Knife of Dreams

  "Yes," the Cairhienin replied, "but I do not understand why." She still stood so that one eye could peek around the corner of the doorframe. "The first gai'shain should be coming for water by now."

  "Maybe something has happened in the camp," Maighdin said. Suddenly, her face was grim and her knife was in her hand, a wooden-handled affair with a chipped and pitted blade.

  Faile nodded slowly. Maybe something such as Dairaine having been found already. She could not tell where Faile and the others had been going, but she might have recognized some among the waiting gai'shain. How long would they hold out if put to the question? How long would Alvon hold out if Theril were? "There's nothing we can do about it, in any case. Galina will get us out."

  Even so, when they left the inn, they ran, carrying the baskets in front of them and trying to hold up their long robes so they did not trip. Faile was not the only one to look over her shoulder frequently and stumble. She was not sure whether or not she was relieved to finally see gai'shain carrying buckets on yokes drift across the crossing of the town's main street. She certainly did not slow down.

  They did not have far to run. In moments, the smell of charred wood that had faded from the rest of Maiden began to grow. The southern end of Maiden was a ruin. They halted at the edge of the devastation and edged around a corner so they would not be seen by anyone glancing down the street. From where they stood to the southern wall, near two hundred paces, marched roofless shells with blackened stone walls interspersed with piles of charred beams washed clean of ash by the rains. In places, not even the heaviest timbers remained. Only on the south side of this street were there any structures even close to whole. This was where the fire that raged after the Shaido took the city had been finally stopped. Half a dozen buildings stood without roofs, though the lower floors looked intact, and twice as many were leaning piles of black timbers and half-burned boards that appeared on the edge of collapse.

  "There," Maighdin said, pointing east along the street. A long length of red cloth fluttered in the breeze where she pointed. It was tied to a house that seemed ready to fall in. Walking to it slowly, they rested their baskets on the paving stones. The red cloth fluttered again.

  "Why would she want to meet us here?" Alliandre muttered. "That could cave in if anybody sneezed." She rubbed at her nose as though the word had given her the urge.

  "It is quite sound. I inspected it." Galina's voice behind them jerked Faile's head around. The woman was striding toward them, plainly from one of the sound buildings on the north side of the street. After so long seeing her in that belt and collar of gold and firedrops, she looked odd without them. She still wore her white silk robes, but the absence of the jewelry was convincing. Galina had not somehow managed to turn truth on its head. She was leaving today.

  "Why not in one of the sound buildings?" Faile demanded. "Or right here?"

  "Because I don't want anyone to see it in my hands,” Galina said, walking past her. "Because no one will look inside that ruin. Because I say so." She stepped through what had been a doorway, ducking under a heavy, charred roof beam that slanted across the opening, and immediately turned to her right and began descending stairs. "Don't dawdle."

  Faile exchanged looks with the other women. This was more than passing strange.

  "If she'll get us out of here," Alliandre growled, snatching up her basket, "I'm willing to hand her the thing in a privy." Still, she waited on Faile to pick up her own basket and lead the way.

  Charred timbers and blackened boards hung low over the stone stairs that led downward, but Galina's ease at entering reassured Faile. The woman would not risk being buried alive or crushed at the very moment she finally gained the rod. Bars and beams of light filtering through gaps in the wreckage gave enough illumination to show that the basement was quite clear despite the treacherous nature of what lay above. Large barrels stacked along one stone wall, most scorched and with staves sprung from the heat, said this had been an inn or a tavern. Or perhaps a wine merchant's shop. The area around Maiden had produced a great deal of mediocre wine.

  Galina stood in the middle of the grit-covered stone floor, in a small beam of light. Her face was all Aes Sedai calm, her agitation of the previous day completely subdued. "Where is it?" she said coolly. "Give it to me."

  Faile set her basket down and shoved her hand deep inside. When she brought out the white rod, Galina's hands twitched. Faile extended the rod toward her, and she reached for it almost hesitantly. If she had not known better, Faile would have said she was afraid to touch it. Galina's fingers closed around the rod, and she exhaled heavily. She jerked the rod away before Faile could release it. The Aes Sedai seemed to be trembling, but her smile was . . . triumphant.

