Towers of Midnight

33 A Good Soup

Siuan’s soup was surprisingly good. She took another sip, raising an eyebrow. It was simple—broth and vegetables, bits of chicken—but when most food tasted stale at best, this seemed a wonder. She tried the biscuit. No weevils? Delightful! Nynaeve had just fallen silent, her own bowl steaming in front of her. Newly raised, she’d taken the oaths earlier in the day. They were in the Amyrlin’s study, shutters open and spilling in golden light, new rugs of green and gold on the floor.

Silently, Siuan chided herself for getting distracted by the soup. Nynaeve’s report demanded consideration. She’d spoken of her time with Rand al’Thor, and specifically of events such as the cleansing. Of course, Siuan had heard the reports that saidin had been cleansed; an Asha’man had visited the camp during the division. She had remained skeptical, but there was little denying it now.

“Well,” the Amyrlin said, “I am very glad for this longer explanation, Nynaeve. Though saidin being cleansed does make it less unsettling to consider Asha’man and Aes Sedai bonding one another. I wish Rand had been willing to speak to me of that during our meeting.” She said it evenly, though Siuan knew she looked on men bonding women with as much pleasure as a captain looked on a fire in his hold.

“I suppose,” Nynaeve said, lips turning down. “If it matters, Rand didn’t approve the men bonding women.”

“It doesn’t matter if he did or not,” Egwene said. “The Asha’man are his responsibility.”

“As the Aes Sedai who chained him and beat him are yours, Mother?” Nynaeve asked.

“Inherited from Elaida, perhaps,” Egwene said, eyes narrowing just slightly.

She was right to bring Nynaeve back, Siuan thought, taking a sip of soup. She takes his side far too often for comfort.

Nynaeve sighed, taking her spoon to begin her soup. “I didn’t mean that as a challenge, Mother. I just want to show how he thinks. Light, I didn’t approve of much of what he did, particularly lately. But I can see how he got there.”

“He has changed, though,” Siuan said thoughtfully. “You said so yourself.”

“Yes,” Nynaeve said. “The Aiel say he’s embraced death.”

“I’ve heard that from them, too,” Egwene said. “But I looked into his eyes, and something else has changed, something inexplicable. The man I saw…”

“He didn’t seem like one to destroy Natrin’s Barrow?” Siuan shivered as she thought of that.

“The man I saw wouldn’t need to destroy such a place,” Egwene said. “Those inside would just follow him. Bend to his wishes. Because he was—”

The three fell silent.

Egwene shook her head and took a sip of her soup. She paused, then smiled. “Well, I see the soup is good. Perhaps things aren’t as bad as I thought.”

“The ingredients came from Caemlyn,” Nynaeve noted. “I overheard the serving girls talking.”

“Oh.”

More silence.

“Mother,” Siuan said, speaking carefully. “The women are still worried about the deaths in the Tower.”

“I agree. Mother,” Nynaeve said. “Sisters stare at one another with distrust. It worries me.”

“You both should have seen it before,” Egwene said. “During Elaida’s reign.”

“If it was worse than this,” Nynaeve said, “I’m glad that I didn’t.” She glanced down at her Great Serpent ring. She did that a lot, recently. As a fisher with a new boat often glanced toward the docks and smiled. For all her complaints that she was Aes Sedai, and for all the fact that she’d been wearing that ring for a long time now, she was obviously satisfied to have passed the testing and taken the oaths. “It was terrible,” Egwene said. “And I don’t intend to let it go back to that. Siuan, the plan must be put into motion.”

Siuan grimaced. “I’ve been teaching the others. But I don’t think this is a good idea, Mother. They’re barely trained.”

“What’s this?” Nynaeve asked.

“Aes Sedai,” Egwene said. “Carefully chosen and given dream ter’angreal. Siuan is showing them how Tel’aran’rhiod works.”

“Mother, that place is dangerous.”

Egwene took another sip of soup. “I believe I know that better than most. But it is necessary; we must lure the killers into a confrontation. I’ll arrange for a ‘secret’ meeting among my most loyal Aes Sedai, in the World of Dreams, and perhaps lay clues that other people of importance will be attending. Siuan, you’ve contacted the Windfinders?”

“Yes,” Siuan said. “Though they want to know what you’ll give them to agree to meet with you.”

“The loan of the dream ter’angreal will be enough,” Egwene said dryly. “Not everything has to be a bargain.”

“To them, it often does,” Nynaeve said. “But that’s beside the point. You’re bringing Windfinder to this meeting to lure Mesaana?”

“Not exactly,” Egwene said. “I’ll see the Windfinders at the same time, in a different place. And some Wise Ones as well. Enough to hint to Mesaana—assuming she’s got spies watching the other groups of women who can channel—that she really wants to spy on us in Tel’aran’rhiod that day.

