Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 07 - A Crown of Swords

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To Harriet,

who deserves the credit once again

There can be no health in us, nor any good thing grow, for the land is one with the Dragon Reborn, and he one with the

land. Soul of fire, heart of stone, in pride he conquers, forcing the proud to yield. He calls upon the mountains to kneel,

and the seas to give way, and the very skies to bow. Pray that the heart of stone remembers tears, and the soul of fire,

love. .

— From a much-disputed translation of The Prophecies of the Dragon by the poet Kyera Termendal, of Shiota,

believed to have been published between FY 700 and FY 800

Prologue Lightnings

From the tall arched window, close onto eighty spans above the ground, not far below the top of the White Tower,

Elaida could see for miles beyond Tar Valon, to the rolling plains and forests that bordered the broad River Erinin,

running down from north and west before it divided around the white walls of the great island city. On the ground, long

morning shadows must have been dappling the city, but from this prominence all seemed clear and bright. Not even the

fabled "topless towers" of Cairhien had truly rivaled the White Tower. Certainly none of Tar Valon's lesser towers did,

for all that men spoke far." and wide of them and their vaulting sky-bridges.

This high, an almost constant breeze lessened the unnatural heat gripping the world. The Feast of Lights past, snow

should have covered the ground deep, yet the weather belonged in the depths of a hard summer. Another sign that the

Last Battle approached and the Dark One touched the world, if more were needed. Elaida did not let the heat touch her

even when she descended, of course. The breeze was not why she had had her quarters moved up here, despite the

inconvenience of so many stairs, to these simple rooms.

Plain russet floor tiles and white marble walls decorated by a few tapestries could not compare with the grandeur of the

Amyrlin's study and the rooms that went with it far below. She still used those rooms occasionally— they held

associations with the power of the Amyrlin Seat in some minds— but she resided here, and worked here more often

than not. For the view. Not of city or river or forests, though. Of what was beginning in the Tower grounds.

'Great diggings and foundations spread across what had been the Warders' practice yard, tall wooden cranes and stacks

of cut marble and granite. Masons and laborers swarmed over the workings like ants, and endless streams of wagons

trailed through the gates onto the Tower grounds, bringing more stone. To one side stood a wooden "working model,"

as the masons called it, big enough for men to enter crouching on their heels and see every detail, where every stone

should go. Most of the workmen could not read, after all— neither words nor mason's drawn plans. The "working

model" was as large as some manor houses.

When any king or queen had a palace, why should the Amyrlin Seat be relegated to apartments little better than those

of many ordinary sisters? Her palace would match the White Tower for splendor, and have a .great spire ten spans

higher than the Tower itself. The blood had drained from the chief mason's face when he heard that. The Tower had

been Ogier-built, with assistance from sisters using the Power. One look at Elaida's face, however, set Master Ler-man

bowing and stammering that of course all would be done as she wished. As if there had been any question.

Her mouth tightened with exasperation. She had wanted Ogier masons again, but the Ogier were confining themselves

to their sledding for some reason. Her summons to the nearest, Sledding Jentoine, in the Black Hills, had been met with

refusal. Polite, yet still refusal, without explanation, even to the Amyrlin Seat. Ogier were reclusive at best. Or they

might be withdrawing from a world full of turmoil; Ogier stayed clear of human strife.

Firmly Elaida dismissed the Ogier from her mind. She prided herself on separating what could be from what could not.

Ogier were a triviality. They had no part in the world beyond the cities they had built so long ago and seldom visited

now except to make repairs.

The men below, crawling beetle-like over the building site, made her frown slightly. Construction went forward by

inches. Ogier might be out of the question, yet perhaps the One Power could be used again. Few sisters possessed real

strength in. weaving Earth, but not that much was required to reinforce stone, or bind stone to stone. Yes. In her mind,

the palace stood finished, colonnaded walks and great domes shining with gilt and that one spire reaching to the

heavens.... Her eyes rose to the cloudless sky, to where the spire would peak, and she let out a long sigh. Yes. The

orders would be issued today.

The towering case clock in the room behind her chimed Third Rise, and in the city gongs and bells pealed the hour, the

sound faint here, so high above. With a smile, Elaida left the window, smoothing her red-slashed dress of cream silk

and adjusting the broad, striped stole of the Amyrlin Seat on her shoulders.

On the ornately gilded clock, small figures of gold and silver and enamel moved with the chimes. Horned and snouted

Trollocs fled from a cloaked Aes Sedai on one level; on another a man representing a false Dragon tried to fend off

silver lightning bolts that had obviously been hurled by a second sister. And above the clockface, itself above her head,

a crowned king and queen knelt before an Amyrlin Seat in her enameled stole, with the Flame of Tar Valon, carved

from a large moonstone, atop a golden arch over her head.

She did not laugh often, but she could not help a quietly pleased chuckle at the clock. Cemaile Sorenthaine, raised from

the Gray, had commissioned it dreaming of a return to the days before the Trolloc Wars, when no ruler held a throne

without the Tower's approval. Cemaile's grand plans came to naught, however, as did Cemaile, and for three centuries

the clock sat in a dusty storage room, an embarrassment no one dared display. Until Elaida. The Wheel of Time turned.

What was once, could be again. Would be again.

The case clock balanced the door to her sitting room, and her bedchamber and dressing room beyond. Fine tapestries,

colorful work from Tear and Kandor and Arad Do-man, with thread-of-gold and thread-of-silver glittering among the

merely dyed, hung each exactly opposite its mate. She had always liked order. The carpet covering most of the tiles

came from Tarabon, patterned in red and green and gold; silk carpets were the most precious. In each corner of the

room a marble plinth carved in unpretentious verticals held a white vase of fragile Sea Folk porcelain with two dozen

carefully arranged red roses. To make roses bloom now required the One Power, especially with the drought and heat;

a worthwhile use, in her opinion. Gilded carving covered both the only chair— no one sat in her presence now— and

the writing table, but in the stark style of Cairhien. A simple room, really, with a ceiling barely two spans high, yet it

would do until her palace was ready. With the view, it would.

