Alliandre could practically feel the frost coming off the woman. Berelain stopped over where others were rolling the strips of cloth. Alliandre stood up, carrying her stool, scissors and cloths over to Faile. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her this unsettled,” Alliandre said.
“She’s not fond of being wrong,” Faile noted. She took a deep breath, then shook her head. “She sees the world as a network of half-truths and inferences, ascribing complex motivations to the simplest of men. I suspect it makes her very good at court politics. But I wouldn’t want to live that way.”
“She’s very wise,” Alliandre said. “She does see things, Faile. She understands the world; she merely has a few blind spots, like most of us.”
Faile nodded absently. “The thing I pity most is the fact that, despite all of this, I don’t believe she was ever in love with Perrin. She chased him for sport, for political advantage, and for Mayene. In the end, it was more the challenge than anything else. She may be fond of him, but nothing more. I could, perhaps, understand her if it had been for love.”
Alliandre kept her tongue after that, cutting bandages. She ran across a fine blue silk shirt in the pile. Surely there could be something better done with that! She stuffed it between two others and set those beside her, as if in a pile she intended to cut.
Perrin eventually tramped into the clearing, followed by some workers in bloodied clothing. He made instantly for Faile, sitting down on Berelain’s stool, setting his marvelous hammer down in the weeds beside him. He looked exhausted. Faile got him something to drink and then rubbed his shoulder.
Alliandre excused herself, leaving Perrin and his wife. She made her way over to where Berelain stood at the edge of the clearing, sipping a cup of tea taken from the pot on the fire. Berelain eyed her.
Alliandre poured herself a cup of tea, then blew on it for a moment. “They are good for one another, Berelain,” she said. “I cannot say I’m sorry to see this result.”
“Every relationship deserves to be challenged,” Berelain replied. “And if she had fallen in Malden—an outcome all too possible—he would have needed someone. It is not a great loss to me, however, to take my eyes off Perrin Aybara. I would have liked to make a connection to the Dragon Reborn through him, but there will be other opportunities.” She seemed far less frustrated now than she had moments ago. In fact, she seemed to have returned to her calculating self.
Alliandre smiled. Clever woman. Faile needed to see her rival completely beaten down, so that she would consider the threat passed. This was why Berelain let some of her frustration show, more than she normally would have.
Alliandre sipped her tea. “Marriage seems nothing to you other than a calculation, then? The advantages gained?”
“There’s also the joy of the hunt, the thrill of the game.”
“And what of love?”
“Love is for those who do not rule,” Berelain said. “A woman is worth far more than her ability to make a match, but I must care for Mayene. If we enter the Last Battle without my having secured a husband, that puts the succession in danger. And when Mayene has a succession crisis, Tear is all too quick to assert itself. Romance is an unaffordable distraction I…”
She trailed off suddenly, her expression changing. What was going on? Alliandre turned to the side, frowning until she saw the cause.
Galad Damodred had entered the clearing.
He had blood on his white uniform, and he looked exhausted. Yet he stood upright, straight-backed, and his face was clean. He almost seemed too beautiful to be human, with that perfectly masculine face and graceful, lean figure. And those eyes! Like deep, dark pools. He practically seemed to glow.
“I…What was I saying?” Berelain asked, eyes on Damodred.
“That there is no place for romance in a leader’s life?”
“Yes,” Berelain said, sounding distracted. “It’s just not reasonable at all.”
“Not at all.”
“I—” Berelain began, but Damodred turned toward them. She cut off as their eyes met.
Alliandre suppressed a smile as Damodred crossed the clearing. He executed another set of perfect bows, one for each of them, though he barely seemed to notice Alliandre.
“My…Lady First,” he said. “Lord Aybara says that, when he first approached this battle, you pled to him on my behalf.”
“Foolishly,” Berelain said. “I feared he would attack you.”
“If fearing that makes one a fool,” Damodred said, “then we two are fools together in it. I was certain that my men would soon fall to Aybara.”
She smiled at him. That quickly, she seemed to have forgotten everything she’d been saying previously.
“Would you like some tea?” Damodred said, speaking a little abruptly as he reached for the teacups, which sat on a cloth away from the fire.
“I’m drinking some,” she noted.
“Some more then?” he asked, hastily kneeling and pouring a cup.
“Er.”
He stood up, holding the cup, then seeing that she already had one in her hands.
“There are still bandages to cut,” Berelain said. “Perhaps you could help.”
“Perhaps,” he said. He handed the cup he’d poured over to Alliandre. Berelain—her eyes still holding his—handed hers over as well, seeming oblivious to what she was doing.
Alliandre smiled deeply—now holding three teacups—as the two of them walked over to the stack of cloths to be cut. This might turn out well indeed. At the very least, it would get those blasted Whitecloaks out of her kingdom.
She walked back toward Faile and Perrin. As she did so, she slipped the blue silk shirt from the pile of cloth she’d set aside to cut.
