“I was interrogating the Black Ajah,” Elayne said. “The details are none of your concern. Birgitte, have you a report from the grounds?”
“Nobody saw Mellar leave,” the Warder said. “Though we found the secretary’s body on the ground floor, still warm. Died from a knife to the back.”
Elayne sighed. “Shiaine?”
“Gone,” Birgitte said, “along with Marillin Gemalphin and Falion Bhoda.”
“The Shadow couldn’t leave them in our possession,” Elayne said with a sigh. “They know too much. They had to end up either rescued or executed.”
“Well,” Mat said, shrugging, “you’re alive, and three of them are dead. Seems like a reasonably good outcome.”
But the ones who escaped have a copy of your medallion, Elayne thought. She didn’t speak it, however. She also didn’t mention the invasion that Chesmal had spoken of. She would talk of it with Birgitte soon, of course, but first she wanted to consider it herself.
Mat had said the night’s events had a “reasonably good outcome.” But the more Elayne thought about it, the more dissatisfied she was. An invasion of Andor was coming, but she didn’t know when. The Shadow wanted Mat dead, but as Birgitte had pointed out, that was no surprise. In fact, the only certain result of the evening’s adventures was the sense of fatigue Elayne felt. That and a week confined to her rooms.
“Mat,” she said, taking off his medallion. “Here, it’s time I gave this back. You should know that it probably saved my life tonight.”
He walked over and took it back eagerly, then hesitated. “Were you able to…”
“Copy it? Not perfectly. But to an extent.”
He put it back on, looking concerned. “Well, that feels good to have back. I’ve been wanting to ask you something. Now might not be the time.”
“Speak of it,” Elayne said, tired. “Might as well.”
“Well, it’s about the gholam…”
“The city has been emptied of most civilians,” Yoeli said as he and Ituralde walked through Maradon’s gate. “We’re close to the Blight; this is not the first time we’ve evacuated. My own sister, Sigril, leads the Lastriders, who will watch from the ridge to the southeast and send word if we should fall. She will have sent word to our watchposts around Saldaea, requesting aid. She will light a watchfire to alert us if they come.”
The lean-faced man looked at Ituralde, his expression grim. “There will be few troops who could come to our aid. Queen Tenobia took many with her when she rode to find the Dragon Reborn.”
Ituralde nodded. He walked without a limp—Antail, one of the Asha’man, was quite skilled with Healing. His men made a hasty camp in the courtyard just inside the city gates. The Trollocs had taken the tents they’d left behind, then lit them on fire at night to illuminate them feasting on the wounded. Ituralde had moved some of his troops into the empty buildings, but he wanted others close to the gate in case of an assault.
The Asha’man and Aes Sedai had worked to Heal Ituralde’s men, but only the worst cases could get attention. Ituralde nodded to Antail, who was working with the wounded in a roped-off section of the square. Antail didn’t see the nod. He concentrated, sweating, working with a Power Ituralde didn’t want to think about.
“Are you certain you want to see them?” Yoeli asked. He held a horseman’s long spear on his shoulder, the tip tied with a triangular black and yellow pendant. It was called the Traitor’s Banner by the Saldaeans here.
The city bristled with hostility, different groups of Saldaeans regarding one another with grim expressions. Many wore strips of black cloth and yellow cloth twisted about one another and tied to their sword sheaths. They nodded to Yoeli.
Desya gavane cierto cuendar isain carentin, Ituralde thought. A phrase in the Old Tongue. It meant “A resolute heart is worth ten arguments.” He could guess what that banner meant. Sometimes a man knew what he must do, though it sounded wrong.
The two of them walked for a time through the streets. Maradon was like most Borderland cities: straight walls, square buildings, narrow streets. The houses looked like fortressed keeps, with small windows and sturdy doors. The streets wound in odd ways, and there were no thatched roofs—only slate shingles, fireproof. The dried blood at several key intersections was difficult to make out against the dark stone, but Ituralde knew what to look for. Yoeli’s rescue of his troops had come after fighting among the Saldaeans.
They reached a nondescript building. There would be no way for an outsider to know that this particular dwelling belonged to Vram Torkumen, distant cousin to the Queen, appointed lord of the city in her absence. The soldiers at the door wore yellow and black. They saluted Yoeli.
Inside, Ituralde and Yoeli entered a narrow staircase and climbed three flights of stairs. There were soldiers in nearly every room. On the top floor, four men wearing the Traitor’s Banner guarded a large, gold-inlaid door. The hallway was dark: narrow windows, a rug of black, green and red.
“Anything to report, Tarran?” Yoeli asked.
“Not a thing, sir,” the man said with a salute. He wore long mustaches and had the bowed legs of a man very comfortable in the saddle.
Yoeli nodded. “Thank you, Tarran. For all you do.”
“I stand with you, sir. And will at the end.”
“May you keep your eyes northward, but your heart southward, my friend,” Yoeli said, taking a deep breath and pushing open the door. Ituralde followed.