The tall chairback held the Flame of Tar Valon picked out in moonstones above her dark head as she sat. Nothing

marred the polished surface of the table except for three boxes of Altaran lacquerwork, arranged just so. Opening the

box covered with golden hawks among white clouds, she removed a slim strip of thin paper from atop the pile of

reports and correspondence inside.

For what must have been the hundredth tune, she read the .message come from Cairhien by pigeon twelve days ago.

Few in the Tower knew of its existence. None but she knew its contents, or would have a glimmer of what it meant if

they did. The thought almost made her laugh again.

The ring has been placed in the bull's nose. I expect a pleasant journey to market.

No signature, yet she needed none. Only Galina Casban had known to send that glorious message. Galina, whom

Elaida trusted to do what she would have trusted to no one else save herself; Not that she trusted anyone fully, but the

head of the Red Ajah more than any other. She herself had been raised from the Red, after all, and in many ways still

thought of herself as Red.

The ring has been placed in the bull's nose.

Rand al'Thor— the Dragon Reborn, the man who had seemed on the point of swallowing the world, the man who had

swallowed entirely too much of it— Rand al'Thor was shielded and in Galina's control. And none who might support

him knew. Even a chance of that, and the wording would have been different. By various earlier messages, it seemed

he had rediscovered how to Travel, a Talent lost to Aes Sedai since the Breaking, yet that had not saved him. It had

even played into Galina's hands. Apparently he had a habit of coming and going without warning. Who would suspect

that this time he had not gone, but been taken? Something very like a giggle rose in her.

Inside another week, two at most, al'Thor would be in the Tower, closely supervised and guided safely until Tar-mon

Gai'don, his ravaging of the world stopped. It was madness to allow any man who could channel to run free, but most

of all the man prophecy said must face the Dark One in the Last Battle, the Light send that it lay years off yet in spite

of the weather. Years would be needed to arrange the world properly, beginning with undoing what al'Thor had done.

Of course, the damage he had wrought was nothing beside what he could have caused, free. Not to mention the

possibility that he might have gotten himself killed before he was needed. Well, that troublesome young man would be

wrapped in swaddling and kept safe as an infant in his mother's arms until time to take him to Shayol Ghul. After that,

if he survived....

Elaida's lips pursed. The Prophecies of the Dragon seemed to say he would not, which undeniably would be for the

best.

"Mother?" Elaida almost gave a start as Alviarin spoke. Entering without so much as a knock! "I have word from the

Ajahs, Mother." Slim and cool-faced, Alviarin wore the Keeper's narrow stole in white, matching her dress, to show

she had been raised from the White, but in her mouth “Mother'' became less a title of respect and more an address to an

equal.

Alviarin's presence was enough to dent Elaida's good mood. That the Keeper of Chronicles came from the White, not

the Red, always served as a biting reminder of her weakness when she was first raised. Some of that had been

dispelled, true, but not all. Not yet. She was tired of regretting that she had so few personal eyes-and-ears outside

Andor. And that her predecessor and Alviarin's had escaped— been helped to escape; they must have had help!—

escaped before the keys to the Amyrlin's great network could be wrested out of them.

She more than wanted the network that was hers by right. By strong tradition the Ajahs sent to the Keeper whatever

dribbles from their own eyes-and-ears they were willing to share with the Amyrlin, but Elaida was convinced the

woman kept back some of even that trickle. Yet she could not ask the Ajahs for information directly. Bad enough to be

weak without going begging to the world. The Tower, anyway, which was as much of the world as really counted.

Elaida kept her own face every bit as cool as the other woman's, acknowledging her only with a nod while she

pretended to examine papers from the lacquered box. Slowly she turned them over one by one, returned them to the

box slowly. Without really seeing a word. Making Alviarin wait was bitter, because it was petty, and petty ways were

all she had to strike at one who should have been her servant.

An Amyrlin could issue any decree she wished, her word law and absolute. Yet as a practical matter, without support

from the Hall of the Tower, many of those decrees were wasted ink and paper. No sister would disobey an Amyrlin, not

directly at least, yet many decrees required a hundred other things ordered to implement them. In the best of times that

could come slowly, on occasion so slowly it never happened, and these were far from the best.

Alviarin stood there, calm as a frozen pond. Closing the Altaran box, Elaida kept out the strip of paper that announced

her sure victory. Unconsciously she fingered it, a talisman. "Has Teslyn or Mine finally deigned to send more than

word of their safe arrival?"

That was meant to remind Alviarin that no one could consider herself immune. Nobody cared what happened in Ebou

Dar, Elaida least of all; the capital of Altara could fall into the sea, and except for the merchants, not even the rest of

Altara would notice. But Teslyn had sat in the Hall nearly fifteen years before Elaida had commanded her to resign her

chair. If Elaida could send a Sitter— a Red Sitter— who had supported her rise off as ambassador to a flyspeck throne

with no one sure why but a hundred rumors flowering, then she could come down on anyone. Joline was a different

matter. She had held her chair for the Green only a matter of weeks, and everyone was sure the Greens had selected her

to show they would not be cowed by the new Amyrlin, who had handed her a fearsome penance. That bit of insolence

could not be allowed to pass, of 'course, and had not been. Everyone knew that, too.

