Then the man slid backward off of Bryne’s blade and to the ground. He spasmed once, whispering something distinct despite the bubbling of his bleeding throat. “Marath . . . damane . . .”
“Light burn me!” Siuan breathed, raising a hand to her breast. “What was that?”
“He wasn’t dressed like the others,” Bryne said, shaking his head. “The armor is different. Assassin of some sort.”
“Light,” Siuan said. “I didn’t even see him! He almost seemed part of the darkness itself!”
Assassins. They always seemed to look the same, regardless of the culture. Bryne sheathed his sword. That was the first time he’d ever used Blacklance’s Last Strike in combat. It was a simple form, intended for only one thing: speed. Draw the sword and strike into the neck in one fluid motion. If you missed, you usually died.
“You saved my life,” Siuan said, looking up at Bryne. Her face was mostly shadowed. “By the seas at midnight,” she said, “the blasted girl was right.”
“Who?” Bryne asked, warily scanning the darkness for more assassins. He waved curtly, and his men sheepishly opened their lanterns further. The assassin’s attack had come so quickly that they had barely moved. If Bryne hadn’t had the speed of a Warder bond. . . .
“Min,” Siuan said, sounding tired. Those Healings seemed to have taken a lot out of her. “She said I had to stay near you.” She paused. “If you hadn’t come tonight, I would have died.”
“Well,” Bryne said, “I am your Warder. I suspect it won’t be the only time I save you.” Why had it grown so warm all of a sudden?
“Yes,” Siuan said, standing up. “But this is different. Min said I’d die, and . . . No, wait. That’s not what Min said exactly. She said that if I didn’t stay close to you, we’d both die.”
“What are you—” Bryne said, turning toward her.
“Hush!” Siuan said, taking his head in her hands. He felt a strange prickling sensation. Was she using the Power on him? What was going on? He recognized that shock, like ice in the veins! She was Healing him! But why? He wasn’t wounded.
Siuan took her hands off his face, then teetered slightly with a sudden look of exhaustion. He grabbed her, to help steady her, but she shook her head and righted herself. “Here,” she said, grabbing his sword arm, twisting it so that the wrist was visible. There, pressed into his skin, was a tiny black pin. She yanked it free. Bryne felt a chill totally unrelated to the Healing.
“Poisoned?” he asked, glancing at the dead man. “When he reached for my arm, it wasn’t a simple death spasm.”
“Probably had a numbing agent on it,” Siuan muttered angrily, letting him help her sit down. She tossed the pin aside and it suddenly burst into flames, the poison evaporating beneath the heat of her channeling.
Bryne ran a hand through his hair. His brow was damp. “Did you . . . Heal it?”
Siuan nodded. “It was surprisingly easy; there was only a little in your system. It would have killed you anyway. You’ll have to thank Min next time you see her, Bryne. She just saved both of our lives.”
“But I wouldn’t have been poisoned if I hadn’t come!”
“Don’t try to apply logic to a viewing or Foretelling like this,” Siuan said, grimacing. “You’re alive. I’m alive. I suggest we leave it at that. You feel good enough to keep going?”
“Does it matter?” Bryne said. “I’m not about to let you go on without me.”
“Let’s move, then,” Siuan said, taking a deep breath and climbing to her feet. That rest hadn’t been nearly long enough, but he didn’t challenge her. “These three soldiers of yours will survive the night. I’ve done what I can for them.”
Egwene sat, exhausted, on a pile of rubble, staring out of the hole in the White Tower, watching fires burning below. Figures moved about them, and one by one, the fires winked out. Whoever had been running the resistance was quick-minded enough to realize that the fires could prove as dangerous as the Seanchan. But a few sisters weaving Air or Water could make short work of the flames, preserving the Tower. What was left of it.
Egwene closed her eyes and lay back, resting against the fragments of a wall, feeling the fresh breeze blow across her. The Seanchan were gone, the last to’raken vanishing into the night. That moment, watching it flee, was the moment when Egwene realized how hard she’d taxed herself and the poor novices she’d been drawing through. She’d released them with orders to go directly to sleep. The other women she’d gathered were caring for wounded or working on the fires on the upper levels.
