The Wheel of Time, page 1057
That was all Bryne said, but from him, it spoke volumes. Gawyn had never heard the man offer a word of discontent about his station or his orders. He had been loyal to Morgase—loyal with the kind of steadfastness a ruler could only hope for. Gawyn had never known a man more sure, or a man less likely to complain.
“It must have been part of some scheme,” Gawyn said. “You know Mother. If she hurt you, there was a reason.”
Bryne shook his head. “No reason other than foolish love for that fop Gaebril. She nearly let her clouded head ruin Andor.”
“She’d never!” Gawyn snapped. “Gareth, you of all people should know that!”
“I should,” Bryne said, lowering his voice. “And I wish I did.”
“She had another motive,” Gawyn said stubbornly. He felt the heat of anger rise within him again. Around them, peddlers glanced at the two, but said nothing. They probably knew not to approach Bryne. “But now we’ll never know it. Not now that she’s dead. Curse al’Thor! The day can’t come soon enough when I can run him through.”
Bryne looked at Gawyn sharply. “Al’Thor saved Andor, son. Or as near to it as a man could.”
“How could you say that?” Gawyn said. “How could you speak well of that monster? He killed my mother!”
“I don’t know if I believe those rumors or not,” Bryne said, rubbing his chin. “But if I do, lad, then perhaps he did Andor a favor. You don’t know how bad it got, there at the end.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Gawyn said, lowering his hand to his sword. “I won’t hear her name soiled like that, Bryne. I mean it.”
Bryne looked him directly in the eyes. His gaze was so solid. Like eyes carved of granite. “I’ll always speak truth, Gawyn. No matter who challenges me on it. It’s hard to hear? Well, it was harder to live. No good comes of spreading complaints. But her son needs to know. In the end, Gawyn, your mother turned against Andor by embracing Gaebril. She needed to be removed. If al’Thor did that for us, then we have need to thank him.”
Gawyn shook his head, rage and shock fighting one another. This was Gareth Bryne?
“These aren’t the words of a spurned lover,” Bryne said, face set, as if shoving aside emotions. He spoke softly as he and Gawyn walked, camp followers giving them a wide berth. “I can accept that a woman could lose affection for a man and bestow it on another. Yes, Morgase the woman I can forgive. But Morgase the Queen? She gave the kingdom to that snake. She sent her allies to be beaten and imprisoned. She wasn’t right in her mind. Sometimes, when a soldier’s arm festers, it needs to be cut free to save the man’s life. I’m pleased at Elayne’s success, and it is a wound to speak these words. But you have to bury that hatred of al’Thor. He wasn’t the problem. Your mother was.”
Gawyn kept his teeth clenched. Never, he thought. I will never forgive al’Thor. Not for this.
“I can see the intent behind that look,” Bryne said. “All the more reason to get you back to Andor. You’ll see. If you don’t trust me, ask your sister. See what she says of it.”
Gawyn nodded sharply. Enough of that. Ahead, he noted the place where he’d seen the woman. He glanced toward the distant lines of washwomen, then turned and strode toward them, edging between two merchants with pungent pens full of chickens, selling eggs. “This way,” he said, perhaps too sharply.
He didn’t look to see if Bryne followed. Soon the general caught up to him, looking displeased, but he kept his peace. They walked down a crowded, twisting pathway among people in browns and dull grays, and soon reached the line of women kneeling before two long wooden troughs of slowly flowing water. Men stood at the far end, pouring water down the troughs, and the line of women washed clothing in the sudsy one, then rinsed them off in the cleaner trough. No wonder the ground was so wet! At least here it smelled of suds and cleanliness.
The women had their sleeves rolled up to their upper arms, and most of them chatted idly as they worked, rubbing clothing against boards in the troughs. They were all dressed in those same brown skirts he had seen on the Aes Sedai. Gawyn rested his hand idly on his pommel, inspecting the women from behind.
“Which one?” Bryne asked.
“Just a moment,” Gawyn said. There were dozens of women. Had he really seen what he’d thought? Why would an Aes Sedai be in this camp, of all places? Surely Elaida wouldn’t send an Aes Sedai out to spy; their faces made them too easy to recognize.
