The Wheel of Time, page 963
“And Ellorien?” Elayne asked quietly. She was sure she knew the answer there already. Her mother had had Ellorien flogged. That had been under Rahvin’s influence, but few seemed to believe that. Few seemed to believe Gaebril had even been Rahvin.
Dyelin grimaced. “The woman’s head is stone! She’d announce a claim in my name if she thought it would do any good. At least she has enough sense to see it won’t.” Elayne noted that she made no mention of any claims in Ellorien’s own name. “In any case, I left Keraille Surtovni and Julanya Fote to watch them. I doubt they’ll move, but if they do, we’ll know straightaway.” Three Kinswomen who needed to form a circle to Travel were watching the Borderlanders for the same reason.
No good news at all, then, no matter what face Dyelin tried to put on it. Elayne had hoped the threat of the Borderlanders would drive some of the Houses to support her. At least one reason I let them cross Andor still holds, she thought grimly. Even if she failed to gain the throne, she had done that service for Andor. Unless whoever did take the throne bungled matters completely. She could see Arymilla doing just that. Well, Arymilla was not going to wear the Rose Crown, and that was that. One way or another, she had to be stopped.
“So it’s six, six and six,” Catalyn said, frowning and thumbing the long signet ring on her left hand. She looked thoughtful, unusual for her. Her usual style was to speak her mind with no consideration whatsoever. “Even if Candraed joins us, we are short of ten.” Was she wondering whether she had tied Haevin to a hopeless cause? Unfortunately, she had not tied her House so tightly the knots could not be undone.
“I was certain Luan would join us,” Conail muttered. “And Abelle and Pelivar.” He took a deep swallow of wine. “Once we beat Arymilla, they’ll come. You mark me on it.”
“But what are they thinking?” Branlet demanded. “Are they trying to start a war with three sides?” His voice went from treble to bass halfway through that, and his face flooded with red. He buried his face in his goblet, but grimaced. Apparently he liked goat’s milk as little as she did.
“It’s the Borderlanders.” Perival’s voice was a boy’s piping, but he sounded sure of himself. “They’re holding back because whoever wins here, the Borderlanders still have to be dealt with.” He picked up the bear, hefting it as if its weight would give him answers. “What I don’t understand is why they’re invading us in the first place. We’re so far from the Borderlands. And why haven’t they marched on and attacked Caemlyn? They could sweep Arymilla aside, and I doubt we could keep them out as easily as we do her. So why are they here?”
Smiling, Conail clapped him on the shoulder. “Now that will be a battle to see, when we face the Borderlanders. Northan’s Eagles and Mantear’s Anvil will do Andor proud that day, eh?” Perival nodded, but he did not look happy at the prospect. Conail certainly did.
Elayne exchanged glances with Dyelin and Birgitte, both of whom looked amazed. Elayne felt astonished herself. The other two women knew, of course, but little Perival had come near touching a secret that had to be kept. Others might puzzle out eventually that the Borderlanders had been meant to push Houses into joining her, but it must not be confirmed.
“Luan and the others sent to Arymilla asking for a truce until the Borderlanders were turned back,” Dyelin said after a moment. “She asked time to consider. As near as I can calculate, it was then that she began increasing her efforts at the walls. She tells them she’s still considering.”
“Aside from anything else,” Catalyn said heatedly, “that shows why Arymilla doesn’t deserve the throne. She puts her own ambition above Andor’s safety. Luan and the others must be fools not to see it.”
“Not fools,” Dyelin replied. “Just men and women who think they see the future better than they do.”
What if she and Dyelin were the ones who were not seeing the future clearly, Elayne wondered. To save Andor, she would have thrown her support to Dyelin. Not gladly, but to save Andor’s blood, she would have. Dyelin would have the support of ten Houses, more than ten. Even Danine Candraed might finally decide to stir herself in support of Dyelin. Except that Dyelin did not want to be queen. She believed that Elayne was the one to wear the Rose Crown. So did Elayne. But what if they were wrong? Not the first time that question had come to her, but now, staring at the map with all of its ill tidings, she could not shake free of it.