Egwene wanted to help. A part of her did, at least. A sliver. But Light, she was tired! She couldn’t channel another trickle, not even using the sa’angreal. She’d pushed the limits of what she could manage. But she was so worn out now that she wouldn’t be able to embrace the Source if she tried.
She’d fought. She’d been glorious and destructive, the Amyrlin of judgment and fury, Green Ajah to the core. And still, the Tower had burned. And still, more to’raken had escaped than had fallen. The count of wounded among those she’d gathered was somewhat encouraging. Only three novices and one Aes Sedai dead, while they’d gathered ten damane and killed dozens of soldiers. But what of the other floors? The White Tower would not come out ahead in this battle.
The White Tower was broken, physically now as well as spiritually. They’d need a strong leader to rebuild. The next few days would be pivotal. It made her more than exhausted to consider the work she’d need to do.
She had protected many. She had resisted and fought. But this day would still mark one of the greatest disasters in the history of the Aes Sedai.
Can’t think of that, she told herself. Have to focus on what to do to fix things. . . .
She would get up soon. She would lead the novices and Aes Sedai on these upper floors as they cleaned up and assessed the damage. She would be strong and capable. The others would be tempted to fall into despair, and she needed to be positive. For them.
But she could take a few minutes. She just needed to rest for a little while. . . .
She barely noticed when someone picked her up. She tiredly opened her eyes, and—though numb of mind—was astonished to find that she was being carried by Gawyn Trakand. His forehead was smeared with crusty dried blood, but his face was determined. “I’ve got you, Egwene,” he said, glancing down. “I’ll protect you.”
Oh, she thought, closing her eyes again. Good. Such a pleasant dream. She smiled.
Wait. No. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t supposed to be leaving the Tower. She tried to voice complaint, but she could barely mumble.
“Fish guts,” she heard Siuan Sanche say. “What did they do to her?”
“Is she wounded?” another voice. Gareth Bryne.
No, Egwene thought numbly. No, you have to let me go. I can’t leave. Not now. . . .
“They just left her there, Siuan,” Gawyn said. His voice was so nice to hear. “Defenseless in the hallway! Anyone could have come upon her like that. What if the Seanchan had discovered her?”
I destroyed them, she thought with a smile, thoughts slipping away from her. I was a burning warrior, a hero called by the Horn. They won’t dare face me again. She almost fell asleep, but being jostled by Gawyn’s steps kept her awake. Barely.
“Ho!” She distantly heard Siuan’s voice. “What’s this? Light, Egwene! Where did you get this? This is the most powerful one in the Tower!”
“What is it, Siuan?” Bryne’s voice asked.
“Our way out,” Siuan said distantly. Egwene sensed something. Channeling. Powerful channeling. “You asked about sneaking back out with all the activity in the courtyard? Well, with this, I’m strong enough for Traveling. Let’s go collect those soldiers with the boats and hop back to camp.”
No! Egwene thought, clawing through her drowsiness, forcing her eyes open. I’m winning, don’t you see? If I offer leadership now, when the rubble is being cleared, they’ll see me as Amyrlin for certain! I have to stay! I have to—
Gawyn carried her through the gateway, leaving the hallways of the White Tower behind.
Saerin finally let herself sit. The gathering room that was her center of operations had also become a room for separating and Healing the wounded. Yellow and Brown sisters moved down the lines of soldiers, servants, and other sisters, focusing on the worst cases first. There were a frightful number of dead, including over twenty Aes Sedai so far. But the Seanchan had withdrawn, as Saerin had predicted. Thank the light for that.
Saerin herself sat at the far northwestern corner of the room, beneath a fine painting of Tear in spring, perched on a short stool and accepting reports as they came. The wounded groaned and the room smelled of blood and of healall, which was used on those whose wounds didn’t demand immediate Healing. The room also smelled of smoke. That was ever-present tonight. More and more soldiers approached her, handing in reports of damage and casualties. Saerin didn’t want to read further, but it was better than listening to those groans. Where under the Light was Elaida?
