The tent walls rustled as the remaining clan chiefs settled down. There was only one other Wise One in the room, Mora of the Goshien Aiel. She could not channel either. The Seanchan were particularly determined when it came to killing or capturing all Aiel—male or female—who showed any talent with the One Power.
It was a sorry group gathered in the tent. A one-armed young soldier entered with a warm brazier and set it in the middle of them, then retreated. Ladalin’s mother had spoken of the days when there had still been gai’shain to do such work. Had there really been Aiel, man or Maiden, who had not been needed for the war against the Seanchan?
Ladalin reached forward to warm her hands at the brazier, fingers knotted with age. She’d held a spear as a young woman; most women did, before they married. How could a woman remain behind when the Seanchan used female soldiers and their damane with such effectiveness?
She’d heard stories about her mother and greatmother’s days, but they seemed incredible. The war was all Ladalin had ever known. Her first memories as a little girl were of the Almoth strikes. Her youth had been spent training. She had fought in the battles focused around the land that had been known as Tear.
Ladalin had married and raised children, but had focused every breath on the conflict. Aiel or Seanchan. Both knew that, eventually, only one of the two would remain.
It was looking more and more like the Aiel would be the ones forced out. That was another difference between her day and her mother’s day. Her mother had not spoken of failure; Ladalin’s lifetime was filled with milestones of withdrawal and retreat.
The others seemed absorbed in their thoughts. Three clan chiefs and two Wise Ones. They were all that remained of the Council of Twenty-Two. Highland winds seeped through the tent flaps, chilling her back. Tamaav was the last to arrive. He looked as old as she felt, his face scarred and his left eye lost in battle. He sat down on the rock. The Aiel no longer carried rugs or cushions. Only the essentials could be transported.
“The White Tower has fallen,” he said. “My scouts informed me not an hour ago. I trust their information.” He had always been a blunt man, and a good friend to her husband, who had fallen last year.
“Then with it goes our last hope,” said Takai, the youngest of the clan chiefs. He was the third chief of the Miagoma in as many years.
“Speak not so,” Ladalin said. “There is always hope.”
“They have pushed us all the way to these cursed mountains,” Takai said. “The Shiande and the Daryne are no more. That leaves only five clans, and one of those is broken and scattered. We are beaten, Ladalin.”
Tamaav sighed. She’d have lain a bridal wreath at his feet, had the years been earlier and the times different. Her clan needed a chief. Her son still thought to become the one, but with the recent Seanchan capture of Rhuidean, the clans were uncertain how to choose new leaders.
“We must retreat into the Three-fold Land,” Mora said in her soft, matronly voice. “And seek penance for our sins.”
“What sins?” Takai snapped.
“The Dragon wanted peace,” she replied.
“The Dragon left us!” Takai said. “I refuse to follow the memory of a man my greatfathers barely knew. We made no oaths to follow his foolish pact. We—”
“Peace, Takai,” Jorshem said. The last of the three clan chiefs was a small, hawk-faced man with some Andoran blood in him from his greatfather. “Only the Three-fold Land holds any hope for us, now. The war against the Ravens has been lost.”
The tent fell still.
“They said they’d hunt us,” Takai said. “When they demanded surrender, they warned us against retreat. You know that. They said they would destroy any place where three Aiel gathered.”
“We will not surrender,” Ladalin said firmly. More firmly than she felt, to be honest.
“Surrender would make us gai’shain,” Tamaav said. They used the word to mean one without honor, though that was not the way Ladalin’s mother had used it. “Ladalin. What is your advice?”
The other four looked at her. She was of the lineage of the Dragon, one of the last living. The other three lines had been killed off.
“If we become slaves to the Seanchan, the Aiel as a people will be no more,” she said. “We cannot win, so we must retreat. We will return to the Three-fold Land and build up our strength. Perhaps our children can fight where we cannot.”
Silence again. They all knew her words to be optimistic at best. After decades of war, the Aiel were a bare fraction of the number they had once been.
Seanchan channelers were brutal in their effectiveness. Though the Wise Ones and Dragon Blooded used the One Power in battle, it was not enough. Those cursed a’dam! Each channeler the Aiel lost to capture was eventually turned against them.
The real turning point in the war had been the entry of the other nations. After that, the Seanchan had been able to seize wetlander peoples and cull more channelers from their ranks. The Ravens were unstoppable; now that Tar Valon had fallen, every realm in the wetlands was subject to the Seanchan. Only the Black Tower still fought, though the Asha’man did so in secret, as their fortress had fallen years before.
Aiel could not fight in secret. There was no honor to that. Of course, what did honor matter now? After deaths numbering in the hundreds of thousands? After the burning of Cairhien and the scouring of Illian? It had been twenty years since the Seanchan had gained the Andoran war machines. The Aiel had been tumbling toward defeat for decades; it was a testament to their tenacious nature that they had lasted so long.
“This is his fault,” Takai said, still looking sullen. “The Car’a’carn could have led us to glory, but he abandoned us.”