  "How do you intend to get us away from the camp?" Faile asked. "Should we change our clothes now?"

  Galina opened her mouth, then suddenly raised her free hand, palm out. Her head tilted toward the stairs as if listening. "It may be nothing," she said softly, "but it's best if I check. Wait here and be quiet. Be quiet," she hissed when Faile started to speak. Lifting the hem of her silk robes, the Aes Sedai scurried to the stairs and started up like a woman uneasy about what she might find at the top. Her feet passed out of sight behind the sagging boards and beams.

  "Did any of you hear anything?" Faile whispered. They all shook their heads. "Maybe she's holding the Power. I've heard that can—"

  "She wasn't," Maighdin interrupted. "I've never seen her embracing—"

  Suddenly, wood groaned overhead, and with a thunderous crash charred beams and boards collapsed, sending out blinding billows of black dust and grit that sent Faile into paroxysms of coughing. The smell of charring suddenly was as thick in the air as it had been the day Maiden burned. Something falling from above hit her shoulder hard, and she crouched, trying to protect her head. Someone cried out. She heard other falling objects hit the basement's stone floor, boards or pieces of boards. Nothing made a loud enough noise to be a roof beam or a heavy joist.

  Eventually—it seemed like hours; it might have been minutes— the rain of debris stopped. The dust began to thin. Quickly she looked around for her companions, and found them all huddling on the floor with their arms around their heads. There seemed to be more light than before. A little more. Some of the gaps overhead were wider, now. A trickle of blood ran down Alliandre's face from her scalp. Everyone was dusted with black from head to foot.

  "Is anyone injured?" Faile asked, finishing with a cough. The dust had not cleared completely, and her throat and tongue felt coated with it. The stuff tasted like charcoal.

  "No," Alliandre said, touching her scalp gingerly. "A scrape, that's all." The others denied injury as well, though Arrela seemed to be moving her right arm carefully. No doubt they had all suffered bruises, and Faile thought her left shoulder was going to be black and blue shortly, but she would not count that a real injury.

  Then her eyes fell on the stairs, and she wanted to weep. Wreckage from above filled the whole space where the staircase had been. They might have been able to squeeze through some of the gaps overhead. Faile thought she could reach them standing on Arrela's shoulders, but she doubted she could pull herself through with one good arm. Or that Arrela could. And if either managed, she would be in the middle of a burned-out ruin and likely as not to make the rest of the thing fall in, too.

  "No!" Alliandre moaned. "Not now! Not when we were so close!" Rising, she rushed as near to the rubble as she could get, almost pressing against it, and began to shout. "Galina! Help us! We're trapped! Channel and lift the boards away! Clear a path for us to get out! Galina! Galina! Galina!" She sagged against the tangle of timbers, shoulders shaking. "Galina,'' she wept. "Galina, help us."

  "Galina's gone," Faile said bitterly. The woman would have answered if she was still above or had any intention of aiding them. "With us trapped down here, maybe dead, she has the perfect excuse for leaving us behind. Anyway, I don't know whether an Aes Sedai could move some of those timbers if she
tried." She did not want to mention the possibility that Galina had arranged that excuse herself. Light, she should never have slapped the woman. It was too late for self-recrimination, though.

  "What are we going to do now?" Arrela asked.

  "Dig ourselves out," Faile and Maighdin said at the same instant. Faile looked at the other woman in surprise. Her maid's dirty face wore a queen's resolve.

  "Yes," Alliandre said, straightening. She turned around, and if runnels of tear-tracks marked the dust on her face, no new tears appeared. She really was a queen, and could not like being shamed by the courage of a lady's maid. "We'll dig ourselves out. And if we fail. ... If we fail, I will not die wearing this!" Unfastening her golden belt, she flung it contemptuously into a corner of the basement. Her golden collar followed.

  "We'll need those to make our way through the Shaido camp," Faile said gently. "Galina may not be taking us out, but I intend leaving today." Dairaine made that imperative. Bain and Chiad could not keep her hidden long. "Or as soon we can dig out, anyway. We'll pretend we've been sent to pick berries." She did not want to step on her liege-woman's bold gesture, though. "However, we don't need to wear them now."