“You and Siuan will hold a meeting in the Hall of the Tower, but it will be a decoy to draw Mesaana or her minions out of hiding. With wards—and some sisters watching from hidden places—we’ll be able to trap them. Siuan will send for me as soon as the trap is sprung.”

Nynaeve frowned. “It’s a good plan, save for one thing. I don’t like you being in danger, Mother. Let me lead this fight. I can manage it.”

Egwene studied Nynaeve, and Siuan saw some of the real Egwene. Thoughtful. Bold, but calculating. She also saw Egwene’s fatigue, the weight of responsibility. Siuan knew that feeling well.

“I admit you have a valid concern,” Egwene said. “Ever since I let myself get captured by Elaida’s cronies outside of Tar Valon, I’ve wondered if I become too directly involved, too directly in danger.”

“Exactly,” Nynaeve said.

“However,” Egwene said, “the simple fact remains that I am the one among us who is most expert at Tel’aran’rhiod. You two are skilled, true, but I have more experience. In this case, I am not just the leader of the Aes Sedai, I am a tool that the White Tower must use.” She hesitated “I dreamed this, Nynaeve. If we do not defeat Mesaana here, all could be lost. All will be lost. It is not a time to hold back any of our tools, no matter how valuable.”

Nynaeve reached for her braid, but it now came only to her shoulders She gritted her teeth at that. “You might have a point. But I don’t like it.”

“The Aiel dreamwalkers,” Siuan said. “Mother, you said you’ll be meeting with them. Might they be willing to help? I’d feel much better about having you fight if I knew they were around to keep an eye on you.”

“Yes,” Egwene said. “A good suggestion. I will contact them before we meet and make the request, just in case.”

“Mother,” Nynaeve said. “Perhaps Rand—”

“This is a matter of the Tower, Nynaeve,” Egwene said. “We will manage it.”

“Very well.”

“Now,” Egwene continued, “we need to figure out how to spread the right rumors so that Mesaana won’t be able to resist coming to listen…”

Perrin hit the nightmare running. The air bent around him, and the city houses—this time of the Cairhienin flat-topped variety—disappeared. The road became soft beneath his feet, like mud, then turned to liquid.

He splashed in the ocean. Water again? he thought with annoyance.

Deep red lightning crashed in the sky, throwing waves of bloody light across the sea. Each burst revealed shadowed creatures lurking beneath the waves. Massive things, evil and sinuous in the spasming red lightning.

People clung to the wreckage of what had once been a ship, screaming in terror and crying out for loved ones. Men on broken boards, women trying to hold their babies above the water as towering waves broke over them, dead bodies bobbing like sacks of grain.

The things beneath the waves struck, snatching people from the surface and dragging them into the depths with splashes of fins and sparking, razor-sharp teeth. The water was soon bubbling red that didn’t come from the lightning.

Whoever had dreamed this particular nightmare had a singularly twisted imagination.

Perrin refused to let himself be drawn in. He squelched his fear, and did not swim for one of those planks. It isn’t real. It isn’t real. It isn’t real.

Despite his understanding, part of him knew that he was going to die in these waters. These terrible, bloody waters. The moans of the others assaulted him, and he yearned to try to help them. They weren’t real, he knew. Just figments. But it was hard.

Perrin began to rise from the water, the waves turning back into ground. But then he cried out as something brushed his leg. Lightning crashed breaking the air. A woman beside him slipped beneath the waves, tugged by unseen jaws. Panicked, Perrin was suddenly back in the water, there in a heartbeat, floating in a completely different place, one arm slung over a piece of wreckage.

This happened sometimes. If he wavered for a moment—if he let himself see the nightmare as real—it would pull him in and actually move him, fitting him into its terrible mosaic. Something moved in the water nearby, and he splashed away with a start. One of the surging waves raised him into the air.

It isn’t real. It isn’t real. It isn’t real.

The waters were so cold. Something touched his leg again, and he screamed, then choked off as he gulped in a mouthful of salty water.

IT ISN’T REAL.

He was in Cairhien, leagues from the ocean. This was a street. Hard stones beneath. The smell of baked bread coming from a nearby bakery. The street lined with small, thin-trunked ash trees.

With a bellowing scream, he clung to this knowledge as the people around him held to their flotsam. Perrin knotted his hands into fists, focusing on reality.

There were cobblestones under his feet. Not waves. Not water. Not teeth and fins. Slowly, he rose from the ocean again. He stepped out of it and set his foot on the surface, feeling solid stone beneath his boot. The other foot followed. He found himself on a small, floating circle of stones.