“His fault?” Ladalin said, understanding—perhaps for the first time—why that statement was wrong. “No. Aiel take responsibility for themselves. This is our fault, and not that of my distant greatfather. We have forgotten who we are. We are without honor.”
“Our honor was taken from us,” Takai said, sighing as he stood. “People of the Dragon indeed. What is the good of being his people? We were crafted to be a spear, the legends say, forged in the Three-fold Land. He used us, then cast us away. What is a discarded spear to do, but go to war?”
What indeed, Ladalin thought. The Dragon had demanded peace, thinking that it would bring happiness to the Aiel. But how could they be happy, when the Light-cursed Seanchan were in the land? Her hatred of the invaders ran deep.
Perhaps that hatred had destroyed the Aiel. She listened to the wind howl as Takai stalked from the tent. On the morrow the Aiel would return to the Three-fold Land. If they would not accept peace themselves, it seemed they would have to have it forced upon them.
Aviendha took another step forward. She’d nearly reached the very center of the columns, and shards of light sparkled around her.
Her tears flowed freely now. She felt like a child. Being Ladalin had been worse than the others, for in her, Aviendha had seen hints of true Aiel ways, but corrupted, as if to make mockery. The woman had thought of war and associated it with honor, but hadn’t understood what honor was. No gai’shain? Retreat? There had been no mention of toh. This was battle stripped completely of point or reason.
Why fight? For Ladalin, it had been about hatred of the Seanchan. There was war because there had always been war.
How? How had this happened to the Aiel?
Aviendha took a step forward.
She was Oncala, Maiden of the Spear. She would eventually give the spear up and marry, just as her mother had and her mother’s mother before her. But now was the time to fight.
She strode through the streets of Caemlyn, her near-sister carrying the banner of the Dragon to announce her lineage. Next to Oncala was the man for whom she would likely give up her spears. Hehyal, Dawn Runner, had killed more Seanchan than any of his society, gaining much ji. He had been granted permission to travel to Rhuidean last year to become clan chief.
Rhuidean. The city was besieged by Seanchan. Oncala sneered. Seanchan had no honor. They had been told that Rhuidean was a place for peace. The Aiel did not assault the palace in Ebou Dar. The Seanchan should not attack Rhuidean.
They were lizards. It was a source of constant frustration that, after decades of war, the battle lines remained nearly the same as they had been after her greatfather went to Shayol Ghul.
She and Hehyal were accompanied by two thousand spears as a guard of honor. Queen Talana knew to expect them, and so the white Andoran palace gates were open. Hehyal waved for fifty spears, preselected, to walk with them through the fine halls. Lushness abounded here in the palace. Each tapestry, each vase, each golden frame seemed an insult to Oncala. Forty years of war, and Andor had not been touched. It lay safe, basking in the protection the Aiel defense gave them.
Well, Andor would see. The Aiel had grown stronger through their fighting. Once, their prowess had been legendary. Now it was greater! When the Aiel had destroyed the Seanchan, the world would see what the Aiel had learned. The wetland rulers would wish they had been more generous.
The throne room doors were open; Oncala and Hehyal entered, leaving their escort. The banner of the Dragon flew here, too, a reminder that the Andoran royal line also carried the lineage of the Car’a’carn. One more reason for Oncala to hate them. The Andoran nobility thought themselves her equals.
Queen Talana was a middle-aged woman with deep, lustrous red hair. Not very pretty, but very regal. She was speaking quietly with one of her advisors, and she waved for the Aiel to wait. An insult, deliberate. Oncala fumed.
Finally, they were summoned to approach the Lion Throne. Talana’s brother, her protector, stood behind her in court clothing—a vest and coat—hand on his sword. Oncala could have killed him while barely breaking a sweat.
“Ah,” Queen Talana said. “The Taardad Aiel again. You still carry the spear, Oncala?”
Oncala folded her arms, but said nothing. She knew she was not good with people. When she spoke, insults were too common. Better to let the clan chief take the lead.
“I assume you’re here to beg for aid again,” Talana said.
Hehyal flushed, and Oncala wished—for a moment—she hadn’t left her spear outside.
“We have something for you,” Hehyal said, taking out a leather pouch and handing it to one of the Queen’s Guards. The man opened it, inspecting the papers inside. Another insult. Must they be treated like assassins? Oncala did not like the Queen, true, but her family and Talana’s were sworn to allegiance because of their greatmothers, who had been first-sisters.
The soldier handed the Queen the papers. Talana perused them, face growing concerned and thoughtful.
Talana, like most of the rulers beneath the Dragon’s Peace, worried about the Seanchan. The Raven Empire’s techniques and skill with shaping the One Power were growing. The Aiel had them held at a stalemate, for now. What would happen if the Seanchan won? Would they hold to their oaths?
How much could the Seanchan be trusted? Hehyal’s agents had spent a great deal of time over the last decade seeding that very question among the great courts of the world. He was a wise man. Even before he had become chief, he had realized that this war could not be won by the Aiel alone. They needed these soft wetlanders.