“Someone must get this news of Masema to Lord Perrin,” Faile told Parelean and the two women. “One of you must reach him! Ride like fire!” Her sweeping gaze took in Alliandre and Maighdin. And Berelain, too. “All of you, ride like fire, or die here!” Barely waiting for their nods, she suited actions to words, and dug her heels into Swallow’s flanks, bursting through the useless ring of soldiers. “Ride!” she shouted. Someone had to get the news to Perrin. “Ride!”
Leaning low on Swallow’s neck, she urged the black mare for speed. Fleet hooves splashed snow as Swallow ran, light as her namesake. For a hundred strides, Faile thought she might break free. And then Swallow screamed and stumbled, pitching forward with the sharp snap of a breaking leg. Faile flew through air and struck hard, most of the breath driven out of her as she plunged facedown into the snow. Fighting for air, she struggled to her feet and snatched a knife from her belt. Swallow had screamed before she stumbled, before that awful crack.
A veiled Aielman loomed up before her as if out of the air, chopping at her wrist with a stiffened hand. Her knife dropped from suddenly numb fingers, and before she could try to draw another with her left hand, the man was on her.
She fought, kicking, punching, even biting, but the fellow was as wide as Perrin and a head taller. He seemed as hard as Perrin, too, for all the impression she made on him. She could have wept with frustration at the humiliating ease with which he handled her, first rooting out all of her knives and tucking them behind his belt, then using one of her own blades to cut her clothes away. Almost before she knew it, she was naked in the snow, her elbows bound together behind her back with one of her stockings, the other tied about her neck for a leash.
She had no choice except to follow him, shivering and stumbling through the snow. Her skin pebbled with the cold. Light, how she had ever thought this day anything less than icy? Light, if only someone had managed to escape with the news of Masema! To carry word of her capture to Perrin, of course, but she could escape somehow. The other was more important.
The first body she saw was Parelean, sprawled on his back with his sword in one outflung hand and blood all over his fine coat with the satin-striped sleeves. There were plenty of corpses after, Winged Guards in their red breastplates, Alliandre’s soldiers in their dark green helmets, one of the hawkers, the hooded duckhawk flapping vainly against the jesses still gripped in the dead man’s fist. She held on to hope, though.
The first other prisoners she saw, kneeling among some Aiel, men and Maidens with their veils hanging down their chests, were Bain and Chiad, each naked, unbound hands on her knees. Blood ran down across Bain’s face and matted her flame-red hair. Chiad’s left cheek was purple and swollen, and her gray eyes looked slightly glazed. They knelt there, straight-backed, impassive, and unashamed, but as the big Aielman pushed her roughly to her knees beside them, they roused themselves.
“This is not right, Shaido,” Chiad mumbled angrily.
“She does not follow ji’e’toh,” Bain barked. “You cannot make her gai’shain.”
“The gai’shain will be quiet,” a graying Maiden said absently. Bain and Chiad gave Faile regretful looks, then settled back to their calm waiting. Huddling, trying to hide her nakedness against her knees, Faile did not know whether to weep or laugh. The two women she would have chosen to help her escape from anywhere, and neither would raise a hand to try because of ji’e’toh.
“I say again, Efalin,” the man who had captured her muttered, “this is foolishness. We travel at a crawl in this … snow.” He said the word awkwardly. “There are too many armed men, here. We should be moving east, not taking more gai’shain to slow us further.”
“Sevanna wants more gai’shain, Rolan,” the graying Maiden replied. She frowned, though, and her hard gray eyes seemed disapproving for a moment.
Shivering, Faile blinked as the names sank in. Light, but the cold was making her wits slow. Sevanna. Shaido. They were in Kinslayer’s Dagger, as far from here as was possible to be without crossing the Spine of the World! Clearly they were not, though. That was something Perrin should know, another reason for her to escape soon. There seemed little chance of that, crouching there in the snow and wondering which bits of her were going to freeze first. The Wheel was balancing her amusement over Berelain’s shivers with a vengeance. She was actually looking forward to the thick woolen robes that gai’shain wore. Her captors made no move to depart, though. There were other captives to be brought in.