Something enormous surged from the waters to his left, a massive beast part fish and part monster, with a maw so wide that a man could walk into it standing upright. The teeth were as large as Perrin’s hand, and they glittered, dripping blood.

It was not real.

The creature exploded into mist. The spray hit Perrin, then dried immediately. Around him, the nightmare bent, a bubble of reality pressing out from him. Dark air, cold waves, screaming people ran together like wet paint.

There was no lightning—he did not see it light his eyelids. There was no thunder. He could not hear it crashing. There were no waves, not in the middle of landlocked Cairhien.

Perrin snapped his eyes open, and the entire nightmare broke apart, vanishing like a film of frost exposed to the spring sunlight. The buildings reappeared, the street returned, the waves retreated. The sky returned to the boiling black tempest. Lightning that was bright and white flashed in its depths, but there was no thunder.

Hopper sat on the street a short distance away. Perrin walked over to the wolf. He could have jumped there immediately, of course, but he didn’t like the idea of doing everything easily. That would bite at him when he returned to the real world.

You grow strong, Young Bull, Hopper sent approvingly.

“I still take too long,” Perrin said, glancing over his shoulder. “Every time I enter, it takes me a few minutes to regain control. I need to be faster. In a battle with Slayer, a few minutes might as well be an eternity.”

He will not be so strong as these.

“He’ll still be strong enough,” Perrin said. “He’s had years to learn to control the wolf dream. I only just started.”

Hopper laughed. Young Bull, you started the first time you came here.

“Yes, but I just started training a few weeks back.”

Hopper continued laughing. He was right, in a way. Perrin had spent two years preparing, visiting the wolf dream at night. But he still needed to learn as much as he could. In a way, he was glad for the delay before the trial.

But he could not delay too long. The Last Hunt was upon them. Many of the wolves were running to the north; Perrin could feel them passing. Running for the Blight, for the Borderlands. They were moving both in the real world and in the wolf dream, but those here did not shift there directly. They ran, as packs.

He could tell that Hopper longed to join them. However, he remained behind, as did some others.

“Come on,” Perrin said. “Let’s find another nightmare.”

The Rose March was in bloom.

That was incredible. Few other plants had bloomed in this terrible summer, and those that did had wilted. But the Rose March was blooming, and fiercely, hundreds of red explosions twisting around the garden framework. Voracious insects buzzed from flower to flower, as if every bee in the city had come here to feed.

Gawyn kept his distance from the insects, but the scent of roses was so pervasive that he felt bathed in it. Once he finished his walk, his clothing would probably smell of the perfume for hours.

Elayne was speaking with several advisors near one of the benches beside a small, lily-covered pond. She was showing her pregnancy, and seemed radiant. Her golden hair reflected the sunlight like the surface of a mirror; atop that hair, the Rose Crown of Andor looked almost plain by comparison.

She often had much to do these days. He’d heard hushed reports of the weapons she was building, the ones she thought might be as powerful as captive damane. The bellfounders in Caemlyn had been working for straight through the nights, from what he’d heard. Caemlyn was preparing for war, the city abuzz with activity. She didn’t often have time for him, though he was glad for what she could spare.

She smiled at him as he approached, then waved off her attendants for the moment. She walked to him and gave him a fond kiss on the cheek. “You look thoughtful.”

“A common malady of mine lately,” he said. “You look distracted.”

“A common malady of mine lately,” she said. “There is always too much to do and never enough of me to do it.

“If you need to—”

“No,” she said, taking his arm. “I need to speak to you. And I’ve been told that a walk around the gardens once a day will be good for my constitution.”

Gawyn smiled, breathing in the scents of roses and mud around the pond. The scents of life. He glanced up at the sky as they walked. “I can’t believe how much sunlight we’ve been seeing here. I’d nearly convinced myself that the perpetual gloom was something unnatural.”

“Oh, it probably is,” she said nonchalantly. “A week back the cloud cover in Andor broke around Caemlyn, but nowhere else.”

“But… how?”

She smiled. “Rand. Something he did. He was atop Dragonmount, I think. And then…”

Suddenly, the day seemed darker. “Al’Thor again,” Gawyn spat. “He follows me even here.”

“Even here?” she said with amusement. “I believe these gardens are where we first met him.”

Gawyn didn’t reply to that. He glanced northward, checking the sky in that direction. Ominous dark clouds hung out there. “He’s the father, isn’t he?”

“If he were,” Elayne said without missing a beat, “then it would be prudent to hide that fact, wouldn’t it? The children of the Dragon Reborn will be targets.”

Gawyn felt sick. He’d suspected it the moment he’d discovered the pregnancy. “Burn me,” he said. “Elayne, how could you? After what he did to our mother!”