It was meant to remind Alviarin that she was vulnerable, but the slim woman merely smiled her cool smile. So long as

the Hall remained as it was, she was immune. She riffled through the papers in her hand, plucking one out. "No word

from Teslyn or Joline, Mother, no, though with the news you have received so far from the thrones...." That smile

deepened into something dangerously close to amusement. "They all mean to try their wings, to see if you are as strong

as... as your predecessor." Even Alviarin had enough sense not to speak the Sanche woman's name in her presence. It

was true, though; every king and queen, even mere nobles, seemed to be testing the limits of her power. She must make

examples.

Glancing at the paper, Alviarin went on. "There is word from Ebou Dar, however. Through the Gray." Had she

emphasized that, to drive the splinter deeper? "It appears Elayne Trakand and Nynaeve al'Meara are there. Posing as

full sisters, with the blessings of the rebel... embassy ... to Queen Tylin. There are two others, not identified, who may

be doing the same. The lists of who is with the rebels are incomplete. Or they may just be companions. The Grays are

uncertain."

"Why under the Light would they be in Ebou Dar?" Elaida said dismissively. Certainly Teslyn would have sent news of

that. "The Gray must be passing along rumors, now. Tarna's message said they are with the rebels in Salidar." Tarna

Feir had reported Siuan Sanche there, too. And Logain Ablar, spreading those vicious lies no Red sister could lower

herself to acknowledge, much less deny. The Sanche woman had a hand in that obscenity, or the sun would rise in the

west tomorrow. Why could she not simply have crawled away and died, decently out of sight, like other stilled women?

It required effort not to draw a deep breath. Logain could be hanged quietly as soon as the rebels were dealt with; most

of the world thought him dead long since. The filthy slander that the Red Ajah had set him up as a false Dragon would

die with him. When the rebels were dealt with, the Sanche woman could be made to hand over the keys' to the

Amyrlin's eyes-and-ears. And name the traitors who had helped her escape, A foolish hope to wish that Alviarin would

be named among them. "I can hardly see the al'Meara girl running to Ebou Dar claiming to be Aes Sedai, much less

Elayne, can you?"

"You did order Elayne found, Mother. As important as putting a leash on al'Thor, you said. When she was among three

hundred rebels in Salidar, it was impossible to do anything, but she will not be so well protected in the Tarasin Palace."

"I have no time for gossip and rumors." Elaida bit off each word with contempt. Did Alviarin know more than she

should, mentioning al'Thor, and leashing? "I suggest you read Tarna's report again, then ask yourself whether even

rebels would allow Accepted to pretend to the shawl."

Alviarin waited with visible patience for her to finish, then examined her sheaf again and pulled out four more sheets.

"The Gray agent sent sketches," she said blandly, proffering the pages. "He is no artist, but Elayne and Nynaeve are

recognizable." After a moment, when Elaida did not take the drawings, she slipped them under the rest.

Elaida felt the color of anger and embarrassment rising in her cheeks. Alviarin had led her down this path deliberately

by not bringing out those sketches at the first. She ignored that— anything else would only be more embarrassing

still— but her voice became cold. "I want them taken, and brought to me."

The lack of curiosity on Alviarin's face made Elaida wonder again how much the woman knew that she was not

supposed to. The al'Meara girl might well provide a handle on al'Thor, coming from the same village. All the sisters

knew that, just as they knew that Elayne was Daughter-Heir of Andor, and that her mother was dead. Vague rumors

linking Morgase to the Whitecloaks were so much nonsense, for she would never have gone to the Children of the

Light for help. She was dead, leaving not even a corpse behind, and Elayne would be Queen. If she could be wrested

away from the rebels before the Andoran Houses put Dyelin on the Lion Throne instead. It was not widely known what

made Elayne more important than any other noble with a strong claim to a throne. Aside from the fact that she would

be Aes Sedai one day, of course.

Elaida had the Foretelling sometimes, a Talent many thought lost before her, and long ago she had Foretold that the

Royal House of Andor held the key to winning the Last Battle. Twenty-five years gone and more, as soon as it became

clear that Morgase Trakand would gain the throne in the Succession, Elaida had fastened herself to the girl, as she was

then. How Elayne was crucial, Elaida did not know, but Foretelling never lied. Sometimes she almost hated the Talent.

She hated things* she could not control.

"I want all four of them, Alviarin." The other two were unimportant, certainly, but she would take no chances. "Send

my command to Teslyn immediately. Tell her— and Joline— that if they fail to send regular reports from now on, they

will wish they had never been born. Include the information from the Macura woman." Her mouth twisted around that

last.

The name made Alviarin shift uneasily, too, and no wonder. Ronde Macura's nasty little infusion was something to

make any sister uncomfortable. Forkroot was not lethal— at least you woke, if you drank enough to sleep— but a tea

that deadened a woman's ability to channel seemed aimed too directly at Aes Sedai. A pity the information had not

been received before Galina went; if fork-root worked on men as well as it seemed to on women, it would have made

her task considerably easier.

Alviarin's ill ease lasted only a moment; a* mere instant and she was all self-possession again, unyielding as a wall of

ice. "As you wish, Mother. I am sure they will leap to obey, as of course they should."

A sudden flash of irritation swept Elaida like fire in dry pasture. The fate of the world in her hands, and petty stumbling

blocks kept rising beneath her feet. Bad enough that she had rebels and recalcitrant rulers to handle, but too many

Sitters still brooded and grumbled behind her back, fertile ground for the other woman to plow. Only six were firmly

under her own thumb, and she suspected as many at least listened closely to Alviarin before they voted. Certainly

nothing of importance passed through the Hall unless Alviarin agreed to it. Not open agreement, not with any

acknowledgment that Alviarin bore a shred more influence or power than a Keeper should, but if Alviarin opposed....

At least they had not gone so far as to reject anything Elaida sent them. They simply dragged their feet and too often let

what she wanted starve on the floor. A pitifully small thing for which to be happy. Some Amyrlins had become little

more than puppets once the Hall acquired a taste for rejecting what they put forward.