Of course, if they were that easy to recognize, why couldn’t he spot her now?
And then he saw her. She was one of the only women who wasn’t chatting with those around her. She knelt with her head bowed, the yellow kerchief tied around her head, shading her face, a few locks of light hair sticking out from under the cloth. Her posture was so subservient that he almost missed her, but the shape of her body stood out. She was plump, and that kerchief was the only yellow one in the line.
Gawyn strode down the line of working women, several of whom stood up, hands on hips as they explained in no uncertain terms that “Soldiers with their big feet and awkward elbows” should stay out of the way of women at work. Gawyn ignored them, pressing on until he stood beside the yellow kerchief.
This is insane, Gawyn thought. There’s never in all of history been an Aes Sedai who could force herself to adopt that kind of posture.
Bryne stepped up beside him. Gawyn stooped down, trying to get a look at the woman’s face. She bowed down further, scrubbing more furiously at the shirt in the trough before her.
“Woman,” Gawyn said. “May I see your face?”
She didn’t respond. Gawyn looked up at Bryne. Hesitantly, the general reached down and pushed back the plump woman’s kerchief. The face underneath was distinctly Aes Sedai, with that unmistakable ageless quality. She didn’t look up. She just kept working.
“I said it wouldn’t work,” said a hefty woman nearby. The woman rose and waddled down the line, wearing a tentlike dress of green and brown. “ ‘My Lady,’ I told her, ‘you can do as you wish, I ain’t one to refuse such as you, but someone’s going to notice you.’ ”
“You’re in charge of the washwomen,” Bryne said.
The large woman nodded firmly, her red curls bouncing. “Indeed I am, General.” She turned to the Aes Sedai, curtsying. “Lady Tagren, I did warn you. Light burn me, but I did. I’m right sorry.”
The woman called Tagren bowed her head. Were those tears on her cheeks? Was that even possible? What was going on?
“My Lady,” Bryne said, squatting down beside her. “Are you Aes Sedai? If you are, and you command me to leave, I will do so without question.”
A good way to approach it. If she really was Aes Sedai, she couldn’t lie.
“I’m not Aes Sedai,” the woman whispered.
Bryne looked up at Gawyn, frowning. What did it mean if she said that? An Aes Sedai couldn’t lie. So. . . .
The woman softly said, “My name is Shemerin. I was Aes Sedai, once. But no more. Not since. . . .” She looked down again. “Please. Just leave me to work in my shame.”
“I will,” Bryne said. Then he hesitated. “But I’ll need you to talk to some sisters from the camp first. They’d have my ears if I don’t bring you in to speak with them.”
The woman, Shemerin, sighed but stood up.
“Come on,” Bryne said to Gawyn. “I have no doubt that they’ll also want to talk to you. Best to get this over with quickly.”
CHAPTER 25
In Darkness
Sheriam peeked into her dark tent, hesitant, but saw nothing inside. Allowing herself a smile of satisfaction, she stepped in and drew the flaps closed. Things were going quite well, for once.
Of course, she still checked her tent before she entered, searching for the one who had sometimes lurked inside. The one whom she’d never been able to sense, yet always felt as though she should. Yes, Sheriam still checked, and probably would for months yet—but there was no need, now. No phantom waited to punish her.
The square little tent was large enough to stand up in, with a cot along one side and a trunk along the other. There was just room for a desk, but it would so crowd the space that she’d barely be able to move. Besides, there was a perfectly acceptable desk nearby, in Egwene’s unused tent.
There had been talk of giving that tent to someone else—most sisters had to share, though more tents were being brought in each week. However, the Amyrlin’s tent was a symbol. As long as there was hope of Egwene’s return, her tent should wait for her. It was kept neat by the inconsolable Chesa, whom Sheriam still caught crying about her mistress’s captivity. Well, so long as Egwene was away, that tent was functionally Sheriam’s for all but sleeping. After all, an Amyrlin’s Keeper was expected to look after her affairs.
Sheriam smiled again, sitting down on her cot. Not long ago, her life had been a perpetual cycle of frustration and pain. Now that was over. Bless Romanda. Whatever else Sheriam thought of the fool woman, Romanda had been the one to chase Halima—and Sheriam’s punishments—out of the camp.