“He did nothing to her,” Elayne said. “I can produce witness after witness that will confirm it, Gawyn. Mother vanished before Rand liberated Caemlyn.” There was a fond look in her eyes as she spoke of him. “Something is happening to him. I can feel it, feel him changing. Cleansing. He drives back the clouds and makes the roses bloom.”

Gawyn raised an eyebrow. She thought the roses bloomed because of al’Thor? Well, love could make a person think strange things, and when the man she spoke of was the Dragon Reborn, perhaps some irrationality was to be expected.

They approached the pond’s small dock. He could remember swimming there as a child, then getting an earful for it. Not from his mother, from Galad, though Gawyn’s mother had given him a stern, disappointed look. He’d never told anyone that he’d been swimming only because Elayne had pushed him in.

“You’re never going to forget that, are you?” Elayne asked.

“What?” he asked.

“You were thinking of the time you slipped into the pond during Mother’s meeting with House Farah.”

“Slipped? You pushed me!”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Elayne said primly. “You were showing off, balancing on the posts.”

“And you shook the dock.”

“I stepped onto it,” Elayne said. “Forcefully. I’m a vigorous person. I have a forceful stride.”

“A forceful— That’s a downright lie!”

“No, I’m merely stating the truth creatively. I’m Aes Sedai now. Its a talent of ours. Now, are you going to row me on the pond, or nor?”

“I… Row you? When did that come up?”

“Just now. Weren’t you listening?”

Gawyn shook a bemused head. “Fine.” Behind them, several Guardswomen took up posts. They were always near, often led by the tall woman who fancied herself an image of Birgitte from the stories. And maybe she did look like Birgitte at that—she went by the name, anyway, and was serving as Captain-General.

The Guards were joined by a growing group of attendants and messengers. The Last Battle approached, and Andor prepared—and, unfortunately, many of those preparations required Elayne’s direct attention.

Though Gawyn had heard a curious story of Elayne having been carried up on the city wall in her bed a week or so back. So far, he hadn’t been able to pin her down on whether that was true or not.

He waved to Birgitte, who gave him a scowl as he led Elayne to the pond’s small rowboat. “I promise not to dump her in,” Gawyn called. Then, under his breath, “Though I might row ‘forcefully’ and upend us.”

“Oh, hush,” Elayne said, settling down. “Pondwater wouldn’t be good for the babies.”

“Speaking of which,” Gawyn said, pushing the boat off with his toe, then stepping into it. The vessel shook precariously until he sat down. “Aren’t you supposed to be walking for your ‘constitution’?”

“I’ll tell Melfane I needed to take the opportunity to reform my miscreant brother. You can get away with all kinds of things if you’re giving someone a proper scolding.”

“And is that what I’m getting? A scolding?”

“Not necessarily.” Her voice was somber. Gawyn shipped the oars and slipped them into the water. The pond wasn’t large, barely big enough to justify a boat, but there was a serenity about being upon the water, amid the pond-runners and the butterflies.

“Gawyn,” Elayne said, “why have you come to Caemlyn?”

“It’s my home,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I come here?”

“I worried about you during the siege. I could have used you in the fighting. But you stayed away.”

“I explained that, Elayne! I was embroiled in White Tower politics, not to mention the winter snows. It burns me that I couldn’t help, but those women had their fingers on me.”

“I’m one of ‘those women’ myself, you know.” She held up her hand, Great Serpent ring encircling her finger.

“You’re different,” Gawyn said. “Anyway, you’re right. I should have been here. I don’t know what other apologies you expect me to make, though.”

“I don’t expect any apologies,” Elayne said. “Oh, Gawyn, I wasn’t chastising you. While I certainly could have used you, we managed. I also worried about you getting caught between defending the Tower and protecting Egwene. It seems that worked out as well. So, I ask. Why have you come here now? Doesn’t Egwene need you?”

“Apparently not,” Gawyn said, backing the boat. A massive draping willow grew from the side of the pond here, hanging down branches like braids to dangle above the water. He raised his oars outside those branches and the boat stilled.

“Well,” Elayne said. “I won’t presume to pry into that—at least, not at the moment. You are always welcome here, Gawyn. I’d make you Captain… General if you asked, but I don’t think you want it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, you’ve spent the majority of your time here moping around these gardens.”

“I have not been moping. I’ve been pondering.”

“Ah, yes. I see you’ve learned to speak the truth creatively, too.”

He snorted softly.

“Gawyn, you haven’t been spending time with any of your friends or acquaintances from the palace. You haven’t been stepping into the role of a prince or Captain-General. Instead you merely… ponder.”