Her hands clenched, and a tiny crackle came from the strip of paper.

The ring has been placed in the bull's nose.

Alviarin looked as composed as a marble statue, but Elaida no longer cared. The shepherd was on his way to her. The

rebels would be crushed and the Hall cowed, Alviarin forced to her knees and every fractious ruler brought to heel,

from Tenobia of Saldaea, who had gone into hiding to avoid her emissary, to Mattin Stepaneos of Illian, who was

trying to play all sides at once again, trying to agree with her and the Whitecloaks, and with al’Thor for all she knew.

Elayne would be placed on the throne in Caemlyn, without her brother to get in the way and with a full knowledge of

who had set her there. A little time back in the Tower would make the girl damp clay in Elaida's hands.

"I want those men rooted out, Alviarin." There was no need to say who she meant; half the Tower could talk of nothing

but those men in their Black Tower, and the other half whispered about them in corners.

"There are disturbing reports, Mother." Alviarin looked through her papers once more, but Elaida thought it was only

for something to do. She did not pluck out any more pages, and if nothing else disturbed the woman for long, this

unholy midden outside Caemlyn must.

"More rumors? Do you believe the tales of thousands flocking to Caemlyn in answer to that obscene amnesty?'' Not the

least of what al'Thor had done, but hardly cause for worry. Just a pile of filth that must be safely cleared before Elayne

was crowned in Caemlyn.

"Of course not, Mother, but— "

"Toveine is to lead; this task belongs properly to the Red." Toveine Gazal had been fifteen years away from the Tower,

until Elaida summoned her back. The other two Red Sitters who had resigned and gone into a "voluntary" retreat at the

same time were nervous-eyed women now, but unlike Lirene and Tsutama, Toveine had only hardened in her solitary

exile. "She is" to have fifty sisters." There could not be more than two or three men at this Black Tower actually able to

channel, Elaida was certain. Fifty sisters could overwhelm them easily. Yet there might be others to deal with.

Hangers-on, camp followers, fools full of futile hopes and insane ambitions. “And she is to take a hundred— no, two

hundred— of the Guard."

"Are you certain that is wise? The rumors of thousands are certainly madness, but a Green agent in Caemlyn claims

there are over four hundred in this Black Tower, A clever fellow. It seems he counted the supply carts that go out from

the city. And you are aware of the rumors Mazrim Taim is with them."

Elaida fought to keep her features smooth, and barely succeeded. She had forbidden mention of Taim's name, and it

was bitter that she did not dare— did not dare!— impose the penalty on Alviarin. The woman looked her straight in the

eyes; the absence of so much as a perfunctory "Mother" this time was marked. And the temerity of asking whether her

actions were wise! She was the Amyrlin Seat! Not first among equals; the Amyrlin Seat!

Opening the largest of the lacquered boxes revealed carved ivory miniatures laid out on gray velvet. Often just

handling her collection soothed her, but more, like the knitting she enjoyed, it let whoever was attending her know their

place, if she seemed to give more attention to the miniatures than to what they had to say. Fingering first an exquisite

cat, sleek and flowing, then an elaborately robed woman with a peculiar little animal, some fantasy of the carver,

almost like a man covered in hair, crouched on her shoulder, at length Elaida chose out a curving fish, so delicately

carved that it seemed nearly real despite the aged yellow of the ivory.

"Four hundred rabble, Alviarin." She felt calmer already, for Alviarin's mouth had thinned. Just a fraction, but she

savored any crack in the woman's facade. "If there are that many. Only a fool could believe that more than one or two

can channel. At most! In ten years, we have found only six men with the ability. Just twenty-four in the last twenty

years. And you know how the land has been scoured. As for Taim...." The name burned her mouth; the only false

Dragon ever to escape being gentled once in the hands of Aes Sedai. Not a thing she wanted in the Chronicles under

her reign, certainly not until she decided how it should be recorded. At present the Chronicles told nothing after his

capture.

She stroked her thumb along the fish's scales. "He is dead, Alviarin, else we would have heard from him long since.

And not serving al'Thor. Can you think he went from claiming to be the Dragon Reborn to serving the Dragon Reborn?

Can you think he could be in Caemlyn without Davram Bashere at least trying to kill him?" Her thumb moved faster on

the ivory fish as she reminded herself that the Marshal-General of Saldaea was in Caemlyn taking orders from al'Thor.

What was Tenobia playing at? Elaida held it all inside, though, presenting a face as calm as one of her carvings.

"Twenty-four is a dangerous number to speak aloud," Alviarin said with an ominous quiet, “as dangerous as two

thousand. The Chronicles record only sixteen. The last thing needed now is for those years to rear up again. Or for

sisters who know only what they were told to learn the truth. Even those you brought back hold their silence."

Elaida put on a bemused look. So far as she knew, Alviarin had learned the truth of those years only on being raised

Keeper, but her own knowledge was more personal. Not that Alviarin could be aware of that. Not for certain, anyway.

"Daughter, whatever comes out, I have no fear. Who is going to impose a penance on me, and on what charge?" That

skirted truth nicely, but apparently it impressed the other woman not at all.

"The Chronicles record a number of Amyrlins who took on public penance for some usually obscure reason, but it has

always seemed to me that is how an Amyrlin might have it written if she found herself with no choice except— "

Elaida's hand slapped down on the table. "Enough, daughter! I am Tower law! What has been hidden will remain

hidden, for the same reason it has for twenty years— the good of the White Tower." Only then did she feel the bruise

beginning on her palm; she lifted her hand to reveal the fish, broken in two. How old had it been? Five hundred years?

