“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 won’t 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?”