  Removing her belt and collar, she righted her basket and set them atop the dirty gai'shain robes. The others emulated her. Alliandre retrieved her own belt and collar with a rueful laugh. At least she could laugh again. Faile wished she could.

  The jumble of charred timbers and half-burned boards filling the staircase resembled one of those blacksmith's puzzles her Perrin enjoyed. Almost everything seemed to be propping up something else. Worse, the heavier timbers might be beyond all of them working together. But if they could clear enough for them to be able to crawl through, writhing between the thick beams. ... It would be dangerous, that crawl. But when a dangerous path was your only route to safety, you had to take it.

  A few boards came away easily and were piled at the back of the basement, but after that everything had to be chosen with care, examined to see whether anything would fall if it were removed, hands feeling back as far as they could go into the tangle, groping for nails that might have caught, trying not to think about the whole pile shifting and trapping an arm, crushing it. Only then could they begin pulling, sometimes two of them together, tugging harder and harder until the piece suddenly gave. That work went slowly, with the great pile occasionally groaning, or shifting slightly. Everyone darted back, holding their breath, when that happened. Nobody moved again until they were sure the snarl of timbers was not going to collapse. The work became the focus of their world.

  Once, Faile thought she heard wolves howling. Wolves generally made her think of Perrin, but not this time. The work was all.

  Then Alliandre wrenched a charred board free, and with a great groan, the mass began to shift. Toward them. Everyone ran toward the back of the basement as the pile fell in with a deafening rumble, sending up more billows of dust.

  When they stopped coughing and could see again, dimly, with dust still hanging in the air, perhaps a quarter of the basement was filled. All of their work undone, and worse, the jumble was leaning toward them precariously. Groaning, it sagged a little more toward them and stopped. Everything about it said the first board pulled free would bring the whole mass down on their heads.

  Arrela began to cry softly. Tantalizing gaps admitted sunlight and allowed them to see the street, the sky, but nothing anyone could wriggle through, even Lacile. Faile could see the red scarf Galina had used to mark the building. It fluttered for a moment in the breeze.

  Staring at the scarf, she seized Maighdin's shoulder. "I want you to try to make that scarf do something the wind wouldn't make it do."

  "You want to attract attention?" Alliandre said hoarsely. "It's far more likely to be Shaido than anyone else.''

  "Better that than dying down here of thirst," Faile replied, her voice harsher than she wanted. She would never see Perrin again, then. If Sevanna had her chained, she would at least be alive for him to rescue. He would rescue her; she knew it. Her duty now was to keep the women who followed her alive. And if that meant captivity, so be it. "Maighdin?"

  "I might spend all day trying to embrace the Source and never succeed," the sun-haired woman said in dull tones. She stood slumped, staring at nothing. Her face suggested that she saw an abyss beneath her feet. "And if I do embrace it, I can almost never weave anything."

  Faile loosened her grip on Maighdin and smoothed her hair instead. "I know it's difficult," she said soothingly. "Well, in truth, I don't know. I've never done it. But you have. And you can do it again. Our lives depend on you, Maighdin. I know the strength that's in you. I've seen it time and again. There is no surrender in you. I know you can do it, and so do you."

  Slowly, Maighdin's back straightened, and despair slid off her face. She might still see the abyss, but if she fell, she would fall without flinching. "I'll try," she said.

  For a long while she stared up at the scarf, then shook her head dejectedly. "The Source is there, like the sun just beyond the edge of sight," she whispered, "but every time I try to embrace it, it's like trying to catch smoke with my fingers."

  Faile hastily pulled the gai’shain robes from her basket and another, careless of the gold belts and collars falling to the stone floor. "Sit down," she said, arranging the robes in a pile. "Make yourself comfortable. I know you can do it, Maighdin." Pressing the other woman down, she folded her legs and sat beside her.

  "You can do it," Alliandre said softly, sitting down on Maighdin's other side. "Yes, you can," Lacile whispered, joining them. "I know you can," Arrela said as she lowered herself to the floor.