First was Maighdin, stripped bare and bound as Faile was, and struggling every step of the way. Until the Maiden who was pushing her along abruptly kicked her feet out from under her. Maighdin plunked down sitting in the snow, and her eyes popped so wide that Faile might have laughed if she had not felt sorry for the woman. Alliandre came next, bent nearly double in an effort to shield herself, and then Arrela, who seemed half paralyzed by her nudity and was almost being dragged by a pair of Maidens. Finally, another tall Aielman appeared with a furiously kicking Lacile tucked under one arm like a package.
“The rest are dead or escaped,” the man said, dropping the small Cairhienin woman beside Faile. “Sevanna will have to be satisfied, Efalin. She puts too much store in taking people who wear silk.”
Faile did not struggle at all when she was prodded to her feet and set to laboring through the snow at the head of the other prisoners. She was too stunned to fight. Parelean dead, Arrela and Lacile captive, and Alliandre, and Maighdin. Light, someone had to warn Perrin about Masema. Someone. It seemed a final blow. Here she was, shivering and gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering, trying her best to pretend that she was not stark naked and bound, on her way to an uncertain captivity. All of that, and she had to hope that that slinking cat—that pouting trull!—Berelain, had managed to escape so she could reach Perrin. Alongside everything else, that seemed the worst of all.
Egwene walked Daishar along the column of initiates, sisters on their horses among the wagons, Accepted and novices afoot despite the snow. The sun was bright in a sky with few clouds, but mist curled from her gelding’s nostrils. Sheriam and Siuan rode at her back, talking quietly about information learned from Siuan’s eyes-and-ears. Egwene had thought the fire-haired woman an efficient Keeper once she learned that she was not the Amyrlin, but day by day, Sheriam seemed to grow ever more assiduous about her duties. Chesa followed on her tubby mare in case the Amyrlin wanted anything, and unlike her, she was muttering again about Meri and Selame both running away, the ungrateful wretches, leaving her to do the work of three. They rode slowly, and Egwene very carefully did not look toward the column.
A month of recruiting, a month of the novice book being open to all, had brought in startling numbers, a flood anxious to become Aes Sedai, women of every age some from hundreds of miles away. There were now twice as many novices with the column as before. Almost a thousand! Most by far would never wear the shawl, yet the number of them had everyone staring. Some might cause minor problems, and one, a grandmother named Sharina with a potential above even that of Nynaeve, certainly had everyone startled, but it was not the sight of a mother and daughter squabbling because the daughter would be the stronger by far one day that she was trying to avoid, or noblewomen who were beginning to think they had made the wrong choice asking to be tested, or even Sharina’s disturbingly direct looks. The grayhaired woman obeyed every rule and showed every proper respect, but she had run her large family by the sheer force of her presence, and even some of the sisters stepped warily around her. What Egwene did not want to see were the young women who had joined them two days before. The two sisters who brought them had been more than startled to find Egwene as Amyrlin, but their charges could not believe it, not Egwene al’Vere, the Mayor’s daughter from Emond’s Field. She did not want to order anyone else punished, but she would have to if she saw another stick her tongue out at her.
Gareth Bryne had his army in a wide column, too, cavalry and foot all arrayed and stretching out of sight through the trees.
The pale sun glinted off breastplates and helmets and the points of pikes. Horses stamped their hooves in the snow impatiently.
Bryne walked his sturdy bay to meet her before she reached the Sitters waiting on their horses, in a large clearing ahead of both columns. He smiled at her through the face-bars of his helmet. A reassuring smile, she thought. “A fine morning for it, Mother,” he said. “Here.”
She only nodded, and he fell in behind her, beside Siuan. Who did not immediately begin spitting at him. Egwene was not certain exactly what accommodation Siuan had reached with the man, but she seldom grumbled about him anymore in Egwene’s hearing, and never when he was present. Egwene was glad he was there, now. The Amyrlin Seat could not let her general know she wanted his reassurance, but she felt the need of it this morning.