Gawyn looked out across the pond. “I don’t spend time with the others because they all want to know why I wasn’t here for the siege. They keep asking when I’m going to take my station here and lead your armies.”

“It’s all right, Gawyn. You don’t have to be Captain-General, and I can survive with my First Prince of the Sword absent, if I must. Though I’ll admit, Birgitte is rather upset with you for not becoming Captain-General.”

“Is that the reason for the glares?”

“Yes. But she will manage; she’s actually good at the job. And if there’s anyone I’d want you protecting, it would be Egwene. She deserves you.”

“And what if I’ve decided I don’t want her?”

Elayne reached forward, resting her hand on his arm. Her face—framed in golden hair, topped by that matching crown—looked concerned. “Oh, Gawyn. What has happened to you?”

He shook his head. “Bryne thinks I was too accustomed to succeeding, and didn’t know how to react when things started to upend on me.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think it’s been good for me to be here,” Gawyn said, taking a deep breath. Some women were walking along the path around the pond, led by a woman with bright red hair that was streaked with white. Dimana was some kind of failed student of the White Tower. Gawyn wasn’t quite certain about the nature of the Kin and their relationship with Elayne.

“Being here,” he said, “reminded me of my life before. It’s been particularly liberating to be free of Aes Sedai. For a time, I was sure that I needed to be with Egwene. When I left the Younglings to ride to her, it felt like the best choice I’d ever made. And yet, she seems to have moved beyond needing me. She’s so concerned with being strong, with being the Amyrlin, that she doesn’t have room for anyone who won’t bow to her every whim.”

“I doubt that it’s as bad as you say, Gawyn. Egwene… well, she has to put forward a strong front. Because of her youth, and the way she was raised. But she’s not arrogant. No more so than is necessary.”

Elayne dipped her fingers in the water, startling a goldenback fish. “I’ve felt the way she must be feeling. You say she wants someone to bow and scrape for her, but what I’d bet she really wants—what she really needs—is someone she can trust completely. Someone she can give tasks, then not worry about how they will be handled. She has enormous resources. Wealth, troops, fortifications, servants. But there’s only one of her, and so if everything requires her attention directly, she might as well have no resources at all.”

“I…”

“You say you love her,” Elayne said. “You’ve told me you’re devoted to her, that you’d die for her. Well, Egwene has armies full of those kinds of people, as do I. What is truly unique is someone who does what I tell them. Better, someone who does what they know I’d tell them, if I had the chance.”

“I’m not sure I can be that man,” Gawyn said.

“Why not? Of all the men ready to support a woman of Power, I’d have thought it would be you.”

“It’s different with Egwene. I can’t explain why.”

“Well, if you wish to marry an Amyrlin, then you must make this choice.”

She was right. It frustrated him, but she was right. “Enough about that,” he said. “I notice the topic moved away from al’Thor.”

“Because there was no more to say about him.”

“You have to stay away from him, Elayne. He’s dangerous.”

Elayne waved her hand. “Saidin is cleansed.”

“Of course he would say that.”

“You hate him,” Elayne said. “I can hear it in your voice. This isn’t about Mother, is it?”

He hesitated. She’d grown so good at twisting a conversation. Was that the queen in her, or the Aes Sedai? He nearly turned the boat back toward the dock. But this was Elayne. Light, but it felt good to talk to someone who really understood him.

“Why do I hate al’Thor?” Gawyn said. “Well, there’s Mother. But it’s not just her. I hate what he’s become.”

“The Dragon Reborn?”

“A tyrant.”

“You don’t know that, Gawyn.”

“He’s a sheepherder. What right does he have to cast down thrones, to change the world as he does?”

“Particularly while you huddled in a village?” He’d told her most of what had happened to him in the last few months. “While he conquered nations, you were being forced to kill your friends, then were sent to your death by your Amyrlin.”

“Exactly.”

“So it’s jealousy,” Elayne said softly.

“No. Nonsense. I…”

“What would you do, Gawyn?” Elayne asked. “Would you duel him?”

“Maybe.”

“And what would happen if you won and ran him through as you’ve said you wanted to do? Would you doom us all to satisfy your momentary passion?”

He had no reply to that.

“That’s not just jealousy, Gawyn,” Elayne said, taking the oars from him. “It’s selfishness. We can’t afford to be shortsighted right now.” She began to row them back despite his protest.

“This,” he said, “coming from the woman who personally raided the Black Ajah?”

Elayne blushed. He could tell that she wished he’d never found out about that event. “It was needed. And besides, I did say ‘we.’ You and I, we have this trouble. Birgitte keeps telling me I need to learn to be more temperate. Well, you’ll need to learn the same thing, for Egwene’s sake. And she does need you, Gawyn. She may not realize it; she may be convinced she needs to hold up the world herself. She’s wrong.”