Nobody had seen anything of the Amyrlin during the battle, but much of the upper Tower had been cut off from the lower portions. Hopefully, the Amyrlin and the Hall could be gathered soon to present a strong leadership in the crisis.
Saerin accepted another report, then raised her eyebrows at what it said. Only three novices in Egwene’s group of over sixty had died? And only one sister out of some forty she had gathered? Ten Seanchan channelers captured, over thirty raken blown from the air? Light! That made Saerin’s own efforts seem downright amateur by comparison. And this was the woman Elaida kept trying to insist was simply a novice?
“Saerin Sedai?” a man’s voice asked.
“Hmm?” she asked, distracted.
“You should hear what this Accepted has to say.”
Saerin looked up, realizing that the voice belonged to Captain Chubain. He had his hand on the shoulder of a young Arafellin Accepted with blue eyes and a plump round face. What was her name? Mair, that was it. The poor child looked ragged. Her face sported a number of cuts and some scrapes that would likely bruise. Her Accepted dress was ripped on the sleeve and shoulder.
“Child?” Saerin asked, glancing at Chubain’s worried face. What was wrong?
“Saerin Sedai,” the girl whispered, curtsying, then wincing at the action. “I. . . .”
“Spit it out, child,” Saerin demanded. “This isn’t a night for dawdling.”
Mair looked down. “It’s the Amyrlin, Saerin Sedai. Elaida Sedai. I was attending her tonight, taking transcriptions for her. And. . . .”
“And what?” Saerin said, feeling a growing chill.
The girl started crying. “The entire wall burst in, Saerin Sedai. The rubble covered me; I think they thought I was dead. I couldn’t do anything! I’m sorry!”
Light intercede! Saerin thought. She can’t be saying what I think she is. Can she?
Elaida awoke to a very odd sensation. Why was her bed moving? Rippling, undulating. So rhythmic. And that wind! Had Carlya left the window open? If so, the maid would be beaten. She’d been warned. She’d been—
This was not her bed. Elaida opened her eyes and found herself looking down at a dark landscape hundreds of feet below. She was tied to the back of some strange beast. She couldn’t move. Why couldn’t she move? She reached for the Source, then felt a sudden, sharp pain, as though she had suddenly been beaten on every inch of her body with a thousand rods.
She reached up, dazed, feeling the collar at her throat. There was a dark figure riding in the saddle next to her; no lanterns lit the woman’s face, but Elaida could feel her somehow. Elaida could just barely remember spending time dangling in the air, tied to a rope, as she fell in and out of consciousness. When had she been pulled up? What was happening?
A voice whispered from the night. “I shall forgive that little mistake. You have been marath’damane for very long, and bad habits are to be expected. But you will not reach for the Source again without permission. Do you understand?”
“Release me!” Elaida bellowed.
The pain returned tenfold, and Elaida retched at the intensity of it. Her bile and sick-up fell over the side of the beast and dropped far to the ground below.
“Now, now,” the voice said, patient, like a woman speaking to a very young child. “You must learn. Your name is Suffa. And Suffa will be a good damane. Yes she will. A very, very good damane.”
Elaida screamed again, and this time, she didn’t stop when the pain came. She just kept screaming out into the uncaring night.
CHAPTER 42
Before the Stone of Tear
We don’t know the names of the women who were in Graendal’s palace, Lews Therin said. We can’t add them to the list.
Rand tried to ignore the madman. That proved impossible. Lews Therin continued.
How can we continue the list if we don’t know the names! In war, we sought out the Maidens who had fallen. We found every one! The list is flawed! I can’t continue!
It’s not your list! Rand growled. It’s mine, Lews Therin. MINE!
No! the madman sputtered. Who are you? It’s mine! I made it. I can’t continue now that they’re dead. Oh, Light! Balefire? Why did we use balefire! I promised that I would never do that again. . . .
Rand squeezed his eyes shut, holding tightly to Tai’daishar’s reins. The warhorse picked his way down the street; the hooves hit packed earth, one after another.
What have we become? Lews Therin whispered. We’re going to do it again, aren’t we? Kill them all. Everyone we’ve loved. Again, again, again. . . .