A thousand? It was all she could do not to quiver with rage. Her voice certainly thickened with it. ' Toveine is to lead

fifty sisters and two hundred of the Tower Guards to Caemlyn, to this Black Tower, where they will gentle any man

they find able to channel and hang him, along with as many others as they can take alive." Alviarin did not even blink

at the violation of Tower law. Elaida had spoken the truth as she meant it to be; with this, with everything, she was

Tower law. "For that matter, hang up the dead as well. Let them be a warning to any man who thinks of touching the

True Source. Have Toveine attend me. I will want to hear her plan."

"It will be as you command, Mother." The woman's reply was as cool and smooth as her face. "Though if I may

suggest, you might wish to reconsider sending so many sisters away from the Tower. Apparently the rebels found your

offer wanting. They are no longer in Salidar. They are on the march. The reports come from Altara, but they must be

into Murandy by now. And they have chosen themselves an Amyrlin." She scanned the top sheet of her sheaf of papers

as if searching for the name. "Egwene al'Vere, it seems."

That Alviarin had left this, the most important piece of news, until now, should have made Elaida explode in fury.

Instead, she threw back her head and laughed. Only a firm hold on dignity kept her from drumming her heels on the

floor. The surprise on Alviarin's face made her laugh harder, till she had to wipe her eyes with her fingers.

"You do not see it," she said when she could speak between ripples of mirth. "As well you are Keeper, Alviarin, not a

Sitter. In the Hall, blind as you are, within a month the others would be holding you in a cabinet and taking you out

when they needed your vote."

"I see enough, Mother." Alviarin's voice held no heat; if anything, it should have coated the walls with frost. "I see

three hundred rebel Aes Sedai, perhaps more, marching on Tar Valon with an army led by Gareth Bryne,

acknowledged a great captain. Discounting the more ridiculous reports, that army may number over twenty thousand,

and with Bryne to lead they will gain more at every village and town they pass. I do not say they have hope of taking

the city, of course, but it is hardly a matter for laughter. High Captain Chubain should be ordered to increase recruiting

for the Tower Guard."

Elaida's gaze fell sourly on the broken fish, and she stood and stalked to the nearest window, her back to Alviarin. The

palace under construction took away the bitter taste, that and the slip of paper she still clutched.

She smiled down on her palace-to-be. "Three hundred rebels, yes, but you should read Tarna's account again. At least a

hundred ace on the point of breaking already." She trusted Tarna to some extent, a Red with no room in her head for

nonsense, and she said the rebels were ready to jump at shadows. Quietly desperate sheep looking for a shepherd, she

said. A wilder, of course, yet still sensible. Tarna should be back soon, and able to give a fuller report. Not that it was

needed. Elaida's plans were already working among the rebels. But that was her secret.

' Tarna has always been sure she could make people do what it was clear they would not." Had there been an emphasis

in that, a significance of tone? Elaida decided to ignore it. She had to ignore too much from Alviarin, but the day would

come. Soon.

"As for their army, daughter, she says two or three thousand men at most. If they had more, they would have made sure

she saw them, to overawe us." In Elaida's opinion, eyes-and-ears always exaggerated, to make their information seem

more valuable. Only sisters could be truly, trusted. Red sisters, anyway. Some of them. “But I would not care if they

did have twenty thousand, or fifty, or a hundred. Can you even begin to guess why?" When she turned, Alviarin's face

was all smooth composure, a mask over blind ignorance. "You seem to be conversant with all the aspects of Tower

law. What penalty do rebels face?"

"For the leaders," Alviarin said slowly, "stilling." She frowned slightly, skirts swaying just barely as her feet shifted.

Good. Even Accepted knew this, and she could not understand why Elaida asked. Very good. "For many of the rest,

too."

"Perhaps." The leaders might themselves escape that, most of them, if they submitted properly. The minimum penalty

in law was to be birched in the Grand Hall before the assembled sisters, followed by at least a year and a day in public

penance. Yet nothing said the penance must be served all at once; a month here, a month there, and they would still be

atoning their crimes ten years from now, constant reminders of what came of resisting her. Some would be stilled, of

course— Sheriam, a few of the more prominent so-called Sitters— but only sufficient to make the rest fear putting a

foot wrong again; not enough to weaken the Tower. The White Tower had to be whole, and it had to be strong. Strong,

and firmly in her grasp.

"Only one crime among those they have committed demands stilling." Alviarin opened her mouth. There had been

ancient rebellions, buried so deep that few among the sisters knew; the Chronicles stood mute, the lists of stilled and

executed confined to records open only to Amyrlin, Keeper and Sitters, aside from the few librarians who kept them.

Elaida allowed Alviarin no opportunity to speak. "Any woman who falsely claims the title of Amyrlin Seat must be

stilled. If they believed they had any chance of success, Sheriam would be their Amyrlin, or Lelaine, or Carlinya, or

one of the others." Tarna reported that Romanda Cassin had come out of her retirement; Romanda surely would have

seized the stole with both hands if she saw the tenth part of a chance. “Instead, they have plucked out an Accepted."

Elaida shook her head in wry amusement. She could quote every word of the law setting out how a woman, was chosen

Amyrlin— she had made good use of it herself, after all— and never once did it require that the woman be a full sister.

Obviously she must be, so those who framed the law never stated it, and the rebels had squirmed through that crack.

"They know their cause is hopeless, Alviarin. They plan to strut and bluster, try to dig out some protection against

penalty for .themselves, then yield the girl as a sacrifice." Which was a pity. The al'Vere girl was another possible

handle on al'Thor, and when she reached her full strength in the One Power, she would have been one of the strongest

in a thousand years or more. A true pity.

