’t too late. Perhaps he could find Bryne and chat.
Gawyn made his way to Bryne’s rooms. If Gawyn had a strange position among the Aes Sedai, Bryne’s was nearly as odd: Warder to the former Amyrlin, general of Egwene’s conquering army, and renowned great captain. Bryne’s door was open a crack, emitting a line of light across the blue-tiled corridor. That was his habit when he was in and awake, should one of his officers need him. Many nights Bryne was away, staying at one of his command centers around the island or in a nearby village.
Gawyn knocked softly.
“Come.” Bryne’s voice was firm and familiar. Gawyn slipped in, then returned the door to its cracked position. Bryne sat at a rickety-looking desk, working on a letter. He glanced at Gawyn. “Just a moment.”
Gawyn waited. The walls were papered with maps of Tar Valon, Andor, Cairhien and surrounding regions. Many bore recent notations in red chalk. Bryne was preparing for war. The notations made it clear he felt he’d eventually have to defend Tar Valon itself against Trollocs. Several maps showed villages across the northern part of the countryside, listing their fortifications—if any—and their loyalty to Tar Valon. They’d be used for supply dumps and forward positions. Another map had circles pointing out ancient watchtowers, fortifications and ruins.
There was a methodical inevitability to Bryne’s calculations, and a sense of urgency. He wasn’t looking to build fortifications, but to use those already in place. He was moving troops into the villages he felt most useful; another map showed progress in active recruitment.
It wasn’t until Gawyn stood there—smelling the musty scent of old paper and burning candles—that he felt the reality of the impending war. It was coming soon. The Dragon would break the seals of the Dark One’s prison. The place he had told Egwene to meet him, the Field of Merrilor, was marked in bright red on the maps. It was north, on the border of Shienar.
The Dark One. Loose upon the world. Light! It made Gawyn’s own problems insignificant.
Bryne finished his letter, sanding the paper, folding it, and reaching for his wax and se
al. “It’s a little late for calling on people, son.”
“I know, but I thought you might be up.”
“And so I am.” Bryne dribbled wax onto the letter. “What is it you need?”
“Advice,” Gawyn said, sitting on a stool.
“Unless it’s about the best way to quarter a group of men or how to fortify a hilltop, you’ll find my advice lacking. But what is it you want to talk about?”
“Egwene forbade me to protect her.”
“I’m certain the Amyrlin had her reasons,” Bryne said, calmly sealing the letter.
“Foolish ones,” Gawyn said. “She has no Warder, and there is a killer in the Tower.” One of the Forsaken, he thought.
“Both true,” Bryne said. “But what does that have to do with you?”
“She needs my protection.”
“Did she ask for your protection?”
“No.”
“Indeed. As I recall, she didn’t ask you to come with her into the Tower either, nor did she ask for you to begin following her about like a hound that has lost his master.”
“But she needs me!” Gawyn said.
“Interesting. The last time you thought that, you—with my help—upset weeks’ worth of her work to reunite the White Tower. Sometimes, son, our help is not needed. No matter how freely offered, or how urgent that help may seem.”
Gawyn folded his arms, unable to lean against the wall, lest he disturb a map showing orchards across the surrounding countryside. One village near Dragonmount was circled four times, for some reason. “So your advice is to let her remain exposed, perhaps to take a knife in the back.”
“I haven’t given any advice,” Bryne said, leafing through some reports on his desk, his firm face lit by flickering candlelight. “I have only made observations, though I think it curious that you conclude that you should leave her alone.”
“I…Bryne, she doesn’t make sense!”
The corner of Bryne’s mouth raised in a wry smile. He lowered his papers, turning to Gawyn. “I warned you that my advice would be of little use. I’m not sure if there are answers that will suit you. But let me ask this: What is it you want, Gawyn Trakand?”
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