Eyes turned to Padra. “They are our enemies,” she said.
One by one, the men in the room nodded. It seemed such a simple event to end years of waiting.
“Go to your clans.” Ronam stood up. “Prepare them.”
Padra remained seated as the others said their farewells, some somber, others excited. Seventeen years was too long for the Aiel to be without battle.
Soon, the tent was empty save for Padra. She waited, staring at the rug before her. War. She was excited, but another part of her was somber. She felt as if she had set the clans on a path that would change them forever.
“Padra?” a voice asked.
She turned to see Ronam standing in the entryway to the tent. She blushed and stood. Though he was ten years her senior, he was quite handsome. She’d never give up the spear, of course, but if she did….
“You seem worried,” he said.
“I was simply thinking.”
“About the Seanchan?”
“About my father,” she replied.
“Ah.” Ronam nodded. “I remember when he first came to Cold Rocks Hold. I was very young.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“He was an impressive man,” Ronam said.
“Nothing else?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Padra, but I did not spend much time with him. My path led me elsewhere. I…heard things, from my father, though.”
She cocked her head.
Ronam turned and looked out the open tent flaps, toward the green grass beyond. “My father called Rand al’Thor a clever man and great leader, but one who did not know what to do with the Aiel. I remember him saying that when the Car’a’carn was among us, he did not feel like one of us. As if we made him uncomfortable.” Ronam shook his head. “Everyone else was planned for, but the Aiel were left adrift.”
“Some say we should have returned to the Three-fold Land,” she said.
“No,” Ronam said. “No, that would have destroyed us. Our fathers knew nothing of steam horses or dragon tubes. Were the Aiel to return to the Waste, we would have become irrelevant. The world would pass us by, and we would vanish as a people.”
“But war?” Padra said. “Is it right?”
“I do not know,” Ronam said softly. “We are Aiel. It is what we know how to do.”
Padra nodded, feeling more certain.
The Aiel would go to war again. And there would be much honor in it.
Aviendha blinked. The sky was dark.
She was exhausted. Her mind was drained, her heart opened—as if bleeding out strength with every beat. She sat down in the midst of the dimming columns. Her…children. She remembered their faces from her first visit to Rhuidean. She had not seen this. Not that she remembered, at least.
“Is it destined?” she asked. “Can we change it?”
There was no answer, of course.
Her tears were dry. How did one react to seeing the utter destruction—no, the utter decay—of one’s people? Each step had seemed logical to the people who took it. But each had taken the Aiel toward their end.
Should anyone have to see such terrible visions? She wished she’d never stepped back into the forest of pillars. Was she to blame for what was to happen? It was her line that would doom her people.
This was not like the events she had seen when passing into the rings during her first visit to Rhuidean. Those had been possibilities. This day’s visions seemed more real. She felt almost certain that what she had experienced was not simply one of many possibilities. What she had seen would occur. Step by step, honor drained from her people. Step by step, the Aiel turned from proud to wretched.
There had to be more. Angry, she stood up and took another step. Nothing happened. She walked all the way to the edge of the pillars, then turned, furious.
“Show me more,” she demanded. “Show me what I did to cause this! It is my lineage that brought us ruin! What is my part in it?”
She walked into the pillars again.
Nothing. They seemed dead. She reached out and touched one, but there was no life. No hum, no sense of Power. She closed her eyes, squeezing one more tear from the corner of each eye. The tears trailed down her face, leaving a line of cold wetness on her cheeks.
“Can I change it?” she asked.
If I can’t, she thought, will that stop me from trying?
The answer was simple. No. She could not live without doing something to avert that fate. She had come to Rhuidean seeking knowledge. Well, she had received it. In more abundance than she had wanted.
She opened her eyes and gritted her teeth. Aiel took responsibility. Aiel fought. Aiel stood for honor. If she was the only one who knew the terrors of their future, then it was her duty—as a Wise One—to act. She would save her people.
She walked from the pillars, then broke into a run. She needed to return, to consult with the other Wise Ones. But first she needed quiet, out in the Three-fold Land. Time to think.
Chapter 50
Choosing Enemies
Elayne sat anxiously, hands in her lap, listening to the distant booms. She’d intentionally chosen the throne room, rather than a less formal audience chamber. Today, she needed to be seen as a queen.
The throne room was imposing, with its majestic pillars and lavish ornamentation. Golden stand-lamps burned in a long double row on either side of the room, breaking only for the pillars. Guardsmen in white and red stood in front of them, burnished breastplates gleaming. The marble columns were matched by the thick crimson rug, woven with the Lion of Andor in gold at its center. It led toward Elayne, wearing the Rose Crown. Her gown was after a traditional fashion rather than those favored in court right now; the sleeves were wide, with the cuffs designed to droop down to a gold-embroidered point beneath her hand.
