Towers of Midnight

  Birgitte stood in the doorway, Mat in the room beyond. He'd stepped out for Melfane's inspection, but otherwise he'd hovered near her almost as protectively as Birgitte. You'd never know they cared for her by the way they spoke, however the two of them had been sharing curses, each trying to top the other. Elayne had learned a few new ones. Who knew that hundred-legs did those things?

  Her babes were safe, so far as Melfane could tell. That was the important part. "Bed rest is, of course, impossible," Elayne said. "I have far too much to do."

  "Well, it will have to be done from bed," Melfane replied, her voice pleasant but completely unyielding. "Your body and your child have undergone a great stress. They need time to recover. I will be attending you and making certain you maintain a strict diet."

  "But- "

  "I won't hear any excuses," Melfane interrupted.

  "I’m the Queen,” Elayne said, exasperated.

  "And I'm the Queen's midwife," Melfane replied, still calm. "There isn't a soldier or attendant in this palace who won't help me, if I determine that your health and that of your child is at risk." She met Elayne's eyes. "Would you like to put my words to the test, Your Majesty?"

  Elayne cringed, imagining her own Guards forbidding her exit to her chambers. Or, worse, tying her down. She glanced at Birgitte, but received only a satisfied nod. "It's no more than you deserve," that nod seemed to say.

  Elayne sat back in her bed, frustrated. It was a massive four-poster, decorated in red and white. The room was ornate, sparkling with various creations of crystal and ruby. It would make a beautifully gilded prison indeed. Light! This wasn't fair! She did up the front of her gown.

  "I see that you're not going to try my word," Melfane said, standing up from the side of the bed. "You show wisdom." She glanced at Birgitte. "I will allow you a meeting with the Captain-General to assess the evening's events. But no more than a half-hour, mind you. I won't have you exerting yourself!"

  "But "

  Melfane wagged that finger at her again. "A half-hour, Your Majesty. You are a woman, not a plow beast. You need rest and care." She turned to Birgitte. "Do not upset her unduly."

  "I wouldn't dream of it," Birgitte said. Her anger was finally beginning to abate, replaced by amusement. Insufferable woman.

  Melfane withdrew to the outer chamber. Birgitte remained where she was, regarding Elayne through narrow eyes. Some displeasure still boiled and churned from the bond. The two regarded one another for a long moment.

  "What are we do to with you, Elayne Trakand?" Birgitte finally asked.

  "Lock me in my bedroom, it appears," Elayne snapped.

  "Not a bad solution."

  "And would you keep me here forever?" Elayne asked. "Like Gelfina, from the stories, locked away for a thousand years in the forgotten tower?"

  Birgitte sighed. "No. But six months or so would help keep my anxiety levels down."

  "We don't have time for that," Elayne replied. "We don't have time for much, these days. Risks must be taken."

  "Risks involving the Queen of Andor going alone to face a mob of the Black Ajah? You're like some blood-besotted idiot on the battlefield, charging ahead of his comrades, seeking death without a shield-mate to guard your back!"

  Elayne blinked at the anger in the woman.

  "Don't you trust me, Elayne?" Birgitte asked. "Would you be rid of me, if you could?"

  "What? No! Of course I trust you."

  "Then why won't you let me help you? I'm not supposed to be here, now. I have no purpose other than what circumstance has given me. You made me your Warder, but you won't let me protect you! How can I be your bodyguard if you won't tell me when you're putting yourself in danger?"

  Elayne felt like pulling the covers up to shield herself from those eyes. How could Birgitte be the one who felt so hurt? Elayne had been the one who'd been wounded! "If it means anything," she said, "I don't intend to do this again."

  "No. You'll do something else reckless."

  "I mean, I intend to be more careful. Maybe you're right, and the viewing isn't a perfect guarantee. It certainly' didn't stop me from panicking when I felt a real danger."

  "You didn't feel a real danger when the Black Ajah locked you up and tried to cart you away?"

  Elayne hesitated. She should have been frightened that time, but she hadn't been. Not only because of Min's viewing. The Black Ajah would never have killed her, not under those circumstances. She was too valuable.

  Feeling that knife enter her side, pierce her skin, dig toward her womb . . . that had been different. The terror. She could remember the world blackening around her, her heartbeat thudding, growing louder, like the drumbeats at the end of a performance. The ones that came before the silence.

  Birgitte regarded Elayne appraisingly. She could feel Elayne's emotions. She was Queen. She could not avoid risks. But . . . perhaps she could rein herself in.

  "Well," Birgitte said, "did you at least discover anything?"

  "I did," Elayne said. "I- "

  At that moment, a scarf-wrapped head appeared in the doorway. Mat had his eyes closed. "You covered up?"

  "Yes," Elayne said. "And in a far more fashionable way than you, Matrim Cauthon. That scarf looks ridiculous."

  He scowled, opening his eyes and pulling off the scarf, revealing the

  angular face beneath. "You try moving through the city without being recognized," he said. "Every butcher, innkeeper and bloody backroom slipfinger seems to know what I look like these days."

  "The Black sisters were planning to have you assassinated," Elayne said.

  "What?" Mat asked.

  Elayne nodded. "One mentioned you. It sounded like Darkfriends had been searching for you for some time, with the intent of killing you."

  Birgitte shrugged. "They're Darkfriends. No doubt they want us all dead."

  "This was different," Elayne said. "It seemed more . . . intense. I suggest keeping your wits about you the next while."

  "That'll be a trick," Birgitte noted. "Seeing as to how he doesn't have any wits in the first place."

  Mat rolled his eyes. "Did I miss you explaining what you were doing in the flaming dungeons, sitting in a pool of your own blood, looking for all the world like you'd seen the losing end of a battlefield skirmish?"

  "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, tited. "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 we 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 Torku-men, 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 Dark-friend ?"

  "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 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 Maiden. 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."

  "Then it's a welcome opportunity to defeat them."

  Perrin grunted a reply, and didn't explain the depth of frustration he felt. He would lose that fight against the Whitecloaks, no matter what happened. Men would die on both sides. Men they needed.

  The lightning flashed outside, casting shadows on the canvas ceiling. Faile went over to their trunk, getting out a sleeping shift for herself and setting aside a robe for him. Faile thought a lord should have a robe handy in case he was needed at night. She'd been correct a couple of times so far.

  She moved past him, smelling worried, though her expression was pleasant. He had expended all options for a peaceful resolution with the Whitecloaks. It looked like, want it or not, killing would be his lot again very soon.

  He stripped to his smallclothes and lay down, then started drifting off before Faile had finished changing.

  He entered the wolf dream beneath the great sword impaling the ground. In the distance, he could make out the hill that Gaul had named a "fine watchpoint." The campsite was supplied from behind by a stream.