"Gareth Bryne and an army hardly sound like strutting to me. It will take their army five or six months to reach Tar

Valon. In that time, High Captain Chubain could increase the Guard— "

"Their army," Elaida sneered. Alviarin was such a fool; for all her cool exterior, she was a rabbit. Next she would be

spouting the Sanche woman's nonsense about the Forsaken being loose. Of course, she did not know the secret, but just

the same.... "Farmers carrying pikes, butchers with- bows and tailors on horseback! And every step of the way,

thinking of the Shining Walls, that held Artur Hawkwing at bay." No, not a rabbit. A weasel. Yet soon or late, she

would be weasel-fur trim on Elaida's cloak. The Light send it soon. “Every step of the way, they will lose a man, if not

ten. I would not be surprised if our rebels appear with nothing more than their Warders." Too many people knew of the

division in the Tower. Once the rebellion was broken, of course, it could be made to seem all a ploy, a part of gaining

control of young al'Thor perhaps. An effort of years, that, and generations before memories faded. Every last rebel

would pay for that on her knees.

Elaida clenched her fist as though she held all the rebels by .the throat. Or Alviarin. "I mean to break them, daughter.

They will split open like a rotten melon." Her secret assured that, however many farmers and tailors Lord Bryne hung

on to, but let the other woman think as she would. Suddenly the Foretelling took hold of her, a certainty about things

she could not see stronger than if they had been laid out before her. She would have been willing to step blindly over a

cliff on that certainty. “The White Tower will be whole again, except for remnants cast out and scorned, whole and

stronger than ever. Rand al'Thor will face the Amyrlin Seat and know her anger. The Black Tower will be rent in blood

and fire, and sisters will walk its grounds. This I Foretell."

As usual, the Foretelling left her trembling, gasping for breath. She forced herself to stand still and straight, to breathe

slowly; she never let anyone see weakness. But Alviarin.... Her eyes were wide as they could open, lips parted as if she

had forgotten the words she meant to speak. A paper slid from the sheaf in her hands and almost fell before she could

catch it. That recalled her to herself. In a flash she regained her serene mask, a perfect picture of Aes Sedai calm, but

she definitely had been jolted to her heels. Oh, very good. Let her chew on the certain surety of Elaida's victory. Chew

and break her teeth.

Elaida drew a deep breath and seated herself behind her writing table again, putting the broken ivory fish to one side

where she did not have to look at it. It was time to exploit her victory. "There is work to be done today, daughter. The

first message is to go to the Lady Caraline Damodred...."

Elaida spun out her plans, enlarging on what Alviarin knew, revealing some that she did not, because at the last an

Amyrlin did have to work through her Keeper, however much she hated the woman. There was a pleasure in watching

Alviarin's eyes, watching her wonder what else she still did not know. But» while Elaida ordered, divided and assigned

the world between the Aryth Ocean and the Spine of the World, in her mind frolicked the image of young al'Thor on

his way to her like a caged bear, to be taught to dance for his dinner.

The Chronicles could hardly record the years of the Last Battle without mentioning the Dragon Reborn, but she knew

that one name would be written larger than all others. Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan, youngest daughter of a minor House

in the north of Murandy, would go down in history as the greatest and most powerful Amyrlin Seat of all time. The

most powerful woman in the history of the world. The woman who saved humankind.

The Aiel standing in a deep fold in the low, brown-grass hills seemed carved figures, ignoring sheets of dust sweeping

ahead of a gusting wind. That snow should have been deep on the ground this time of year did not bother them; none

had ever seen snow, and this oven heat, with the sun still well short of its peak, was less than where they came

from..Their attention remained fixed on the southern rise, waiting for the signal that would announce the arrival of the

destiny of the Shaido Aiel.

Outwardly, Sevanna looked like the others, though a ring of Maidens marked her out, resting easily on their heels, dark

veils already hiding their faces to the eyes. She also waited, and more impatiently than she let on, but not to the

exclusion of everything else. That was one reason why she commanded and the rest followed. The second was that she

saw what could be if you refused to let outworn custom .and stale tradition tie your hands.

A slight flicker of her green eyes to the left showed twelve men and one woman, each with .round bull-hide buckler

and three or four short spears, garbed in gray-and-brown that blended as well with the terrain here as in the Three-fold

Land. Efalin, short graying hair hidden by the shoufa wrapped around her head, sometimes glanced Sevanna's way; if a

Maiden of the Spear could be said to be uneasy, Efalin was. Some Shaido Maidens had gone south, joining the fools

capering around Rand al'Thor, and Sevanna did not doubt others talked of it. Efalin must be wondering whether

providing Sevanna with an escort of Maidens, as if she had been Far Dareis Mai once herself, was enough to balance

that. At least Efalin had no doubts where true power lay.

Like Efalin, the men led Shaido warrior societies, and they eyed one another between watching the rise. Especially

blocky Maeric, who was Seia Doon, and scar-faced Bendhuin, of Far Aldazar Din. After today, no longer would

anything hold back the Shaido from sending a man to Rhuidean, to be marked as the clan chief if he survived. Until

that happened, Sevanna spoke as the clan chief since she was the widow of the last chief. Of the last two chiefs. And let

those who muttered that she carried bad luck choke on it.

Gold and ivory bracelets clattered softly as she straightened the dark shawl over her arms and adjusted her necklaces.

Most of those were gold and ivory too, but one was a mass of pearls and rubies that had belonged to a wetlander

noblewoman— the woman now wore white and hauled and fetched alongside the other gai'shain back in the mountains

called Kinslayer's Dagger— with a ruby the size of a small hen's egg nestled between her breasts. The wetlands held

rich prizes. A large emerald on her finger caught sunlight in green fire; finger rings were one wetlander custom worth

adopting, no matter the stares often aimed at hers. She would have more, if they matched this one for magnificence.

Most of the men thought Maeric or Bendhuin would be first to receive the Wise Ones' permission to try Rhuidean.

