The Gathering Storm

36 The Death of Tuon

“I began my journey in Tear,” Verin said, sitting down on Mat’s best I chair, made of dark walnut with a nice tan pillow. Tomas took up JL position behind her, hand on the pommel of his sword. “My goal was to make my way to Tar Valon.”

“Then how did you end up here?” Mat asked, still suspicious as he seated himself on the pillowed bench. He hated the thing; it was completely impossible to sit on it in any way that was comfortable. Pillows didn’t help. Somehow, they made the seat more awkward. Bloody thing must have been designed by insane, cross-eyed Trollocs and built from the bones of the damned. That was the only reasonable explanation.

He shifted on the bench, and nearly called for another chair, but Verin was continuing. Mandevwin and Talmanes were just inside the tent, the former standing with folded arms, the latter settling himself on the floor. Thom sat on the floor on the other side of the room, watching Verin with calculating eyes. They were all in Mat’s smaller audience tent, which was intended only for short conferences between officers. Mat hadn’t wanted to bring Verin to his actual sitting tent, as it was still spread out with his plans for raiding Trustair.

“I ask myself the same question, Master Cauthon,” Verin said, smiling, her aging Warder standing behind her chair. “How did I end up here? It certainly wasn’t my intention. And yet here I am.”

“You say it almost as if it were an accident, Verin Sedai,” Mandevwin said. “But we’re speaking of a distance of several hundred leagues!”

“Plus,” Mat added, “you can Travel. So if you intended to go to the White Tower, then why not just bloody Travel there and be done with it?”

“Good questions,” Verin said. “Indeed. Might I have some tea?”

Mat sighed, shifting on the devil bench again, and waved for Tal-manes to give the order. Talmanes rose and ducked outside for a moment to pass the word, then returned and sat down again.

“Thank you,” Verin said. “I find myself quite parched.” She projected that familiar distracted air that was so common to sisters from the Brown Ajah. Because of the holes in his memory, Mat’s first meeting with Verin was fuzzy to him. In fact, his memory of her at all was fuzzy. But he did seem to remember thinking she had the temperament of a scholar.

This time, studying her, her mannerisms seemed too exaggerated to him. As if she were leaning on the preconceptions about Browns, using them. Fooling people, like a street performer taking in country boys with a clever game of three-card shuffle.

She eyed him. That smile on the corner of her lips? That was the smile of a jackleg who didn’t care that you were on to her con. Now that you understood, you could both enjoy the game, and perhaps together you could dupe someone else.

“Do you realize how strongly ta’veren you are, young man?” Verin asked.

Mat shrugged. “Rand’s the one you want for that sort of thing. Honestly, I’m barely anything compared to him.” Blasted colors!

“Oh, I wouldn’t consider downplaying the Dragon’s importance,” Verin said, chuckling. “But you can’t hide your light in his shadow, Matrim Cauthon. Not in the presence of any but the blind, at least. In any other time, you’d undoubtedly be the most powerfully ta’veren individual alive. Probably the most powerful to have lived in centuries.”

Mat shifted on the bench. Bloody ashes, he hated the way that made him look as if he was squirming. Maybe he should just stand up. “What are you talking about, Verin?” he said instead. He folded his arms and tried to at least pretend that he was comfortable.

“I’m talking about how you yanked me halfway across the continent.” Her smile widened as a soldier entered with a steaming cup of mint tea. She took it gratefully, and the soldier retreated.

“Yanked you?” Mat said. “You were looking for me.”

“Only after I determined that the Pattern was tugging me somewhere.” Verin blew on her tea. “That meant you or Perrin. It couldn’t have been Rand’s fault, since I’d been able to leave that one easily.”

“Rand?” Mat asked, dismissing yet another flash of colors. “You were with him?”

Verin nodded.

“How . . . did he seem?” Mat said. “Is he ... you know. ...”

“Mad?” Verin asked.

Mat nodded.

“I’m afraid so,” Verin said, lips downturning slightly. “I think he’s still in control of himself, however.”

“Bloody One Power,” Mat said, reaching beneath his shirt to touch the comforting foxhead medallion.

Verin looked up. “Oh, I’m not convinced young al’Thor’s problems are completely due to the Power, Matrim. Many would like to blame his temperament on saidin, but to do that is to ignore the incredible stresses that we’ve settled on that poor boy’s shoulders.”

Mat raised an eyebrow, glancing at Thom.

“Either way,” Verin sipped her tea, “one cannot blame too much on the taint, as it will no longer affect him.”