  Time passed, with Maighdin staring at the scarf. Faile whispered encouragement and held onto hope hard. Suddenly the scarf went rigid, as if something had pulled it taut. A wondrous smile appeared on Maighdin's face as the scarf began to swing back and forth like a pendulum. Six, seven, eight times it swung. Then it fluttered in the breeze and fell limp.

  "That was marvelous," Faile said. "Marvelous," Alliandre said. "You re going to save us, Maighdin." "Yes." Arrela murmured, "you're going to save us, Maighdin."

  There were many kinds of battle. Sitting on the floor, whispering encouragement, Maighdin fighting to find what she could seldom find, they fought for their lives while the scarf swung, then fell to the breeze, swung and fell limp. But they fought on.

  Galina kept her head down and tried not to hurry as she made her way out of Maiden, past the streams of white-clad men and women carrying empty buckets into the town and full buckets back out. She did not want to attract attention, not without that cursed belt and necklace. She had donned the things when she dressed in the night, while Therava was still asleep, but it had been such a pleasure to remove them and hide them with the clothes and other things she had secreted away for her escape that she could not resist. Besides, Therava would have been angered to wake and find her missing. She would have ordered a watch for her "little Lina," and everyone marked her by those jewels. Well, they would pay to help her return to the Tower, now, return to her rightful place. That arrogant Faile and the other fools were dead or as good as, and she was free. She stroked the rod, hidden in her sleeve, and shivered with delight. Free!

  She did hate leaving Therava alive, but if anyone had entered the woman's tent and found her with a knife through her heart, Galina would have been the first suspect. Besides. . . . Images rose in her head, of her bending stealthily over the sleeping Therava, the woman's own belt knife in hand, of Therava's eyes snapping open, meeting hers in the darkness, of her screaming, of her hand opening nervelessly to drop the knife, of her begging, of Therava. . . .

  No. No! It would not have been that way. Certainly not! She had left Therava alive of necessity, not because she was. . . . Not for any other reason.

  Suddenly wolves howled, wolves in every direction, a dozen or more. Her feet stopped of their own accord. A motley collection of tents surrounded her, walled tents, peaked tents, low Aiel tents. She had walked
right through the gai'shain portion of the camp without realizing it. Her eyes rose to the ridge west of Maiden, and she flinched. Thick fog curled along the whole length of it, concealing the trees as far as she could see in either direction. The town walls hid the ridge to the east, yet she was sure there would be thick fog there, too.

  The man had come! The Great Lord preserve her, she had been just in time. Well, he would not find his fool wife even if he managed to survive whatever he was about to try, nor would he find Galina Casban.

  Thanking the Great Lord that Therava had not forbidden her to ride—the woman had much preferred dangling the possibility that she might be allowed, if she groveled sufficiently—Galina hurried toward her hidden stores. Let the fools who wanted to die here, die. She was free. Free!

  CHAPTER 29 The Last Knot

  Perrin stood just below the ridgetop, near the edge of the fog, and studied the encampment and stone-walled town below. Two hundred paces of fairly steep slope sparsely dotted with low brush down to level ground, perhaps seven hundred more of cleared ground to the first tents, then better than a mile to the town. It seemed so close, now. He did not use his looking glass. A glint off the lens from the sun just peeking over the horizon, a fingernail edge of golden-red, might ruin everything.

  The grayness around him curled but did not really move with the breeze, even when it gusted and made his cloak stir. The dense mist on the far ridge, obscuring the windmill there, seemed too still as well, if you studied it a while. How long before someone among those tents noticed?

  There was nothing to be done for it. The fog felt like any fog, damp and a little cool, but somehow Neald had fixed these mists in place before he went off to his other tasks. The sun would not burn them off even at noonday, or so the Asha'man claimed. Everything would be done by noon, one way or another, but Perrin hoped the man was right. The sky was clear, and the day looked to be warm for early spring.

  Only a few Shaido seemed to be outside in the camp, relatively speaking, but thousands of white-clad figures bustled about among the tents. Tens of thousands. His eyes ached to find Faile among them, his heart ached to see her, but he could as well try to pick out one particular pin from a barley-basket of them spilled on the ground.