The boat thumped against the dock. Elayne unshipped the oars and held out a hand. Gawyn climbed out, then helped her up onto the dock. She gripped his hand fondly. “You’ll sort it out,” she said. “I’m releasing you from any responsibility to be my Captain-General. For now, I wont appoint another First Prince of the Sword, but you can hold that title with duties in abeyance. So long as you show up for the occasional state function, you needn’t worry about anything else that might be required of you. I will publish it immediately, citing a need for you to be doing other work at the advent of the Last Battle.”

“I… Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t certain he felt it. It sounded too much like Egwene’s insistence that he didn’t need to guard her door.

Elayne squeezed his hand again, then turned and walked up to the attendants. Gawyn watched her speak to them in a calm tone. She seemed to grow more regal by the day; it was like watching a flower blossom. He wished he’d been in Caemlyn to view the process from the start.

He found himself smiling as he turned to continue his way along the Rose March. His regrets had trouble taking hold before a healthy dose of Elayne’s characteristic optimism. Only she could call a man jealous and make him feel good about it.

He passed through waves of perfume, feeling the sun on his neck. He walked where he and Galad had played as children, and he thought of his mother walking these gardens with Bryne. He remembered her careful instruction when he misstepped, then her smiles when he acted as a prince should. Those smiles had seemed like the sun rising.

This place was her. She lived on, in Caemlyn, in Elayne—who looked more and more like her by the hour—in the safety and strength of Andor’s people. He stopped beside the pond, the very spot where Galad had saved him from drowning as a child.

Perhaps Elayne was right. Perhaps al’Thor hadn’t had anything to do with Morgase’s death. If he had, Gawyn would never prove it. But that didn’t matter. Rand al’Thor was already condemned to die at the Last Battle. So why keep hating the man?

“She is right,” Gawyn whispered, watching the hawkflies dance over the surface of the water. “We’re done, al’Thor. From now on, I care nothing for you.”

It felt like an enormous weight lifting from his shoulders. Gawyn let out a long, relaxed sigh. Only now that Elayne had released him did he realize how much guilt he’d felt over his absence from Andor. That was gone now, too.

Time to focus on Egwene. He reached into his pocket, slipping out the assassin’s knife, and held it up in the sunlight, inspecting those red stones. He did have a duty to protect Egwene. Supposing she railed against him, hated him, and exiled him; wouldn’t it be worth the punishments if he managed to preserve her life?

“By my mother’s grave,” a voice said sharply from behind. “Where did you get that?”

Gawyn spun. The women he’d noticed earlier were standing behind him on the path. Dimana led them, her hair streaked with white, her face wrinkled around the eyes. Wasn’t working with the Power supposed to stop those signs of aging?

There were two people with her. One was a plump young woman with black hair, the other a stout woman in her middle years. The second was the one who had spoken; she had wide, innocent-looking eyes. And she seemed horrified.

“What is that, Marille?” Dimana asked.

“That knife,” Marille said, pointing at Gawyn’s hand. “Marille has seen one like it before!”

“I have seen it before,” Dimana corrected. “You are a person and not a thing.”

“Yes, Dimana. Much apologies, Dimana. Marille… I will not make the mistake again, Dimana.”

Gawyn raised an eyebrow. What was wrong with this person?

“Forgive her, my Lord,” Dimana said. “Marille spent a long time as a damane, and is having difficulty adjusting.”

“You’re Seanchan?” Gawyn said. Of course, I should have noticed the accent.

Marille nodded vigorously. A former damane. Gawyn felt a chill. This woman had been trained to kill with the Power. The third woman remained silent, watching with curious eyes. She didn’t look nearly as subservient.

“We should be moving on,” Dimana said. “It isn’t good for her to see things that remind her of Seanchan. Come, Marille. That is merely a token Lord Trakand won in battle, I suspect.”

“No, wait,” Gawyn said, holding up a hand. “You recognize this blade?”

Marille looked to Dimana, as if requesting permission to answer. The Kinswoman nodded sufferingly.

“It is a Bloodknife, my Lord,” Marille said. “You did not win it in battle, because men do not defeat Bloodknives. They are unstoppable. They only fall when their own blood turns against them.”

Gawyn frowned. What nonsense was this? “So this is a Seanchan weapon?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Marille said. “Carried by the Bloodknives.”

“I thought you said this was a Bloodknife.”

“It is, but that is also who carries them. Shrouded in the night, sent by the Empress’s will—may she live forever—to strike down her foes and die in her name and glory.” Marille lowered her eyes farther. “Marille speaks too much. She is sorry.”

“I am sorry,” Dimana said, a hint of exasperation in her tone.

