“I nearly didn’t.”
“What made the difference?”
“I had to learn how to surrender. It’s something I’ve never been good at.”
Egwene nodded, as if understanding. “I’ll leave orders for a bed to be brought into this room. I was always planning this to be my Warder’s station.”
Gawyn smiled. Sleep in another room? Underneath it all, there was still some of the conservative innkeeper’s daughter remaining. Egwene blushed as she sensed his thoughts.
“Why don’t we get married?” Gawyn said. “Right here, today. Light, Egwene, you’re Amyrlin—your word is as good as law in Tar Valon. Speak the words, and we’d be wedded.”
She paled; odd, how that would unsettle her this night. Gawyn felt a stab of anxiety. She’d said she loved him. Didn’t she want to—
But no, he could feel her emotions. She did love him. Then why?
Egwene sounded aghast when she spoke. “You think I could face my parents if I got married without them knowing about it? Light, Gawyn, we’ll at least have to send for them! And what about Elayne? You’d marry without telling her?”
He smiled. “You’re right, of course. I’ll contact them.”
“I can—”
“Egwene, you’re the Amyrlin Seat. The weight of the world itself is on your shoulders. Let me make arrangements.”
“Very well,” she said. She stepped outside, where Silviana waited—she had one of her glowers for Gawyn. Egwene sent some servants for a bed for him, then she and her Keeper moved off, a pair of Chubain’s soldiers following.
Gawyn would have liked to go with her. There might still be assassins about. Unfortunately, she was right to send him to sleep. He was having trouble remaining upright. He stood on unsteady legs, then noticed a line of sheet-covered bodies outside. They wouldn’t be removed until sisters had a chance to look them over. Right now, finding Mesaana—and looking for other assassins—had been more pressing.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to walk over and pull back the sheet, revealing Celark’s and Mazone’s lifeless faces—Celark’s, unfortunately, sitting beside his body, separated from it at the neck.
“You did well, men,” he said. “I’ll see that your families know that you saved the life of the Amyrlin.” It made him angry to lose such good men.
Burn those Seanchan, he thought. Egwene is right about them. Something needs to be done.
He glanced to the side, to where the three assassins lay beneath sheets of their own, black-slippered feet sticking out the bottom. Two women and a man.
I wonder… he thought, then crossed to where they lay. Guards glanced at him as he pulled back the sheet, but nobody forbade him.
The ter’angreal were easy to pick out, though only because he’d been told what to look for. Identical black stone rings, worn on the middle fingers of their right hands. The rings were carved in the shape of a vine with thorns. Apparently none of the Aes Sedai had recognized them for what they were, at least not yet.
Gawyn slipped all three rings off, then tucked them into his pocket.
Lan could feel something, a distinct difference to the emotions in the back of his mind. He’d grown accustomed to ignoring those, and the woman they represented.
Lately, those emotions had changed. More and more, he was certain that Nynaeve had taken his bond. He could identify her by the way she felt. How could one not know her, that sense of passion and kindness? It felt…remarkable.
He stared down the roadway. It twisted around the side of a hill before turning straight toward a distinctive fortress ahead. The border between Kandor and Arafel was marked by the Silverwall Keeps, a large fortification built on two sides of Firchon Pass. It was an extremely impressive fortress—really two of them, each one built up the straight wall of the narrow canyonlike pass. Like two sides of an enormous doorway.
Getting through the pass required traveling a considerable distance between large stone walls pocked with arrowslits, and it would be effective at stopping armies moving in either direction.
They were all allies, the Borderlanders were. But that didn’t stop the Arafellin from wanting a nice fortress blocking the way up to Shol Arbela. Camped in front of that fortress was a gathering of thousands of people, clustered in smaller groups. The flag of Malkier—the Golden Crane—flew over some of the groups. Others flew flags of Kandor or Arafel.
“Which of you broke your oath?” Lan asked, looking back at the caravan.
The men there shook their heads.
“Nobody needed to break his oath,” Andere said. “What else would you do? Cut through the Broken Lands? The Uncapped Hills? It is here or nowhere. They know this. And so they wait for you.”
Lan growled. It was probably true. “We are a caravan,” he said loudly. “Remember, if any ask, you may admit that we are Malkieri. You may say you wait for your king. That is truth. You may not mention that you have found him.”
The others seemed troubled, but they made no objection. Lan led the way down the slope, their caravan of twenty wagons, warhorses and attendants following.
This was what he’d always worried would happen. Reclaiming Malkier was impossible. They would die, no matter how large their force. An assault? On the Blight? Ridiculous.
He could not ask that of them. He could not allow that of them. As he continued down the road, he became more resolute. Those brave men, flying those flags…they should join with the Shienaran forces and fight in a battle that meant something. He would not take their lives.
Death is lighter than a feather… Rakim had thrown that at him several times during their ride. He had followed Lan decades ago, during the Aiel War. Duty is heavier than a mountain.