That evening, after a dinner memorable only for the surprise of tiny strawberries, she sat in the large sitting room of her apartments, reading. Trying to read. The leather-bound book was a history of Andor, as was most of her reading of late. It was necessary to read as many as possible to gain any real version of truth, cross-checking one against another. For one thing, a book first published during any monarch’s reign never mentioned any of her missteps, or those of her immediate predecessors if they were of her own House. You had to read books written while Trakand held the throne to learn of Mantear’s mistakes, and books written under Mantear to learn of Norwelyn’s errors. Others’ mistakes could teach her how not to make the same herself. Her mother had made that almost her first lesson.
She could not concentrate, however. She often found herself staring at a page without seeing a word, thinking of her sister, or starting to say something to Aviendha before remembering that she was not there. She felt very lonely, which was ridiculous. Sephanie stood in a corner against the possibility she wanted anything. Eight Guardswomen were standing outside the door to the apartments, and one of them, Yurith Azeri, was an excellent conversationalist, an educated woman though silent on her past. But none of them was Aviendha.
When Vandene glided into the room followed by Kirstian and Zarya, it seemed a relief. The two white-clad women stopped by the doorway, expressions meek. Untouched by the Oath Rod, pale Kirstian, hands folded at her waist, appeared just into her middle years; Zarya, with her tilted eyes and hooked nose, well short of them. She held something wrapped in white toweling.
“Forgive me if I’m interrupting,” Vandene began, then frowned. The white-haired Green’s face somehow gave an impression of age despite her Aes Sedai features. Those could have been twenty, or forty, or anything in between; that seemed to change at every blink. Perhaps it was her dark eyes, luminous and deep and pained, which had seen so much. There was an air of tiredness about her, too. Her back was straight, but she still looked weary. “It is none of my business, of course,” she said delicately, “but is there a reason you are holding so much of the Power? I thought you must be weaving something very complex when I felt you in the corridor.”
With a start, Elayne realized that she held nearly as much of saidar as she could contain safely. How had that happened? She did not recall drawing any deeper. Hastily, she released the Source, regret filling her as the Power drained away and the world became . . . ordinary again. On the instant, her mood bounced sideways.
“You aren’t interrupting anything,” she said peevishly, setting her book down on the table in front of her. She had not finished three pages of the thing anyway.
“May I make us private, then?”
Elayne gave a curt nod—it was none of the woman’s bloody business how much of the Power she held; she knew the protocols as well as Elayne, or better—and told Sephanie to wait in the anteroom while Vandene wove a ward against eavesdropping.
Ward or no ward, Vandene waited until the door closed behind the maid before speaking. “Reanne Corly is dead, Elayne.”
“Oh, Light, no.” Temper vanished into sobs, and she hastily snatched a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve to blot the tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks. Her cursed shifting moods at work, yet Reanne surely deserved tears. She had so wanted to become a Green. “How?” Burn her, she wished she could stop blubbering!
There were no tears from Vandene. Perhaps there were no more tears in her. “She was smothered with the Power. Whoever did it used much more than was needed. The residues of saidar were thick on her and in the room where she was found. The murderer wanted to be sure no one would miss seeing how she died.”
“That makes no sense, Vandene.”
“Perhaps it does. Zarya?”
The Saldaean woman laid her small bundle on the table and unwrapped it to reveal an articulated wooden doll. It was very old, the simple dress threadbare, the painted face flaking and missing an eye, half of its long dark hair gone.
“This belonged to Mirane Larinen,” Zarya said. “Derys Nermala found it behind a cupboard.”
“I don’t see what Mirane leaving a doll behind has to do with Reanne’s death,” Elayne said, wiping her eyes. Mirane was one of the Kinswomen who had run away.
“Only this,” Vandene answered. “When Mirane went to the Tower, she hid this doll outside because she had heard that everything she owned would be burned. After she was put out, she retrieved it and always carried it with her. Always. She had a quirk, though. Wherever she stopped for a time, she hid the doll again. Do not ask me why. But she would not have run away and abandoned it.”
Still dabbing at her eyes, Elayne leaned back in her chair. Her weeping had dwindled to sniffles, but her eyes still leaked tears. “So Mirane didn’t run away. She was murdered and . . . disposed of.” A grisly way to put it. “The others, too, you think? All of them?”