Pain would come again. There was always agony and punishment involved in the service she gave. But she had learned to take the times of peace and cherish them.
At times, she wished she’d kept her mouth closed, not asked questions. But she had, and here she was. Her allegiances had brought her power, as promised. But nobody had warned her of the pain. Not infrequently she wished she’d chosen the Brown and hidden herself away in a library somewhere, never to see others. But now she was where she was. There was no use wondering about what could have happened.
She sighed, then removed her dress and changed her shift. She did so in the dark; candles and oil were both rationed, and with the rebels’ funds drying up, she’d need to hide away what she had for later use.
She climbed onto the cot, pulling up the blanket. She wasn’t so naive as to feel guilty about the things she’d done. Every sister in the White Tower tried to get ahead; that’s what life was about! There wasn’t an Aes Sedai who wouldn’t stab her sisters in the back if she thought it would give her advantage. Sheriam’s friends were just a little more . . . practiced at it.
But why had the end of days had to come now of all times? Others in her association spoke of the glory and great honor of being alive at this time, but Sheriam didn’t agree. She’d joined to rise in White Tower politics, to have the power to punish those who spited her. She’d never wanted to participate in some final reckoning with the Dragon Reborn, and she’d certainly never desired to have anything to do with the Chosen!
But nothing could be done now. Best to enjoy the peace of being free of both the beatings and Egwene’s self-righteous pratings. Yes indeed. . . .
There was a woman with great strength in the Power standing outside her tent.
Sheriam snapped her eyes open. She could sense other women who could channel, just like any other sister. Bloody ashes! she thought nervously, squeezing her eyes shut. Not again!
The tent flaps rippled. Sheriam opened her eyes to find a jet-black figure standing above her cot; slivers of moonlight passing through the fluttering tent flaps were just enough to outline the figure’s form. It was clothed in an unnatural darkness, ribbons of black cloth fluttering behind it, the face obscured by a deep blackness. Sheriam gasped and threw herself from the cot, making obeisance on the canvas tent bottom. There was barely room enough for her to kneel. She cringed, expecting the pain to come upon her again.
“Ah . . .” a rasping voice said. “Very good. You are obedient. I am pleased.”
It wasn’t Halima. Sheriam had never been able to sense Halima, who it appeared had been channeling saidin all along. Also, Halima had never come in such a . . . dramatic way.
Such strength! It seemed likely that this was one of the Chosen. Either that, or at least a very powerful servant of the Great Lord, far above Sheriam. That worried her to the bone, and she trembled as she bowed. “I live to serve, Great Mistress,” Sheriam said quickly. “I, who am blessed to bow before you, to live during these times, to—”
“Stop your babbling,” the voice growled. “You are well placed in this camp, I understand?”
“Yes, Great Mistress,” Sheriam said. “I am the Keeper of the Chronicles.”
The figure sniffed. “Keeper to a ragged bunch of would-be Aes Sedai rebels. But that is no matter. I have need of you.”
“I live to serve, Great Mistress,” Sheriam repeated, growing more worried. What did this creature want of her?
“Egwene al’Vere. She must be deposed.”
“What?” Sheriam asked, startled. A switch of Air cracked against her back, and it burned. Fool! Did she want to get herself killed? “My apologies, Great Mistress,” she said quickly. “Forgive my outburst. But it was by orders from one of the Chosen that I helped raise her as Amyrlin in the first place!”
“Yes, but she has proven to have been a . . . poor choice. We needed a child, not a woman with merely the face of a child. She must be removed. You will make certain this group of foolish rebels stops supporting her. And end those blasted meetings in Tel’aran’rhiod. How is it so many of you get there?”
“We have ter’angreal,” Sheriam said, hesitantly. “Several in the shape of an amber plaque, several others in the shape of an iron disc. Then a handful of rings.”
“Ah, sleepweavers,” the figure said. “Yes, those could be useful. How many?”