“It won’t?” Mat asked. “He’s decided to stop channeling?”

She laughed. “A fish would sooner stop swimming. No, the taint will no longer affect him because the taint is no more. Al’Thor cleansed saidin.”

“What?” Mat asked sharply, sitting up.

Verin sipped her tea.

“Are you serious?” Mat asked.

“Quite,” she replied.

Mat glanced at Thom again. Then he plucked at his coat and ran a hand through his hair.

“What are you doing?” Verin asked with amusement.

“I don’t know,” Mat said, feeling sheepish. “I guess I just think I should feel different, or something. The whole world up and changed on us, didn’t it?”

“You could say that,” Verin said, “though I would argue that the cleansing itself is more like a pebble thrown into a pond. The ripples will take some time to reach the shore.”

“A pebble?” Mat asked. “A pebble?”

“Well, perhaps more of a boulder.”

“A bloody mountain if you ask me,” Mat muttered. He settled back on the awful bench.

Verin chuckled. Flaming Aes Sedai. Did they have to be like that? It was probably another oath they took and told nobody about, something to do with acting mysterious. He stared at her. “What was that chuckle for?” he finally demanded.

“Nothing,” she said. “I merely suspect that you will soon feel a little of what I did these last few days.”

“Which was?”

“Well,” she said. “I believe I was talking about that before we got sidetracked on irrelevant topics.”

“On the flaming cleansing of the True Source” Mat muttered. “Honestly.”

“I experienced the most curious of events,” Verin continued. Ignoring Mat, of course. “You may not be aware of this, but in order to Travel from a location, you need to spend time in it. Usually, stopping in a place for an evening is enough. Consequently, after parting from the Dragon, I made my way to a nearby village and took a room at the inn. I settled down, learning the room and preparing to open a Gateway in the morning.

“In the middle of the night, however, the innkeeper arrived. He explained with chagrin that I needed to be moved to another room. It appeared that a leak had been discovered in the roof above my room, and it would soon seep through my ceiling. I protested, but he was insistent.

“And so I moved across the hall and began learning that room. Just when I was feeling I knew it well enough to open a gateway, I was interrupted again. This time, the innkeeper—more embarrassed—explained that his wife had lost her ring in that room during early morning cleaning. The woman awoke in the night and was very upset. The innkeeper—looking quite tired—apologetically wanted to move me again.”

“And?” Mat asked. “Coincidence, Verin.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, then smiled as he shifted on the bench again. Burn it all, he wasn’t squirming!

“I refused to be moved, Matrim,” she said. “I told the innkeeper he was quite welcome to search the room after I left, and promised that I would not take any rings I discovered with me. Then I firmly shut the door on him.” She sipped her drink. “A few minutes later, the inn caught fire—a coal from the hearth rolled to the floor and ended up burning the entire place to the ground. Everyone escaped, fortunately, but the inn was a loss. Tired and bleary-eyed, Tomas and I had to move on to the next village and find rooms there instead.”

“So?” Mat said. “Still sounds like a coincidence.”

“This continued for three days,” Verin said. “I was interrupted even when I tried to learn a place outside a building. Random passersby asking to share the fire, a falling tree crashing down in camp, a flock of sheep wandering by, an isolated storm. Various random events always contrived to keep me from learning the area.”

Talmanes whistled softly. Verin nodded. “Each time I tried to learn an area, something went wrong. I was inevitably moved for some reason. However, when I decided I wasn’t going to do anything to learn a location and wasn’t planning to make a gateway, nothing happened. Another person might have simply moved on and given up on Traveling for the time, but my nature asserted itself, and I found myself studying the phenomenon. It was quite regular.”

Bloody ashes. That was the sort of thing Rand was supposed to do to people. Not Mat. “By your account, you should still be in Tear.”

“Yes,” she said, “but I soon started to feel a tugging on me. Something pulling me, yanking me. As if. ...”

Mat shifted again. “As if someone’s got a bloody fishhook inside of you? And is standing far away, pulling gently—but insistently—on it?”

“Yes,” Verin said. She smiled. “What a clever description.”

Mat didn’t respond.

“I decided to use more mundane means to make my voyage. I thought that maybe my inability to Travel had something to do with al’Thor’s proximity, or perhaps the gradual unraveling of the Pattern due to the Dark One’s influence. I secured a place in a merchant caravan traveling northward toward Cairhien. They had an empty wagon they were willing to rent for a reasonable rate. I was quite fatigued from my days spent staying up all hours because of fires, crying babies and constant moves from one inn room to another. As such, I fear I slept much longer than I should have. Tomas napped as well.