Vandene nodded, and for a moment her slender shoulders slumped. “I very much fear so,” she said, straightening. “I expect clues were left among the things they left behind, treasured keepsakes like this doll, a favorite piece of jewelry. The murderer wanted us to think she was being clever at hiding her crimes but not clever enough, only we weren’t clever enough to find those clues, so she decided to become more blatant.”
“To frighten the Kinswomen into fleeing,” Elayne muttered. That would not cripple her, but it would throw her back on the mercies of the Windfinders, and those seemed to be growing mingy. “How many of them know of this?”
“All, by now, I should think,” Vandene said dryly. “Zarya told Derys to keep quiet, but that woman likes the sound of her own voice.”
“This seems aimed at me, at helping Arymilla gain the throne, but why would a Black sister have any interest in that? I can’t think we have two murderers among us. At least this settles the question of Merilille. Speak with Sumeko and Alise, Vandene. They can make sure the rest don’t panic.” Sumeko ranked next after Reanne, as the Kin ordered their hierarchy, and while Alise stood much lower, she was a woman of great influence. “From now on, none of them is to be alone, not ever. Always at least two together, and three or four would be better. And warn them to be careful of Careane and Sareitha.”
“I’d advise against that,” Vandene said quickly. “They should be safe in groups, and word would reach Careane and Sareitha. Warned against Aes Sedai? The Kin would give themselves away in a minute.” Kirstian and Zarya nodded solemnly.
After a moment, Elayne reluctantly agreed to the continued secrecy. The Kin should be safe in groups. “Let Chanelle know about Reanne and the others. I can’t imagine the Windfinders are in any danger—losing them wouldn’t hurt me the way losing the Kin would—but wouldn’t it be wonderful if they did decide to leave?”
She did not expect that they would—Chanelle feared returning to the Sea Folk with the bargain unfulfilled—yet it would be a bright spot in an otherwise miserable day if they did. At least it seemed unlikely anything could darken the day further. The thought sent a chill through her. The Light send nothing would darken it more.
Arymilla pushed her plate of stew away with a grimace. She had been offered her choice of beds for the night—Arlene, her maid, was making the choice now; the woman knew what she liked—and the least she had expected was a decent meal, but the mutton was fatty, and definitely beginning to go rancid besides. There had been too much of that lately. This time the cook was going to be flogged! She was unsure which of the nobles in this camp employed him, just that he was supposed to be the best at hand—the best!—but that did not matter. He would be flogged to make an example. And then sent away, of course. You could never trust a cook after he had been punished.
The mood in the tent was far from lively. Several of the nobles in the camp had hoped for invitations to dine with her, but none stood high enough. She was beginning to regret not asking one or two, even some of Naean’s or Elenia’s people. They might have been entertaining. Her closest allies at table together, and you might have thought they sat over funeral meats. Oh, scrawny old Nasin, his thinning white hair uncombed, was eating away heartily, apparently not noticing that the meat was nearly rotten, and giving her fatherly pats on the hand. She met his smiles like a dutiful daughter. The fool was wearing one of his flower-embroidered coats tonight. The thing could have passed for a woman’s dressing robe! Happily, his leers were all directed down the table at Elenia; the honey-haired woman flinched, her foxlike face paling whenever she glanced at him. She controlled House Sarand as if she were the High Seat instead of her husband, yet she feared that Arymilla would still let Nasin have his way with her. That threat was unneeded, now, but it was well to have it to hand just in case. Yes, Nasin was happy enough in his futile pursuit of Elenia, but the others were sunk in gloom. Their plates were abandoned barely touched, and they kept her two serving men trotting to refill wine cups. She never liked trusting others’ servants. At least the wine had not turned.
“I still say we should make a heavier push,” Lir grumbled drunkenly into his cup. A whip of a man, his red coat showing the wear of armor straps, the High Seat of Baryn was ever eager to strike. Subtlety was simply beyond him. “My eyes-and-ears report more armsmen entering the city every day through these ‘gateways.’ ” He shook his head and muttered something under his breath. The man actually believed those rumors of dozens of Aes Sedai in the Royal Palace. “All these pinprick attacks do is lose men.”