“I am sorry,” Marille repeated.

“So these… Bloodknives,” Gawyn said. “They’re Seanchan assassins? He felt a deep chill. Could they have left behind suicide troops to kill Aes Sedai? Yes. It made sense. The murderer wasn’t one of the Forsaken.

“Yes, my Lord,” Marille said. “I saw one of the knives hanging in the room of my mistress’s quarters; it had belonged to her brother, who had borne it with honor until his blood turned against him.”

“His family?”

“No, his blood.” Marille shrank down farther.

“Tell me of them,” Gawyn said urgently.

“Shrouded in the night,” Marille said, “sent by the Empress’s will—may she live forever—to strike down her foes and die in—”

“Yes, yes,” Gawyn said. “You said that already. What methods do they use? How do they hide so well? What do you know of how this assassin will strike?”

Marille shrank down farther at each question, and began to whimper.

“Lord Trakand!” Dimana said. “Contain yourself.”

“Marille doesn’t know very much,” the damane said. “Marille is sorry. Please, punish her for not listening better.”

Gawyn pulled back. The Seanchan treated their damane worse than animals. Marille wouldn’t have been told anything specific of what these Bloodknives could do. “Where did you get these damane?” Gawyn asked. “Were any Seanchan soldiers captured? I need to speak with one; an officer, preferably.”

Dimana pursed her lips. “These were taken in Altara, and only the damane were sent to us.”

“Dimana,” the other woman said. She didn’t have a Seanchan accent. “What of the sul’dam? Kaisea was of the low Blood.”

Dimana frowned. “Kaisea is… unreliable.”

“Please,” Gawyn said. “This could save lives.”

“Very well,” Dimana said. “Wait here. I will return with her.” She took her two charges toward the palace, leaving Gawyn to wait anxiously. A few minutes later, Dimana returned, followed by a tall woman wearing a pale gray dress without belt or embroidery. Her long black hair was woven into a braid, and she seemed determined to remain precisely one step behind Dimana—an action that bothered the Kinswoman, who seemed to be trying to keep an eye on the woman.

They reached Gawyn, and the sul’dam—incredibly—got down on her knees and prostrated herself on the ground, head touching the dirt. There was a smooth elegance to the bowing; for some reason, it made Gawyn feel as if he were being mocked.

“Lord Trakand,” Dimana said, “this is Kaisea. Or, at least, that’s what she insists that we call her now.”

“Kaisea is a good servant,” the woman said evenly.

“Stand up,” Gawyn said. “What are you doing?”

“Kaisea has been told you are the Queen’s brother; you are of the Blood of this realm, and I am a lowly damane.”

“Damane? You’re a sul’dam.”

“No longer,” the woman said. “I must be collared, great Lord. Will you see it done? Kaisea is dangerous.”

Dimana nodded to the side, indicating they should speak privately. Gawyn withdrew with her farther down the Rose March, leaving Kaisea prostrate on the ground.

“She’s a sul’dam?” Gawyn asked. “Or is she a damane?”

“All sul’dam can be trained to channel,” Dimana explained. “Elayne thinks that fact will undermine their entire culture once revealed, so she’s had us focus on teaching the sul’dam to access their powers. Many refuse to admit that they can see the weaves, but a few have been honest with us. To a woman, they’ve insisted that they should be made damane.”

She nodded back toward Kaisea. “This one is most troubling. We think she’s intentionally working to learn the weaves so that she can create an ‘accident,’ and use our own reasoning against us—if she does something violent with the One Power, she can claim that we were wrong to leave her free.”

A woman who could be trained to kill with the One Power, who was not bound by the Three Oaths, and who had a determination to prove that she was dangerous? Gawyn shivered.

“We keep some forkroot in her most days,” Dimana said. “I don’t tell you this to worry you, but to warn you that what she says and does may not be reliable.”

Gawyn nodded. “Thank you.”

Dimana led him back, and the sul’dam remained on the ground. “How may Kaisea serve you, great Lord?” Her actions seemed a parody of Marille’s subservience. What Gawyn had originally taken for mockery wasn’t that at all—instead, it was the imperfect efforts of one who was highborn to imitate the lowly.

“Have you ever seen one of these before?” Gawyn asked casually, taking out the Bloodknife.

Kaisea gasped. “Where did you find that? Who gave it to you?” She cringed almost immediately, as if realizing that she’d stepped out of her assumed role.

“An assassin tried to kill me with it,” Gawyn said. “We fought, and he got away.”

“That is impossible, great Lord,” the Seanchan woman said, her voice more controlled.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if you had fought one of the Bloodknives, great Lord, you would be dead. They are the most expert killers in all of the Empire. They fight the most ruthlessly, because they are already dead.”