Sheriam hesitated. Her first instinct was to lie or hedge—this seemed like information she could hold over the figure. But lying to one of the Chosen? A poor choice. “We had twenty,” Sheriam said truthfully. “But one was with the woman Leane, who was captured. That leaves us with nineteen.” Just enough for Egwene’s meetings in the World of Dreams—one for each of the Sitters and one for Sheriam herself.
“Yes,” the figure hissed, shrouded in darkness. “Useful indeed. Steal the sleepweavers, then give them to me. This rabble has no business treading where the Chosen walk.”
“I. . . .” Steal the ter’angreal? How was she going to manage that? “I live to serve, Great Mistress.”
“Yes you do. Do these things for me, and you will find yourself greatly rewarded. Fail me. . . .” The figure contemplated for a moment. “You have three days. Each of the sleepweavers you fail to acquire in that time will cost you a finger or a toe.” With that, the Chosen opened a gateway right in the middle of the room, then vanished through it. Sheriam caught a glimpse of the familiar tiled hallways of the White Tower on the other side.
Steal the sleepweavers! All nineteen of them? In three days? Darkness above! Sheriam thought. I should have lied about the number we had! Why didn’t I lie?
She remained kneeling, breathing in and out, for a long time, thinking about her predicament. Her period of peace was at an end, it appeared.
It had been brief.
“She will be tried, of course,” Seaine said. The soft-spoken White sat on a chair provided for her by the two Reds guarding Egwene’s cell.
The cell door was open, and Egwene sat on a stool inside—also provided by the Reds. Those two guards, plump Cariandre and stern Patrinda, watched carefully from the hallway, both holding the Source and maintaining Egwene’s shield. They looked as if they expected her to dart away, scrambling for freedom.
Egwene ignored them. Her two days of imprisonment had not been pleasant, but she would suffer them with dignity. Even if they locked her away in a tiny room with a door that wouldn’t let in light. Even if they refused to let her change from the bloodied novice dress. Even if they beat her each day for how she had treated Elaida. Egwene would not bow.
The Reds reluctantly allowed her visitors, as stipulated by Tower law. Egwene was surprised she had visitors, but Seaine wasn’t the only one who had come to her. Several had been Sitters. Curious. Nevertheless, Egwene was starved for news. How was the Tower reacting to Egwene’s imprisonment? Were the rifts between the Ajahs still deep and wide, or had her work started to bridge them?
“Elaida broke Tower law quite explicitly,” Seaine explained. “And it was witnessed by five Sitters of five different Ajahs. She has tried to forestall a trial, but was unsuccessful. However, there were some who listened to her argument.”
“Which was?” Egwene asked.
“That you are a Darkfriend,” Seaine said. “And, because of it, she expelled you from the Tower, and then beat you.”
Egwene felt a chill. If Elaida was able to get enough support for that argument. . . .
“It will not stand,” Seaine said, consolingly. “This is not some backward village, where the Dragon’s Fang scrawled on someone’s door is enough to convict.”
Egwene raised an eyebrow. She’d been raised in “some backward village,” and they’d had enough sense to look for more than rumors in convicting someone, no matter what the crime. But she said nothing.
“Proving that accusation is difficult by Tower standards,” Seaine said. “And so I suspect that she will not try to prove it in trial—partially because doing so would require her to let you speak for yourself, and I suspect that she’ll want to keep you hidden.”
“Yes,” Egwene said, eyeing the Reds lounging nearby. “You are probably right. But if she can’t prove I’m a Darkfriend and she couldn’t stop this from going to trial . . .”
“It is not an offense worthy of deposing her,” Seaine said. “The maximum punishment is formal censure from the Hall and penance for a month. She would retain the shawl.”
But would lose a great deal of credibility, Egwene thought. It was encouraging. But how to make certain that Elaida didn’t just hide her away? She had to keep the pressure on Elaida—Light-cursed difficult while locked away in her tiny cell each day! It had been only a short time so far, but already the lost opportunities grated on her.
“You will attend the trial?” Egwene asked.
“Of course,” Seaine said, even-tempered, as Egwene had come to expect from the White. Some Whites were all coolness and logic. Seaine was much warmer than that, but was still very reserved. “I am a Sitter, Egwene.”