“When we awoke, we were surprised to discover that the caravan had taken a turn to the northwest instead of heading toward Cairhien. I spoke with the caravan master, and he explained that he’d received a last-minute tip that his goods would fetch a much better price in Murandy than in Cairhien. As he considered it, he mentioned that he really should have told me about the change, but it had slipped his mind.”

She took another sip of tea. “It was then that I knew for certain that I was being directed. Most wouldn’t have noticed it, I suspect, but I have made a study of the nature of ta’veren. The caravan hadn’t moved far toward Murandy—only one day—but mixed with the tugging, it was enough. I spoke with Tomas, and we determined to avoid going where we were being pulled. Skimming is an inferior substitute for Traveling, but does not have the same limitation of knowing the area. I opened a gateway, but when we reached the end of our journey, we stepped not into Tar Valon, but a small village in northern Murandy!

“That shouldn’t have been possible. However, as we considered it, Tomas and I realized he had been speaking fondly of a hunting trip he’d gone on once in the village of Trustair, and I’d opened the gateway at that moment. I must have let myself focus on the wrong location.”

“And here we are,” Tomas said, arms folded, looking dissatisfied as he stood behind his Aes Sedai’s chair.

“Indeed,” Verin said. “Curious, wouldn’t you say, young Matrim? I accidentally end up here, in your path, right when you have great need of someone to create a gateway for your army?”

“Still could be coincidence.”

“And the tugging?”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“Coincidence is how being ta’veren works,” Verin said. “You find a discarded object that is of great use to you, or happen to meet an individual at just the right time. Random chance randomly works in your favor. Or haven’t you noticed?” She smiled. “Care to throw some dice on it?”

“No,” he said reluctantly.

“One thing bothers me, however,” Verin said. “Was there no other person who could have happened into your path? Al’Thor has those Asha’man scouring the countryside looking for men who can channel, and I suspect rural areas like this are top on their list, as it is more likely that channelers could stay unnoticed in such places. One of them could have happened into your path and given you a gateway.”

“Not bloody likely,” Mat said, shivering. “I’m not trusting the Band to the likes of them.”

“Not to get to Andor in a heartbeat?” Verin asked.

Mat hesitated. Well, maybe.

“7 had to be here for some reason,” she said thoughtfully.

“I still think you’re reading too much into this,” he replied, shifting yet again on the burning bench.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. First, we should negotiate my price for taking you to Andor. I assume you want to reach Caemlyn?”

“Price?” Mat said. “But you think the Pattern forced you here! Why demand a price of me?”

“Because,” she said, raising a finger, “while I waited to find you—I honestly didn’t know if it would be you or young Perrin—I realized that there were several things I could provide you that no other could.” She reached into a pocket of her dress, pulling out several pieces of paper. One was the picture of Mat. “You didn’t ask where I got this.”

“You’re Aes Sedai,” Mat said, shrugging. “I figured you . . . you know, saidared it.”

“Saidared it?” she asked flatly.

He shrugged.

“I received this paper, Matrim—”

“Call me Mat,” he said.

“I received this paper, Matrim, from a Darkfriend,” she said, “who told me—thinking me a servant of the Shadow—that one of the Forsaken had commanded that the men in these pictures be killed. You and Perrin are in grave danger.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said, hiding the chill her announcement made him feel. “Verin, Darkfriends have been trying to kill me since the day I left the Two Rivers.” He paused. “Burn me. Since the day before I left the Two Rivers. What does it change?”

“This is different,” Verin said, growing stern. “The level of danger you are in ... I ... Well, let us simply agree that you are in great, great danger. I suggest that you be very careful during the next few weeks.”

“I’m always careful,” Mat said.

“Well, be more so,” she said. “Go into hiding. Don’t take chances. You will be essential before this is through.”

He shrugged. Go into hiding? He could do that. With Thom’s help, he could probably do himself up so that even his sisters wouldn’t recognize him. “I can do that,” he said. “Bloody simple cost. How long will it take you to get us to Caemlyn?”

“That wasn’t my cost, Matrim,” she said, amused. “That was a suggestion. One I think you should listen to with great prejudice.” She slipped a small folded piece of paper out from under the picture. It was sealed with a drop of blood-red wax.

Mat took it hesitantly. “It is?”

“Instructions,” Verin said. “Which you will follow on the tenth day after I leave you in Caemlyn.”

He scratched his neck, frowning, then moved to break the seal.