“Again and again,” Rand whispered. “It doesn’t matter, as long as the world survives. They cursed me before, swore at Dragonmount and by my name, but they lived. We’re here, ready to fight. Again and again.”
“Rand?” Min asked.
He opened his eyes. She rode her dun mare next to Tai’daishar. He couldn’t let her, or any of them, see him slipping. They mustn’t know how close he was to collapsing.
So many names we don’t know, Lews Therin whispered. So many dead by our hand.
And it was just the beginning.
“I am well, Min,” he said. “I was thinking.”
“About the people?” Min asked. The wooden walks of Bandar Eban were filled with people. Rand no longer saw the colors of their clothing; he saw how worn that clothing was. He saw the rips in the magnificent fabric, the threadbare patches, the dirt and the stains. Virtually everyone in Bandar Eban was a refugee of one sort or another. They watched him with haunted eyes.
Each time he’d conquered a kingdom before, he’d left it better than when he’d arrived. Rand had removed Forsaken tyrants, brought an end to warfare and sieges. He’d cast out Shaido invaders, he’d delivered food, he’d created stability. Each land he’d destroyed had, essentially, been saved at the same time.
Arad Doman was different. He’d brought in food—but that food had drawn even more refugees, straining his supplies. Not only had he failed to give them peace with the Seanchan, he had appropriated their only troops and sent them up to watch the Borderlands. The seas were still unsafe. The tiny Seanchan empress hadn’t trusted him. She would continue her attacks, perhaps double them.
The Domani would be trampled beneath the hooves of war, crushed between the invading Trollocs to the north and the Seanchan to the south. And Rand was leaving them.
Somehow, the people realized that, and it was very hard for Rand to look at them. Their hungry eyes accused him: Why bring hope, then let it dry up, like a newly dug well during a drought? Why force us to accept you as our ruler, only to abandon us?
Flinn and Naeff had ridden before him; he could see their black coats ahead as they sat their horses watching Rand’s procession approach the city square. The pins sparkled on their high collars. The fountain in the square still flowed among gleaming copper horses leaping from copper waves. Which of those silent Domani continued to shine the fountain, when no king ruled and half the merchant council was lost?
r /> Rand’s Aiel hadn’t been able to track down enough of the council to form a majority; he suspected that Graendal had killed or captured enough of them to keep a new king from ever being chosen. If any of the merchant council members had been pretty enough, they’d have joined the ranks of her pets—which meant that Rand had killed them.
Ah, Lews Therin said. Names I can add to the list. Yes. . . .
Bashere rode up beside Rand, knuckling his mustaches, looking thoughtful. “Your will is done,” he said.
“Lady Chadmar?” Rand asked.
“Returned to her mansion,” Bashere said. “We’ve done the same with the other four members of the merchant council the Aiel were holding near the city.”
“They understand what they are to do?”
“Yes,” Bashere said, sighing. “But I don’t think they’ll do it. If you ask me, the moment we’re gone they’ll bolt from the city like thieves fleeing a prison once the guards leave.”
Rand gave no reaction. He’d ordered the merchant council to choose new members, then pick a king. But Bashere was probably right. Already, Rand had reports from the other cities along the coast, where he’d told his Aiel to withdraw. The city leaders were vanishing, running before the presumed Seanchan assault.
Arad Doman, as a kingdom, was finished. Like a table laden with too much weight, it would soon collapse. It is not my problem, Rand thought, not looking at the people. I did everything I could.
That wasn’t true. Though he’d wanted to help the Domani, his real reasons for coming had been to deal with the Seanchan, to find out what had happened to the king, and to track down Graendal. Not to mention to secure what he could of the Borderlands.
“What news from Ituralde?” Rand asked.
“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Bashere said grimly. “He’s had skirmishes with Trollocs, but you knew that already. The Shadowspawn always withdraw quickly, but he warns that something is gathering. His scouts catch glimpses of forces large enough to overrun him. If the Trollocs are gathering there, then they’re likely gathering elsewhere as well. Particularly the Gap.”