Only Efalin in that group suspected that none would, and she only suspected; she also was astute enough to voice her

suspicions circumspectly to Sevanna and not at all to anyone else. Their minds could not encompass the possibility of

shedding the old, and in truth, if Sevanna was impatient to don the new, she was also aware that she must bring them to

it slowly. Much had changed already in the old ways since the Shaido crossed the Dragonwall into the wetlands— still

wet, compared to the Three-fold Land— yet more would change. Once Rand al'Thor was in her hands, once she had

wed the Car’a’carn, the chief of chiefs of all the Aiel— this nonsense of the Dragon Reborn was wetlander

foolishness— there would be a new way of naming clan chiefs, and sept chiefs as well. Perhaps even the heads of the

warrior societies. Rand al'Thor would name them. Pointing where she told him, of course. And that would be only the

beginning. The wetlander notion of handing down rank to your children, and their children, for instance.

The wind swept higher for a moment, blowing south. It would cover the sound of the wetlanders' horses and wagons.

She shifted her shawl again, then suppressed a grimace. At all costs she must not appear nervous. A glance to the right

stilled worry as soon as begun. Over two hundred Shaido Wise Ones clustered there, and normally at least some would

be watching her like vultures, but their eyes were all on the rise. More than one adjusted her shawl uneasily or

smoothed bulky skirts. Sevanna's lip curled. Sweat beaded on some of those faces. Sweat! Where was their honor that

they showed nerves before every gaze?

Everyone stiffened slightly as a young Sovin Nai appeared above them, lowering his veil as he scrambled down. He

came straight to her, as was proper, but to her irritation he raised his voice enough for all to hear. "One of their forward

scouts escaped! He was wounded, but still on his horse."

The society leaders began to move before he finished speaking. That would never do. They would lead in the actual

fighting— Sevanna had never more than held a spear in her life— but she would not let them forget for a moment who

she was. "Throw every last spear against them," she ordered loudly, "before they can ready themselves." They rounded

on her as one.

"Every spear?" Bendhuin demanded incredulously. "You mean except for the screens— "

Glowering, Maeric spoke right on top of him. "If we keep no reserve, we can be— "

Sevanna cut them both off. "Every spear! These are Aes Sedai we dance with. We must overwhelm them

immediately!" Efalin and most of the others schooled their faces to stillness, but Bendhuin and Maeric frowned, ready

to argue. Fools. They faced a few dozen Aes Sedai, a few hundred wetlander soldiers, yet with the more than forty

thousand algai'd'siswai they had insisted on, they still wanted their screens of scouts and their spears in reserve as if

they faced other Aiel or a wetlander army. "I speak as the clan chief of the Shaido." She should not have to say that, but

a reminder could do no harm. "They are a handful." She weighted every word with contempt now. "They can be run

down if the spears move quickly. You were ready to avenge Desaine this sunrise. Do I smell fear now? Fear of a few

wetlanders? Has honor gone from the Shaido?"

That turned their faces to stone, as intended. Even Efalin showed eyes like polished gray gems as she veiled; her

fingers moved in Maiden handtalk, and as the society leaders sprinted up the rise, the Maidens around Sevanna

followed. That was not what she had intended, but at least the spears were moving. Even from the bottom of the fold

she could see what had seemed bare ground disgorging -clad figures, all hurrying south with the long strides that could

run down horses. There was no time to waste. With a thought to have words with Efalin later, Sevanna turned to the

Wise Ones.

Chosen from the strongest of the Shaido Wise Ones who could wield the One Power, they were six or seven for every

Aes Sedai around Rand al'Thor, yet Sevanna saw doubt. They tried to hide it behind stony faces, but it was there, in

shifting eyes, in tongues wetting lips. Many traditions fell today, traditions old and strong as law. Wise Ones did not

take part in battles. Wise Ones kept far from Aes Sedai. They knew the ancient tales, that the Aiel had been sent to the

Three-fold Land for failing the Aes Sedai, that they would be destroyed if ever they failed them again. They had heard

the stories, what Rand al'Thor had claimed before all, that as part of their service to the Aes Sedai, the Aiel had sworn

to do no violence.

Once Sevanna had been sure those stories were lies, but of late she believed the Wise Ones knew them for truth. None

had told her so, of course. It did not matter. She herself had never made the two journeys to Rhuidean required to

become a Wise One, but the others had accepted , her, however reluctant some had been. Now they had no choice but

to go on accepting. Useless traditions would be carved into new.

"Aes Sedai," she said softly. They leaned toward her in a muted clatter of bracelets and necklaces, to catch her low

words. "They hold Rand al'Thor, the Car’a’carn. We must take him from them." There were scattered frowns. Most

believed she wanted the Car’a’carn taken alive in order to avenge the death of Couladin, her second husband. They

understood that, but they would not have come here for it. "Aes Sedai," she hissed angrily. "We kept our pledge, but

they broke theirs. We violated nothing, but they have violated everything. You know how Desaine was murdered." And

of course they did. The eyes watching her were suddenly sharper. Killing a Wise One ranked with killing a pregnant

woman, a child or a blacksmith. Some of those eyes were very sharp. Therava's, Rhiale's, others'. "If we allow these

women to walk away from that, then we are less than animals, we will have no honor. I hold my honor."

On that she gathered her skirts with dignity and climbed the slope, head high, not looking back. She was certain the

others would follow. Therava and Norlea and Dailin would see to that, and Rhiale and Tion and Meira and the rest who

had accompanied her a few days past to see Rand al'Thor beaten and. put back into his wooden chest by the Aes Sedai.

Her reminder had been for those thirteen even more than the others, and they dared not fail her. The truth of how

Desaine had died tied them to her.

Wise Ones with their skirts looped over their arms to free their legs could not keep up with the algai'd'siswai in

however hard they ran, though race they did. Five miles across those low rolling hills, not a long run, and they topped a

crest to see the dance of spears already begun. After a fashion.