The Sitters had their horses in a line at the edge of the trees, and thirteen more sisters sat their mounts a little way off, watching the Sitters carefully. Romanda and Lelaine spurred their animals forward almost together, and Egwene could hardly help sighing as they approached, cloaks flaring behind them, hooves spraying snow as if at the charge. The Hall obeyed her because it had no choice. In matters concerning the war against Elaida, they did, but Light, how they could quibble over what did or did not concern the war. When it did not, getting anything out of them was like pulling duck’s teeth! Except for Sharina, they might have found a way to put a stop to accepting women of any age. Even Romanda was impressed by Sharina.
The pair reined in before her, but before they could open their mouths, she spoke. “It’s time we got on with it, daughters, and no time for wasting in idle chatter. Proceed.” Romanda sniffed, though softly, and Lelaine looked as though she wanted to.
They wheeled their horses as one, then glared at one another a moment. Events this past month had only heightened their dislike for each other. Lelaine tossed her head angrily in concession, and Romanda smiled, a faint curving of her lips. Egwene almost smiled, too. That mutual animosity was still her greatest strength in the Hall.
“The Amyrlin Seat commands you to proceed,” Romanda announced, raising one hand grandly.
The light of saidar sprang up around the thirteen sisters near the Sitters, around all of them together, and a thick slash of silver appeared in the middle of the clearing, rotating into a gateway ten paces tall and a hundred wide. Falling snow drifted through from the other side. Shouted orders rose among the soldiers, and the first armored heavy calvary rode through. The swirling snow beyond the gateway was too thick to see far, yet Egwene imagined that she could make out the Shining Walls of Tar Valon, and the White Tower itself.
“It has begun, Mother,” Sheriam said, sounding almost surprised.
“It has begun,” Egwene agreed. And the Light willing, soon Elaida would fall. She was supposed to wait until Bryne said sufficient of his soldiers were through, but she could not stop herself. Digging her heels into Daishar’s flanks, she rode through into the falling snow, onto the plain where Dragon-mount reared black and smoking against a white sky.
CHAPTER
31
After
Winter winds and winter snows slowed the passage of trade across lands where they did not end it until spring, and for every three pigeons sent by merchants, two fell to hawks or weather, but where ice did not cover the rivers, ships still sailed, and rumor flew faster than lightnings. A thousand rumors, each throwing off a thousand seeds that sprouted and grew in snow and ice as in fertile soil.
At Tar Valon, some stories said, great armies had clashed, and the streets ran with blood, and rebel Aes Sedai had stuck the head of Elaida a’Roihan on a pike. No; Elaida had closed her hand, and those who survived among the rebels groveled at Elaida’s feet. There had been no rebels, no division of the White Tower. It was the Black Tower that had been broken, by Aes Sedai designs and Aes Sedai power, and Asha’man hunted Asha’man across the nations. The White Tower had shattered the Sun Palace in Cairhien, and the Dragon Reborn himself was bound now to the Amyrlin Seat, her puppet and her tool. Some tales said Aes Sedai had been bound to him, bound to the Asha’man, yet few believed that, and those few were ridiculed.
Artur Hawkwing’s armies had returned to reclaim his long-dead empire, and the Seanchan were sweeping all before them, even to driving the Dragon Reborn from Altara in defeat. The Seanchan had come to serve him. No; he had cast the Seanchan into the sea, destroying their army utterly. They had carried the Dragon Reborn away, to kneel before their Empress. The Dragon Reborn was dead, and there was as much celebration as mourning, as many tears as cries of joy.
Across the nations the stories spread like spiderweb laid upon spiderweb, and men and women planned the future, believing they knew truth. They planned, and the Pattern absorbed their plans, weaving toward the future foretold.
The End
of the Eighth Book of
The Wheel of Time
GLOSSARY
A Note on Dates in This Glossary. The Toman Calendar (devised by Toma dur Ahmid) was adopted approximately two centuries after the death of the last male Aes Sedai, recording years After the Breaking of the World (AB). So many records were destroyed in the Trolloc Wars that at their end there was argument about the exact year under the old system. A new calendar, proposed by Tiam of Gazar, celebrated freedom from the Trolloc threat and recorded each year as a Free Year (FY). The Gazaran Calendar gained wide acceptance within twenty years after the Wars’ end. Artur Hawkwing attempted to establish a new calendar based on the founding of his empire (FF, From the Founding), but only historians now refer to it. After the death and destruction of the War of the Hundred Years, a third calendar was devised by Uren din Jubai Soaring Gull, a scholar of the Sea Folk, and promulgated by the Panarch Farede of Tarabon. The Farede Calendar, dating from the arbitrarily decided end of the War of the Hundred Years and recording years of the New Era (NE), is currently in use.
armsmen: Soldiers who owe allegiance or fealty to a particular lord or lady.