It really would make a nice sash.
Chapter 44
A Backhanded Request
Morgase stepped out of her hillside tent and looked out at Andor. Whitebridge lay below, blessedly familiar, although she could see that it had grown. The farms were failing, the last of the winter stores spoiling, so people made for the cities.
The landscape should have been green. Instead, even the yellowed grass was dying off, leaving scars of brown. It wouldn’t be long before the entire land was like the Waste. She longed to take action. This was her nation. Or it had once been.
She left her tent, looking for Master Gill. On the way, she passed Faile, who was speaking with the quartermaster again. Morgase nodded, showing deference. Faile nodded back. There was a rift between the two of them now. Morgase wished it could be otherwise. She and the others had shared a sliver of their lives when hope had been weaker than a candle’s flame. It had been Faile who had encouraged Morgase to use the One Power—squeezing every last drop from her pathetic ability—to signal for help while they were trapped.
The camp was already well set up, and amazingly the Whitecloaks had joined them, but Perrin hadn’t yet decided what to do. Or at least if he had decided, he wasn’t sharing that decision with Morgase.
She walked to the wagon lines, past farriers and grooms looking for the best pasture, people arguing in the supply dump, soldiers grudgingly digging trenches for waste. Everyone had their place except Morgase. Servants backed away, half-bowing, uncertain how to treat her. She wasn’t a queen, but neither was she simply another noblewoman. She certainly wasn’t a servant anymore.
Though her time with Galad had reminded her what it was to be a queen, she was thankful for what she had learned as Maighdin. That hadn’t been as bad as she had feared; there had been advantages to being a lady’s maid. The camaraderie of the other servants, the freedom from the burdens of leadership, the time spent with Tallanvor….
That life was not hers. It was time to be done with pretending.
She eventually found Basel Gill packing the cart, Lini supervising, Lamgwin and Breane helping. Faile had released Breane and Lamgwin from her service so they could serve Morgase. Morgase had kept silent about Faile so graciously granting her back her servants.
Tallanvor wasn’t there. Well, she couldn’t moon over him like a girl any longer. She had to get back to Caemlyn and help Elayne.
“Your Majes—” Master Gill said, bowing. He hesitated. “I mean, my Lady. Pardon me.”
“Don’t mind it, Master Gill. I have trouble remembering myself.”
“You sure you want to go forward with this?” Lini folded her thin arms.
“Yes,” Morgase said. “It is our duty to return to Caemlyn and offer Elayne what assistance we can.”
“If you say so,” Lini said. “Me, I think that anyone who allows two roosters in the same barnyard deserves the ruckus they get.”
Morgase raised an eyebrow. “Noted. But I think you’ll find that I am quite capable of helping without usurping authority from Elayne.”
Lini shrugged.
She had a point; Morgase had to be careful. Staying in the capital for too long could throw a shadow across Elayne. But if there was one thing Morgase had learned from her months as Maighdin it was that people needed to be doing something productive, even if it was something as simple as learning to serve tea. Morgase had skills that Elayne could use for the dangerous times ahead. If she began to overshadow her daughter, however, she would move out of Caemlyn to her holdings in the west.
The others worked quickly loading up, and Morgase had to fold her arms to keep from helping. There was a certain fulfillment to caring for oneself. As she waited, she noticed someone riding up the path from Whitebridge. Tallanvor. What had he been doing in the city? He saw her and approached, then bowed, his lean, square face a model of deference. “My Lady.”
“You visited the city? Did you get Lord Aybara’s permission?” Perrin hadn’t wanted a sudden flood of soldiers and refugees going into the city, causing trouble.
“My Lady, I have family there,” Tallanvor said, climbing from the saddle. His voice was stiff and formal. “I felt it wise to investigate the information discovered by Lord Aybara’s scouts.”
“Is that so, Guardsman-Lieutenant Tallanvor?” Morgase said. If he could act in such a formal way, then so could she. Lini, passing with an armload of linens to pack, gave a quiet snort at Morgase’s tone.
“Yes, my Lady,” Tallanvor replied. “My Lady…if I may make a suggestion?”
“Speak.”
“By reports, your daughter still assumes you dead. I’m certain if we speak to Lord Aybara, he will command his Asha’man to make a gateway for us to return to Caemlyn.”
“An interesting suggestion,” Morgase said carefully, ignoring the smirk on Lini’s face as she walked back by in the other direction.
“My Lady,” Tallanvor said, eyeing Lini, “might we speak in private?”
Morgase nodded, stepping off to the side of the camp. Tallanvor followed. A short distance away, she turned to look at him. “Well?”
“My Lady,” he continued in a softer voice. “The Andoran court is certain to hear that you still live, now that Aybara’s entire camp knows. If you don’t present yourself and explain that you’ve renounced the throne, the rumors of your survival could erode Elayne’s authority.”