That pattern was echoed by the bodice, which was high enough to be modest, but low enough to remind all that Elayne was a woman. One still unmarried. Her mother had married a man from Cairhien early in her reign. Others might wonder if Elayne would do the same to cement her hold there.
Another distant boom sounded. The noise of the dragons firing was growing familiar. Not quite a clap of thunder—lower, more regular.
Elayne had been taught to conceal her nervousness. First by her tutors, and then by the Aes Sedai. Whatever some people thought, Elayne Trakand could control her temper when she needed to. She kept her hands in her lap and forced her tongue to be still. Showing nervousness would be far worse than anger.
Dyelin sat in a chair near the throne. The stately woman wore her golden hair unbound around her shoulders, and she was working quietly at a hoop of embroidery. Dyelin said it relaxed her, providing something for the hands to do while the mind was busy. Elayne’s mother was not in attendance. Today, she might be too much of a distraction.
Elayne couldn’t afford herself Dyelin’s same luxury. She needed to be seen leading. Unfortunately, “leading” often took the form of sitting on her throne, eyes forward, projecting determination and control while she waited. Surely the demonstration was done by now?
Another boom. Perhaps not.
She could hear soft chat in the sitting chamber to the side of the throne room. Those High Seats still in Caemlyn had received a royal invitation to meet with the Queen in a discussion of sanitation requirements for those staying outside the city. That meeting would happen at the strike of five, but the invitations had hinted the High Seats were to arrive two hours early.
The wording of the message should have been obvious. Elayne was going to do something important today, and she was inviting the High Seats early so that they could enjoy some sanctioned eavesdropping. They were kept well supplied with drinks and small dishes of meats and fruits in the sitting room. Likely, the chat she overheard was speculation about what she was going to reveal.
If they only knew. Elayne kept her hands in her lap. Dyelin continued her needlework, clicking her tongue to herself as she pulled out a wrong stitch.
After a nearly insufferable wait, the dragons stopped sounding and Elayne felt Birgitte returning to the palace. Sending her with the group was the best way to know when it was returning. The timing today needed to be handled with absolute care. Elayne breathed in and out to still her nerves. There. Birgitte was surely in the palace now.
Elayne nodded to Captain Guybon. It was time to bring in the prisoners.
A group of Guards entered a moment later, leading three individuals. Sniffling Arymilla was still plump, despite her captivity. The older woman was pretty, or might have been, had she been wearing more than rags. Her large brown eyes were wide with fright. As if she thought Elayne might still execute her.
Elenia was far more in control. She, like the others, had been stripped of her fine dress and wore a tattered gown instead, but she had cleaned her face and dressed her gold hair in a neat bun. Elayne didn’t starve or abuse her prisoners. Her enemies though they were, they weren’t traitors to Andor.
Elenia regarded Elayne. That vulpine face of hers was thoughtful, calculating. Did she know where her husband’s army had vanished to? That force felt like a hidden knife, pressed to Elayne’s back. None of her scouts had been able to discover its location. Light! Problems atop problems.
The third woman was Naean Arawn, a slim, pale woman whose black hair had lost much of its luster during her captivity. This one had seemed broken before Elayne had taken her captive, and she kept back from the other two women.
The three were prodded to the foot of the throne’s dais, then forced down on their knees. In the hallway, the Cairhienin nobles were returning noisily from the demonstration of the dragons. They would assume that they’d happened upon Elayne’s display by accident.
“The Crown acknowledges Naean Arawn, Elenia Sarand and Arymilla Marne,” Elayne said in a loud voice. That stilled the outside conversations—both those of the Andoran nobles in the sitting room and the Cairhienin outside in the hallway.
Of the three, only Elenia dared glance up. Elayne met the gaze with one as hard as stone, and the woman blushed before looking down again. Dyelin had put away her needlework and was watching closely.
“The Crown has given much thought to you three,” Elayne pronounced. “Your misguided war against Trakand has left you destitute, and requests for ransom have been turned away by your heirs and scions. Your own Houses have abandoned you.”
Her words rang in the grand throne room. The women before her bowed down further.
“This leaves the Crown with a conundrum,” Elayne said. “You vex us with your troubling existences. Perhaps some queens would have left you to prison, but I find that reeks of indecision. You would drain my resources and make men whisper of ways to free you.”
The hall fell silent save for the husky breathing of the prisoners.
“This Crown is not prone to indecisiveness,” Elayne pronounced. “On this day, Houses Sarand, Marne and Arawn are stripped of title and estate, their lands forfeit to the Crown in retribution for their crimes.”
Elenia gasped, looking up. Arymilla groaned, slouching down on the lion-centered rug. Naean did not respond. She seemed numb.
Murmuring rose immediately from the sitting room. This was worse than an execution. When nobles were executed, they were at least executed with their titles—in a way, an execution was an acknowledgment of a worthy foe. The title and lands passed on to the heir, and the House survived.