Thousands of algai'd'siswai made a huge pool of veiled gray-and-brown surging around a circle of wetlander wagons,

which itself surrounded one of the small clumps of trees that dotted this region. Sevanna drew an angry breath. The Aes

Sedai had even had time to bring all of their horses inside. The spears encircled the wagons, pressed in on them,

showered arrows toward them, but those at the front seemed to push against an invisible wall. At first the arrows that

arched highest passed over this wall, but then they too began striking something unseen and bouncing back. A low

murmur rose among the Wise Ones.

"You see what the Aes Sedai do?" Sevanna demanded, as though she also could see the One Power being woven. She

wanted to sneer; the Aes Sedai were fools, with their vaunted Three Oaths. When they finally decided they must use

the Power as a weapon instead of just to make barriers, it would be too late. Provided the Wise Ones did not stand too

long staring. Somewhere in those wagons was Rand al'Thor, perhaps still doubled into a chest like a bolt of silk.

Waiting for her to pick him up. If the Aes Sedai could hold him, then she could, with the Wise Ones. And a promise.

"Therava, take your half to the west now. Be ready to strike when I do. For Desaine, and the toh the Aes Sedai owe us.

We will make them meet toh as no one ever has before."

It was a foolish boast to speak of making someone meet an .obligation they had not acknowledged, yet in the angry

mutters from the other women, Sevanna heard other furious promises to make the Aes Sedai meet toh. Only those who

had killed Desaine on Sevanna's orders stood silent. Therava's narrow lips tightened slightly, but finally she said, "It

will be as you say, Sevanna."

At an easy lope, Sevanna led her half of the Wise Ones to the east side of the battle, if it could be called that yet. She

had wanted to remain on a rise where she could have a good view— that was how a clan chief or battle leader directed

the dance of spears— but in this one thing she found no support even from Therava and the others who shared the

secret of Desaine's death. The Wise Ones made a sharp contrast with the algai'd'siswai as she lined them up in their

white algode blouses and dark wool skirts and shawls, their glittering bracelets and necklaces and their waist-length

hair held back by dark folded scarves. For all their decision that if they were to be in the dance of the spears, they

would be in it, not on a rise apart, she did not believe they yet realized that the true battle today was theirs to fight.

After today, nothing would be the same again, and tethering Rand al'Thor was the smallest part.

Among the algai’d’siswai staring toward the wagons only height quickly told men from Maidens. Veils and shoufa hid

heads and faces, and cadin'sor was cadin'sor aside from the differences of cut that marked clan and sept and society.

Those at the outer edge of the encirclement appeared confused, grumbling among themselves as they waited for

something to happen. They had come prepared to dance with Aes Sedai lightning, and now they milled impatiently, too

far back even to use the horn bows still in leather cases on their backs. They would not have to wait much longer if

Sevanna had her way.

Hands on hips, she addressed the other Wise Ones. "Those to the south of me will disrupt what the Aes Sedai are

doing. Those to the north will attack. Forward the spears!" With the command, she turned to watch the destruction of

the Aes Sedai who thought they had only steel to face.

Nothing happened. In front of her the mass of algai’d’siswai seethed uselessly, and the loudest sound was the

occasional drumming of spears on bucklers. Sevanna gathered her anger, winding it -like thread from the spinning. She

had been so sure they were ready after Desaine's butchered corpse was displayed to them, but if they still found

attacking Aes Sedai unthinkable, she would chivvy them to it if she Had to shame them all till they demanded to put on

gai'shain white.

Suddenly a ball of pure flame the size of a man's head arched toward the wagons, sizzling and hissing, then another,

dozens. The-knot in her middle loosened. More fireballs came from the west, from Therava. and the rest. Smoke began

to rise from burning wagons, first gray wisps, then thickening black pillars; the murmurs of the algai’d’siswai changed

pitch, and if those directly in front of her moved little, there was a sudden sense of pressing forward. Shouts drifted

from the wagons, men yelling in anger, bellowing in pain. Whatever barriers the Aes Sedai had made were down. It

had begun, and there could be only one ending. Rand al'Thor would be hers; he would give her the Aiel, to take all of

the wetlands, and before he died he would give her daughters and sons to lead the Aiel after her. She might enjoy that;

he was quite pretty, really, strong and young.

She did not expect the Aes Sedai to go down easily, and they did not. Fireballs fell among the spears, turning

cadin'sor-clad figures to torches, and lightnings struck from a clear sky, hurling men and earth into the air. The Wise

Ones learned from what they saw, though, or perhaps they already knew and had hesitated before; most channeled so

seldom, especially where anyone besides Wise Ones could see, that only another Wise One knew whether any given

woman could. Whatever the reason, no sooner did lightning begin to fall among the Shaido spears than more struck

toward the wagons.

Not. all reached its target. Balls of fire streaking through the air, some large as horses now, silver lightning stabbing

toward the ground like spears from the heavens, sometimes suddenly darted aside as if striking an invisible shield, or

erupted violently in midair, or simply vanished altogether. Roars and crashes filled the air, warring with shouts and

screams. Sevanna stared at the sky in delight. It was like the Illuminators' displays she had read about.

Suddenly the world turned white in her eyes; she seemed to be floating. When she could see again, she was flat on the

ground a dozen paces from where she had stood, aching in every muscle, struggling for breath and covered with a

scattering of dirt. Her hair wanted to lift away from her. Other Wise Ones were down as well, around a ragged hole a

span across torn in the ground; thin tendrils of smoke rose from the dresses of some. Not everyone had fallen— the

battle of fire and lightning continued in the sky— but too many. She had to throw them back into the dance.

Forcing herself to breathe, she scrambled to her feet, not bothering to brush off the dirt. "Push spears!" she shouted.

Seizing Estalaine's angular shoulders, she started to drag the woman to her feet, then realized from her staring blue eyes

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