“You aren’t to open them until that day,” Verin said.

“What?” Mat demanded. “But—”

“That is my cost,” Verin said simply.

“Bloody woman,” he said, looking back at the paper. “I’m not going to swear to something unless I know what it is.”

“I doubt you will find my instructions harsh, Matrim,” she noted.

Mat scowled at the seal for a moment, then stood up. “I pass on it.”

She pursed her lips. “Matrim, you—”

“Call me Mat,” he said, grabbing his hat off the top of a cushion. “And I said there’s no deal. I’ll be in Caemlyn in twenty days of marching, anyway.” He pushed open the tent flaps, gesturing out. “I’m not going to have you tying strings around me, woman.”

She didn’t move, though she did frown. “I had forgotten how difficult you can be.”

“And proud of it,” Mat said.

“And if we have a compromise?” Verin asked.

“You’ll tell me what is in that bloody paper?”

“No,” Verin said. “Because I might not need you to go through with the contents. I hope to be able to return to you and relieve you of the letter and send you on your way. But if I cannot. ...”

“The compromise, then?” Mat said.

“You may choose not to open the letter,” Verin said. “Burn it. But if you do so, you wait fifty days in Caemlyn, just in case it takes me longer to return than I had expected.”

That gave him pause. Fifty days was a long time to wait. But if he could do it in Caemlyn, rather than traveling on his own. . . .

Was Elayne in the city? He’d worried about her, since her escape from Ebou Dar. If she was there, he might at least be able to get production started quickly on Aludra’s dragons.

But fifty days? Waiting? Either that, or open the bloody letter and do what it said? He didn’t like either option. “Twenty days,” he said.

“Thirty days,” she said, rising, then raised a finger to cut off his objection. “A compromise, Mat. Among Aes Sedai, I think you shall find me to be far more amenable to those than most.” She held out her hand.

Thirty days. He could wait thirty days. He looked at the letter in his hands. He could resist opening it, and thirty days of waiting didn’t really lose him any time. It was only a little longer than he’d take to reach Caemlyn on his own. In fact, this was a bloody bargain! He needed a few weeks to get the dragons going, and he wanted time to find out more about the Tower of Ghenjei and the snakes and foxes. Thom couldn’t complain—when it would take them two weeks to reach Caemlyn anyway.

Verin eyed him, a hint of worry on her face. He couldn’t let her know how pleased he was. Let a woman know that, and she’d find some way to make you to pay her back.

“Thirty days,” Mat said reluctantly, taking her hand, “but at the end of them, I can go.”

“Or you can open the letter after ten days,” Verin said, “and do what it says. One of the two, Matrim. I have your word?”

“You do,” he said. “But I’m not going to open the bloody letter. I’m going to wait thirty days, then be off on my business.”

“We shall see,” she said, smiling to herself and releasing his hand. She folded up the picture of him, then took a small leather-bound satchel from her pocket. She opened it, sliding the picture inside, and as she did, he noticed that she had a small stack of folded, sealed pieces of paper inside just like the one he was holding. What was the purpose of those?

Once the letters were safely tucked in her pocket, she took out a carved piece of translucent stone—a brooch, shaped like a lily. “Begin breaking down your camp, Matrim. I need to make your gateway as soon as possible. I myself need to Travel shortly.”

“Fine.” Mat looked down at the sealed, folded paper in his hands. Why was Verin being so cryptic?

Burn it! he thought. I’m not going to open it. I’m not. “Mandevwin,” he said. “Get Verin Sedai her own tent to wait in as we break camp and assign a couple of soldiers to fetch for her anything she needs. Also, inform the other Aes Sedai that she’s here. They’ll probably be interested to hear of her arrival, Aes Sedai being Aes Sedai.”

Mat tucked the folded paper into his belt, then started to leave. “And have somebody burn that bloody bench. I can’t believe we carted the thing this far.”

Tuon was dead. Gone, cast aside, forgotten. Tuon had been the Daughter of the Nine Moons. She was now just a notation in the histories.

Fortuona was empress.

Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag kissed the soldier lightly on the forehead as he knelt, head bowed, on the short grass. The muggy Altaran heat made it feel as if summer had already arrived, but the grass—which had seemed lush and full of life just weeks before—had grown stunted and was beginning to yellow. Where were the weeds and thistles? Recently seeds didn’t sprout as they should. Like grain, they were going bad, dying before they truly came alive.