Inside the room, a Saldaean man in a rich red robe sat beside a hearth, sipping a cup of wine. A woman in a fine dress did needlework in the chair across from him. Neither looked up.
“Lord Torkumen,” Yoeli said. “This is Rodel Ituralde, leader of the Domani army.”
The man at the hearth sighed over his cup of wine. “You do not knock, you do not wait for me to address you first, you come during an hour when I have spoken of my need for quiet contemplation.”
“Really, Vram,” the woman said, “you expect manners from this man? Now?”
Yoeli quietly rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The room held a jumble of furniture: a bed on the side of the room that obviously didn’t belong there, a few trunks and standing wardrobes.
“So,” Vram said, “Rodel Ituralde. You’re one of the great captains. I realize it might be insulting to ask, but I must observe formalities. You realize that by bringing troops onto our soil, you have risked a war?”
“I serve the Dragon Reborn,” Ituralde said. “Tarmon Gai’don comes, and all previous allegiances, boundaries, and laws are subject to the Dragon’s will.”
Vram clicked his tongue. “Dragonsworn. I had reports, of course—and those men you employ seemed an obvious hint. But it is still so strange to hear. Do you not realize how utterly foolish you sound?”
Ituralde met the man’s eyes. He hadn’t considered himself Dragonsworn, but there was no use calling a horse a rock and expecting everyone else to agree. “Don’t you care about the invading Trollocs?”
“There have been Trollocs before,” Vram said. “There have always been Trollocs.”
“The Queen—” Yoeli said.
“The Queen,” Vram interrupted, “will soon return from her expedition to unmask and capture this false Dragon. Once that happens, she will see you executed, traitor. You, Rodel Ituralde, will likely be spared because of your station, but I should not like to be your family when they receive the ransom demand. I hope that you have wealth to accompany your reputation. Otherwise, you shall likely spend many of the next years as a general to nothing more than the rats of your cell.”
“I see,” Ituralde said. “When did you turn to the Shadow?”
Vram’s eyes opened wide, and he stood. “You dare name me Darkfriend?”
“I’ve known some Saldaeans in my time,” Ituralde said. “I’ve called some friends; I’ve fought against others. But never have I known one who would watch men fight Shadowspawn and not offer to help.”
“If I had a sword…” Vram said.
“May you burn, Vram Torkumen,” Ituralde said. “I came here to tell you that, on behalf of the men I lost.”
The man seemed shocked as Ituralde turned to go. Yoeli joined him, pulling the door closed.
“You disagree with my accusation?” Ituralde asked, joining the traitor as they returned to the stairs.
“I honestly can’t decide if he’s a fool or a Darkfriend,” Yoeli said. “He’d have to be one or the other to not put together the truth from the winter, those clouds and the rumors that al’Thor has conquered half the world.”
“Then you have nothing to fear,” Ituralde said. “You won’t be executed.”
“I killed my countrymen,” Yoeli said, “staged a revolt against my Queen’s appointed leader, and seized command of the city, though I’ve not a drop of noble blood.”
“That’ll change the moment Tenobia returns, I warrant,” Ituralde said. “You’ve earned yourself a title for certain.”
Yoeli stopped in the dark stairwell, lit only from above and below. “I see that you do not understand. I have betrayed my oaths and killed friends. I will demand execution, as is my right.”
Ituralde felt a chill. Bloody Borderlanders, he thought. “Swear yourself to the Dragon. He supersedes all oaths. Do not waste your life. Fight beside me at the Last Battle.”
“I will not hide behind excuses, Lord Ituralde,” the man said, continuing down the steps. “No more than I could watch your men die. Come. Let us see to the housing of those Asha’man. I would like very much to see these ‘gateways’ you speak of. If we could use them to send messages out and bring supplies in, this could be a very interesting siege indeed.”
Ituralde sighed, but followed. They didn’t speak of fleeing by way of the gateways. Yoeli wouldn’t abandon his city. And, he realized, Ituralde wouldn’t abandon Yoeli and his men. Not after what they’d gone through to rescue him.
This was as good a place as any to make a stand. Better than many a situation he’d been in lately, that was for certain.
Perrin entered their tent to find Faile brushing her hair. She was beautiful. Each day, he still felt a sense of wonder that she was really back.
She turned to him and smiled in satisfaction. She was using the new silver comb he’d left on her pillow—something he’d traded for from Gaul, who had found it in Malden. If this shanna’har was important to her, then Perrin intended to treat it the same way.
“The messengers have returned,” Perrin said, closing the flaps to the tent. “The Whitecloaks have chosen a battlefield. Light, Faile. They’re going to force me to wipe them out.”
“I don’t see the trouble with that,” she said. “We’ll win.”
“Probably,” Perrin said, sitting down on the pillows beside their sleeping pallet. “But despite the Asha’man doing most of the work at first, we’ll have to move in to fight. That means we’ll lose people. Good men we need at the Last Battle.” He forced himself to relax the fists that he’d clenched. “The Light burn those Whitecloaks for what they’ve done, and for what they’re doing.”