“I agree,” Karind said, fiddling with a large golden pin, enameled with the running Red Fox of Anshar, that was fastened to her bosom. She was not much less intoxicated than Lir. Her square face had a slackness about it. “We need to press home instead of throwing men away. Once we’re over the walls, our advantage in numbers will pay off.”
Arymilla’s mouth tightened. They might at least show her the respect due a woman who was soon to be Queen of Andor, rather than disagreeing with her all the time. Unfortunately, Baryn and Anshar were not bound to her so tightly as Sarand and Arawn. Unlike Jarid and Naean, Lir and Karind had announced their support of her without publishing it in writing. Neither had Nasin, but she had no fear of losing him. Him, she had wound around her wrist for a bracelet.
Forcing a smile, she made her voice jovial. “We lose mercenaries. What else are mercenaries good for if not dying in place of our armsmen?” She held up her winecup and a lean man in her silver-trimmed blue hastened to fill it. In fact, he was so hasty that he spilled a drop on her hand. Her scowl made him snatch a handkerchief from his pocket to blot up the drop before she could pull her hand away. His handkerchief! The Light only knew where that filthy thing had been, and he had touched her with it! His mouth writhed with fear as he retreated, bowing and mumbling apologies. Let him serve out the meal. He could be dismissed after. “We will need all of our armsmen when I ride against the Borderlanders. Don’t you agree, Naean?”
Naean twitched as though stuck with a pin. Slim and pale in yellow silk worked with silver patterns of Arawn’s Triple Keys on the breast, she had begun looking haggard in recent weeks, her blue eyes drawn and tired. All of her supercilious airs were quite gone. “Of course, Arymilla,” she said meekly and drained her cup. Good. She and Elenia were definitely tamed, but Arymilla liked to check now and then to make sure neither was growing a new backbone.
“If Luan and the others will not support you, what good will taking Caemlyn do?” Sylvase, Nasin’s granddaughter and heir, spoke so seldom that the question came as a shock. Sturdy and not quite pretty, she usually had a vapid gaze, but her blue eyes appeared quite sharp at the moment. Everyone stared at her. That seemed not to faze her a bit. She toyed with a winecup, but Arymilla thought it no more than her second. “If we must fight the Borderlanders, why not accept Luan’s truce so Andor can field its full strength unhindered by divisions?”
Arymilla smiled. She wanted to slap the silly woman. Nasin would be angered by that, however. He wanted her kept as Arymilla’s “guest” to prevent his removal as High Seat—part of him seemed aware that his wits were gone; all of him intended holding on as High Seat until he died—but he did love her. “Ellorien and some of the others will come to me yet, child,” she said smoothly. Smoothness required some effort. Who did the chit think she was? “Aemlyn, Arathelle, Pelivar. They have grievances against Trakand.” Surely they would come once Elayne and Dyelin were out of the way. Those two would not survive Caemlyn’s fall. “Once I have the city, they will be mine in any event. Three of Elayne’s supporters are children, and Conail Northan is little more than a child. I trust I can convince them to publish their support of me easily enough.” And if she could not, Master Lounalt surely could. A pity if children had to be handed over to him and his cords. “I will be queen by sunset of the day Caemlyn falls to me. Isn’t that right, father?”
Nasin laughed, spraying gobbets of half-chewed stew across the table. “Yes, yes,” he said, patting Arymilla’s hand. “You listen to your aunt, Sylvase. Do as she tells you. She’ll be Queen of Andor soon.” His smile faded, and an odd note entered his voice. It might almost have been . . . pleading. “Remember, you will be High Seat of Caeren after I’m gone. After I’m gone. You will be High Seat.”
“As you say, Grandfather,” Sylvase murmured, inclining her head briefly. When she straightened, her gaze was as insipid as ever. The sharpness must have been a trick of the light. Of course.
Nasin grunted and went happily back to wolfing down the stew. “Best I’ve had in days. I think I’ll have another plate. More wine here, man. Can’t you see my cup’s dry?”