The soldier before Fortuona was one of five. Behind those five stood two hundred members of the Fists of Heaven—the most elite of her attack forces. They wore dark leather breastplates and helms of light wood and leather, shaped like insects. Both helms and breastplates were emblazoned with the sign of the clenched fist. Fifty sul’dam and damane pairs, including Dali and her sul’dam Malahavana, whom Fortuona had given to the cause. She had felt the need to sacrifice something personal to this most important of missions.

Hundreds oi to’raken milled in the pens behind, walked by their handlers, who were preparing them for the flight to come. Already, a flock of raken circled above, graceful.

Fortuona looked down at the soldier before her, laying her fingers on his forehead, where she had kissed him. “May your death bring victory,” she said softly, speaking the ritual words. “May your knife draw blood. May your children sing your praises until the final dawn.”

He bowed his head further. Like the four others in the row, he wore black leather. Three knives hung from his belt, and he had no cloak or helm. He was a small man—all members of the Fists of Heaven were small and compact, and over half in this group were women. Weight was always an issue for those facing missions using to’raken. In a raid, two small, well-trained soldiers were preferable to one lumbering hulk in heavy armor.

It was early evening, the sun just setting. Lieutenant-General Yulan—who would lead the strike force personally—felt it best to take flight late in the day. Their assault would begin in darkness, shrouding it from those who might be watching the horizon in Ebou Dar. Once, the caution would have been unnecessary. What matter if people in Ebou Dar saw hundreds oi to’raken take to the skies? News could never travel as quickly as raken wings.

But their enemies could travel far more quickly than they should be able to. Be it ter’angreal, weave or something else that gave the power, it was a distinct danger. Better to use all stealth. The flight to Tar Valon would take several days.

Fortuona moved to the next soldier in the line of five. The woman’s black hair was braided. Fortuona kissed her on the forehead, saying the same ritual words. These five were Bloodknives. The pure black stone ring each one wore was a specialized ter’angreal that would grant them strength and speed, and would shroud them in darkness, allowing them to blend into shadows.

The incredible abilities came at a cost, however, for the rings leeched life from their hosts, killing them in a matter of days. Removing the ring would slow that process slightly, but once activated—done by touching a drop of one’s own blood to the stone ring while wearing it—the process was irreversible.

These five would not return. They would stay behind, whatever the results of the raid, to kill as many marath’damane as they could. It was a terrible waste—those damane should be leashed—but better to kill them than leave them in the hands of the Dragon Reborn.

Fortuona moved to the next soldier in the short line, giving him the kiss and the blessing.

So much had changed in the days since her meeting with the Dragon Reborn. Her new name was only one of the manifestations. Now even the High Blood often prostrated themselves before her. Her so’jhin—Selucia included—had shaved the hair from their heads. From now on, they would leave the right side of their heads shaved and grow hair down the left side, braiding it as it grew. For now, they wore caps on the left.

The common people walked more confidently, more proudly. They had an empress again. With all that was wrong in the world, this one thing was right again.

Fortuona kissed the last of the five Bloodknives, speaking the words condemning them to death, but also to heroism. She stepped back, Selucia standing at her side. General Yulan came forward and bowed himself low. “Let it be known by the Empress, may she live forever, that we shall not fail her.”

“It is known,” Selucia said. “Light follow you. Know that Her Majesty, may she live forever, saw a new spring rose drop three petals in the garden today. The omen of your victory has been given. Fulfill it, General, and your reward shall be great.”

Yulan stood, saluting, fist to breast, metal snapping against metal. He led the soldiers to the to’raken pens, the five Bloodknives first. Within moments, the first creature ran down a long pasture outside the back of the pen, marked with poles and streamers, then launched itself into the air. Others followed, a fleet, more than Fortuona had ever seen in the sky at once. As the final light of sunset died, they struck northward.

Raken and to’raken were not normally used in this manner. Most raids would be accomplished by dropping the soldiers off at a staging point, where the to’raken would wait while the soldiers attacked and returned. But this raid was too vital. Yulan’s plan called for a more daring assault, the likes of which had rarely been contemplated. To’raken with damane and sul’dam on their backs, attacking from the air. It could be the beginning of a bold new tactic. Or it could lead to a disaster.

“We have changed everything,” Fortuona said softly. “General Gal-gan is wrong; this will not give the Dragon Reborn a worse bargaining position. It will turn him against us.”

“And was he not against us before?” Selucia asked.

“No,” Fortuona said. “We were against him.”

“And there is a difference?”

“Yes,” Fortuona said, watching the cloud of to’raken, just barely visible in the sky. “There is. I fear we shall soon see just how big a difference that is.”