Asha’man: (1) In the Old Tongue, “Guardian” or “Guardians,” but always a guardian of justice and truth. (2) The name given, both collectively and as a rank, to the men who have come to the Black Tower, near Caemlyn in Andor, in order to learn to channel. Their training concentrates on the ways in which the One Power can be used as a weapon, and in another departure from the usages of the White Tower, once they learn to seize saidin, the male half of the Power, they are required to perform all chores and labors with the Power. When newly enrolled, a man is termed a Soldier; he wears a plain black coat with a high collar, in the Andoran fashion. Being raised to Dedicated brings the right to wear a silver pin, called the Sword, on the collar of his coat. Promotion to Asha’man brings the right to wear a Dragon pin, in gold and red enamel, on the collar opposite the Sword. Although many women, including wives, flee when they learn that their men actually can channel, a fair number of men at the Black Tower are married, and they use a version of the Warder bond to create a link with their wives. This same bond, altered to compel obedience, has recently been used to bond captured Aes Sedai as well.
Balwer, Sebban: Formerly Pedron Niall’s secretary, in public, and secretly Niall’s spymaster. He aided Morgase’s escape from the Seanchan in Amador for his own reasons, and now is employed as secretary to Perrin t’Bashere Aybara and Faile ni Bashere t’Aybara.
Blood, the: Term used by the Seanchan to designate the nobility. One can be raised to the Blood as well as born to it.
Cha Faile: (1) In the Old Tongue, “the Falcon’s Talon.” (2) Name taken by the young Cairhienin and Tairens, attempted followers of ji’e’toh, who have sworn fealty to Faile ni Bashere t’Aybara. In secret, they act as her personal scouts and spies.
Companions, the: The elite military formation of Illian, currently commanded by First Captain Demetre Marcolin. The Companions provide a bodyguard for the King of Illian and guard key points around the nation. Additionally, the Companions have traditionally been used in battle to assault the enemy’s strongest positio
ns, to exploit weaknesses, and, if necessary, to cover the retreat of the King. Unlike most other such elite formations, foreigners (excepting Tairens, Altarans and Murandians) are not only welcome, they can rise even to the highest rank, as can commoners, which also is unusual. The uniform of the Companions consists of a green coat, a breastplate worked with the Nine Bees of Illian, and a conical helmet with a faceguard of steel bars. The First Captain wears four rings of golden braid on the cuffs of his coat, and three thin golden plumes on his helmet. The Second Captain wears three rings of golden braid on each cuff, and three golden plumes tipped with green. Lieutenants wear two yellow rings on their cuffs, and two thin green plumes, under-lieutenants one yellow ring and a single green plume. Bannermen are designated by two broken rings of yellow on the cuffs and a single yellow plume, squadmen by a single broken ring of yellow.
Consolidation, the: When the armies sent by Artur Hawkwing under his son Luthair landed in Seanchan, they discovered a shifting quilt of nations often at war with one another, where Aes Sedai often reigned. Without any equivalent of the White Tower, Aes Sedai worked for their own individual power, using the Power. Forming small groups, they schemed against one another constantly. In large part it was this constant scheming for personal advantage and the resulting wars among the myriad nations that allowed the armies from east of the Aryth Ocean to begin the conquest of an entire continent, and for their descendants to complete it. This conquest, during which the descendants of the original armies became Seanchan as much as they conquered Seanchan, took more than nine hundred years and is called the Consolidation.
Corenne: In the Old Tongue, “the Return.” The name given by the Seanchan both to the fleet of thousands of ships and to the hundreds of thousands of soldiers, craftsmen and others carried by those ships, who will come behind the Forerunners to reclaim the lands stolen from Artur Hawkwing’s descendants. See also Forerunners.
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