“Suicide troops.” Gawyn nodded. “Do you have any information about them?”

Kaisea’s face grew conflicted.

“If I see you leashed?” Gawyn asked. “Will you answer me then?”

“My Lord!” Dimana said. “The Queen would never allow it!”

“I’ll ask her,” Gawyn said. “I can’t promise that you’ll be leashed, Kaisea but I can promise I’ll intercede with the Queen for you.”

“You are powerful and strong, great Lord,” Kaisea said. “And wise indeed. If you will do this thing, Kaisea will answer you.”

Dimana glared at Gawyn.

“Speak,” Gawyn said to the sul’dam.

“Bloodknives do not live long,” Kaisea said. “Once they are given a duty, they do not rest from it. They are granted abilities from the Empress, may she live forever, ter’angreal rings that make them into great warriors.”

“Those blur their forms,” Gawyn said. “When they are near shadow.”

“Yes,” Kaisea said, sounding surprised that he knew this. “They cannot be defeated. But eventually, their own blood will kill them.”

“Their own blood?”

“They are poisoned by their service. Once they are given a charge, they often will not last more than a few weeks. At most, they survive a month.”

Gawyn held up the knife, disturbed. “So we only need to wait them out.”

Kaisea laughed. “That will not happen. Before they die, they will see their duty fulfilled.”

“This one is killing people slowly,” Gawyn said. “One every few days. A handful so far.”

“Tests,” Kaisea said. “Prodding for weaknesses and strengths, learning where they can strike without being seen. If only a few are dead, then you have not yet seen the full power of the Bloodknife. They do not leave a ‘handful’ of dead, but dozens.”

“Unless I stop him,” Gawyn said. “What are his weaknesses?”

Kaisea laughed again. “Weaknesses? Great Lord, did I not say that they are the finest warriors in Seanchan, enhanced and aided by the Empress’s favor, may she live forever?”

“Fine. What about the ter’angreal, then? It helps the assassin when he is in shadow? How can I stop it from working? Perhaps light a large number of torches?”

“You cannot have light without shadow, great Lord, the woman said. “Create more light, and you will create more shadows.”

“There has to be a way.”

“Kaisea is certain that if there is one, great Lord, you will find it.” The woman’s response had a smug tone to it. “If Kaisea may suggest, great Lord? Count yourself fortunate to have survived fighting a Bloodknife. You must not have been his or her true target. It would be prudent to hide yourself until a month has passed. Allow the Empress—may she live forever—to accomplish her will, and bless the omens that you were given warning enough to escape and live.”

“That’s enough of that,” Dimana said. “I trust you have what you wish, Lord Trakand?”

“Yes, thank you,” Gawyn said, disturbed. He barely noticed as Kaisea rose and the Kinswoman led her charge away.

Count yourself fortunate to have survived… you must not truly have been his target…

Gawyn tested the throwing knife in his hands. The target was Egwene, obviously. “Why else would the Seanchan expend such a powerful weapon? Perhaps they thought her death would bring down the White Tower.

Egwene had to be warned. If it made her angry at him, if it flew in the face of what she wanted, he had to bring her this information. It could save her life.

He was still standing there—considering how to approach Egwene—when a servant in red and white found him. She carried a plate with a sealed envelope on it. “My Lord Gawyn?”

“What’s this?” Gawyn asked, taking the letter and using the Bloodknife to cut it open along the top.

“From Tar Valon,” the servant said, bowing. “It came through a gateway.”

Gawyn unfolded the thick sheet of paper inside. He recognized Silviana’s script.

It read.

Gawyn read the letter, then read it again. Egwene screamed at him for disturbing her plans, all but threw him out of the Tower, and she was displeased to discover he’d left the city? What did she expect him to do? He almost laughed.

“My Lord?” the servant asked. “Would you like to send a reply?” There was paper and pen on the tray. “They implied that one would be expected.”

“Send her this,” Gawyn said, tossing the Bloodknife onto the tray. He felt so angry, suddenly, and all thoughts of returning fled his mind. Flaming woman!

“And tell her,” he added after a moment’s thought, “that the assassin is Seanchan, and carries a special ter’angreal that makes him difficult to see in shadows. Best to keep extra lights burning. The other murders were tests gauge our defenses. She is the true target. Emphasize that the assassin is very, very dangerous—but not the person she thought it was. If she needs proof, she can come talk to some of the Seanchan here in Caemlyn.”

The servant looked perplexed, but when he said nothing further, the woman retreated.

He tried to cool his rage. He wouldn’t go back, not now. Not when it would look as if he’d come crawling back at her command. She had her “careful plans and traps.” She had said she didn’t need him. She would have to do without him for a while, then.