Lan was not running from duty. He was running toward it. Still, sight of the camps stirred his heart as he reached the bottom of the slope, then rode forward. The waiting men wore simple warrior’s garb, hadori in place, women marked with a ki’sain on their foreheads. Some of the men wore coats with the Golden Crown on the shoulders—the mark of the royal guard of Malkier. They would have donned those only if their fathers or grandfathers had served in that guard.
It was a sight that would have made Bukama cry. He had thought the Malkieri gone as a people, broken, shattered, absorbed by other nations. Yet here they were, gathering at the faintest whisper of a call to arms. Many were older—Lan had been but a babe when his kingdom fell, and those who remembered that day as men would now be in their seventh or eighth decade. They had gray hair, but they were still warriors, and they’d brought their sons and grandsons.
“Tai’shar Malkier!” a man cried as Lan’s group passed. The call went up a dozen, two dozen times as they saw his hadori. None seemed to recognize him for who he was. They assumed that he had come for the reason they had come.
The Last Battle comes, Lan thought. Must I deny them the right to fight alongside me?
Yes, he must. Best he passed unnoticed and unrecognized. He kept his eyes forward, his hand on his sword, his mouth closed. But each call of Tai’shar Malkier made him want to sit up straighter. Each seemed to strengthen him, push him forward.
The gates between the two fortress keeps were open, though soldiers checked every man who went through. Lan halted Mandarb, and his people stopped behind him. Could the Arafellin have orders to watch for him? What other choice did he have but to go forward? Going around would take weeks. His caravan waited its turn, then stepped up to the guard post.
“Purpose?” asked the uniformed Arafellin, hair in braids.
“Traveling to Fal Moran,” Lan said. “Because of the Last Battle.”
“You’re not going to wait here like the rest?” the guard said, waving a gauntleted hand at the gathered Malkieri. “For your king?”
“I have no king,” Lan said softly.
The soldier nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. Then he waved for some soldiers to inspect the goods in the wagons. “There will be a tariff on that.”
“I plan to give it to Shienarans to fight in the Last Battle,” Lan said. “No price asked.”
The guard raised an eyebrow.
“You have my oath on it,” Lan said softly, meeting the man’s eyes.
“No tariff, then. Tai’shar Malkier, friend.”
“Tai’shar Arafel.” Lan kicked his horse forward. He hated riding through the Silverwalls; they made him feel as though a thousand archers were drawing on him. The Trollocs would not easily get through here, if the Arafellin were forced to retreat back this far. There were times that had happened, and they had held here each time, as in the days of Yakobin the Undaunted.
Lan practically held his breath the entire way. He reached the other side gratefully, and urged Mandarb out onto the roadway to the northeast.
“Al’Lan Mandragoran?” a voice yelled, sounding distant.
Lan froze. That call had come from above. He turned, looking back at the leftmost keep. A head was sticking from a window there.
“Light be praised, it is you!” the voice called. The head ducked back inside.
Lan felt like bolting. But if he did, this person would surely call back to the others. He waited. The figure came running out one of the fortress doorways. Lan recognized him: a boy not yet grown into a man wearing red, with a rich blue cloak. Kaisel Noramaga, grandson of the Queen of Kandor.
“Lord Mandragoran,” the youth said, trotting up. “You came! When I heard that the Golden Crane was raised—”
“I have not raised it, Prince Kaisel. My plan was to ride alone.”
“Of course. I would like to ride alone with you. May I?”
“This is not a wise choice, Your Highness,” Lan said. “Your grandmother is in the South; I assume your father rules in Kandor. You should be with him. What are you doing here?”
“Prince Kendral invited me,” Kaisel said. “And my father bade me come. We both plan to ride with you!”
“Kendral, too?” Lan asked, aghast. The grandson of the Arafellin king? “Your places are with your people!”
“Our ancestors swore an oath,” the young man said. “An oath to protect, to defend. That oath is stronger than blood, Lord Mandragoran. It is stronger than will or choice. Your wife told us to wait here for you; she said that you might try to pass without greeting us.”
“How did you notice me?” Lan asked, containing his anger.
“The horse,” Kaisel said, nodding to Mandarb. “She said you might disguise yourself. But you would never leave the horse.”
Burn that woman, Lan thought as he heard a call being raised through the fortress. He’d been outmaneuvered. Curse Nynaeve. And bless her, too. He tried to send a sense of love and frustration through the bond to her.
And then, with a deep sigh, he gave in. “The Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai’don,” Lan said softly. “Let any man or woman who wishes to follow join it and fight.”
He closed his eyes as the call went up. It soon became a cheer. Then a roar.
Chapter 43
Some Tea
“And these Asha’man claim they are free of the taint?” Galad asked, as he and Perrin Aybara picked their way through the aftermath of the battle.