Some men lived their entire lives that way, preferring the curtains of darkness to the open windows of daylight, because they let them see the world all in shadow.
It was summer now, but though the day had been hot, the night was strangely cold. He shivered at a passing breeze. There hadn't been any murders since the death of that unfortunate White. When would the killer strike again? He—or she—could be moving through the hallways at this moment, searching for a solitary Aes Sedai as those cats searched for mice Egwene had sent him away from her door, but that didn't mean he couldn't be on the watch. What good was it to walk the grounds? He should be indoors, where he had a chance of doing some good. Gawyn made his way to one of the servant entrances.
The low-ceilinged hallway inside was clean and well lit, like the rest of the Tower, though the floor was set with dull gray slate instead of glazed tiles. An open room to his right resounded with laughter and chatting, off-duty guardsmen enjoying time with their comrades. Gawyn gave them barely a glance, but then froze.
He looked back in, recognizing some of the men. "Mazone? Celark? Zang? What are you men about?"
The three looked up with alarm, then chagrin. They were among about a dozen Younglings who were dicing and smoking pipes with the off-duty Tower guardsmen. The Younglings stumbled to their feet and gave salutes, though he was no longer their commander. They didn't seem to realize that.
Celark, foremost among them, hastened over to Gawyn. He was a lean fellow with light brown hair and thick fingers. "My Lord," he said. "Nothing important, my Lord. Just a little harmless fun."
"The Warders don't like this kind of behavior," Gawyn said. "You know that, Celark. If it gets around that you're staying up this late dicing, you'll never convince an Aes Sedai to take you."
Celark grimaced. "Yes, my Lord."
There was something reluctant in that grimace. "What?" Gawyn said. "Out with it, man."
"Well, my Lord," Celark said. "It's that some of us, we aren't so sure that we want to be Warders. Not all of us came here for that, you know. Some were like you, wanting to train with the best. And the rest of us… well, things have changed now."
"What things?" Gawyn asked.
"Foolish things, my Lord," the man said, looking down. "You're right, of course. There's early sparring tomorrow. But, well, we've seen war. We're soldiers now. Being a Warder, it's all a man should aspire to. But some of us, we'd rather not see what we have now end. You know?" Gawyn nodded slowly. "When I first came to the Tower," Celark said, "I wanted nothing more than to be a Warder. Now I don't know that I want to spend my life protecting one woman, solitary, roving about the countryside."
"You could be Warder to a Brown or White," Gawyn said. "And stay in the Tower."
Celark frowned. "With all respect, my Lord, I think that might be just as bad. Warders… they don't live like other men."
"That's for certain," Gawyn said, eyes lifting upward, toward Egwene's distant quarters. He would not go seeking that door. He forced his gaze back down to Celark. "There's no shame in choosing a different path."
"The others make it sound like there is."
"The others are wrong," Gawyn said. "Gather those of you who want to remain with the Younglings and report to Captain Chubain tomorrow. I'll speak with him. I'll wager he could use you as a division in the Tower Guard. He lost a lot of men in the Seanchan attack."
Celark relaxed visibly. "You'd do that, my Lord?"
"Of course. It was an honor to lead you men."
"Do you think… maybe you could join with us?" The youth's voice was hopeful.
Gawyn shook his head. "I've another path to take. But, the Light willing, I'll end up close enough to keep an eye on you." He nodded toward the room. "Go back to your games. I'll speak to Makzim for you as well." Makzim was the stern, thick-armed Warder currently leading the training sessions.
Celark nodded gratefully, hurrying back to the others. Gawyn continued down the corridor, wishing his choices were as easy as those of his men.
Lost in thought, he'd climbed halfway to Egwene's rooms before he stopped to realize what he was doing. I need something to distract me. The hour wasn't too late. Perhaps he could find Bryne and chat.
Gawyn made his way to Bryne's rooms. If Gawyn had a strange position among the Aes Sedai, Bryne's was nearly as odd: Warder to the former Amyrlin, general of Egwene's conquering army, and renowned great captain. Bryne's door was open a crack, emitting a line of light across the blue-tiled corridor. That was his habit when he was in and awake, should one of his officers need him. Many nights Bryne was away, staying at one of his command centers around the island or in a nearby village.
Gawyn knocked softly.
"Come." Bryne's voice was firm and familiar. Gawyn slipped in, then returned the door to its cracked position. Bryne sat at a rickety-looking desk, working on a letter. He glanced at Gawyn. "Just a moment."
Gawyn waited. The walls were papered with maps of Tar Valon, Andor, Cairhien and surrounding regions. Many bore recent notations in red chalk. Bryne was preparing for war. The notations made it clear he felt he'd eventually have to defend Tar Valon itself against Trollocs. Several maps showed villages across the northern part of the countryside, listing their fortifications—if any—and their loyalty to Tar Valon. They'd be used for supply dumps and forward positions. Another map had circles pointing out ancient watchtowers, fortifications and ruins.
There was a methodical inevitability to Bryne's calculations, and a sense of urgency. He wasn't looking to build fortifications, but to use those already in place. He was moving troops into the villages he felt most useful; another map showed progress in active recruitment.
It wasn't until Gawyn stood there—smelling the musty scent of old paper and burning candles—that he felt the reality of the impending war. It was coming soon. The Dragon would break the seals of the Dark One's prison. The place he had told Egwene to meet him, the Field of Merrilor, was marked in bright red on the maps. It was north, on the border of Shienar.
The Dark One. Loose upon the world. Light! It made Gawyn's own problems insignificant.
Bryne finished his letter, sanding the paper, folding it, and reaching for his wax and seal. "It's a little late for calling on people, son."
"I know, but I thought you might be up."
"And so I am." Bryne dribbled wax onto the letter. "What is it you need?"
"Advice," Gawyn said, sitting on a stool.
"Unless it's about the best way to quarter a group of men or how to fortify a hilltop, you'll find my advice lacking. But what is it you want to talk about?"
"Egwene forbade me to protect her."
"I'm certain the Amyrlin had her reasons," Bryne said, calmly sealing the letter.
"Foolish ones," Gawyn said. "She has no Warder, and there is a killer in the Tower." One of the Forsaken, he thought.
"Both true," Bryne said. "But what does that have to do with you?"
"She needs my protection."
"Did she ask for your protection?"
"No."
"Indeed. As I recall, she didn't ask you to come with her into the Tower either nor did she ask for you to begin following her about like a hound that has lost his master."
"But she needs me!" Gawyn said.
"Interesting. The last time you thought that, you—with my help—upset weeks' worth of her work to reunite the White Tower. Sometimes, son, our help is not needed. No matter how freely offered, or how urgent that help may seem."
Gawyn folded his arms, unable to lean against the wall, lest he disturb a map showing orchards across the surrounding countryside. One village near Dragonmount was circled four times, for some reason. "So your advice is to let her remain exposed, perhaps to take a knife in the back."
"I haven't given any advice," Bryne said, leafing through some reports on his desk, his firm face lit by flickering candlelight. "I have only made observations, though I think it curious that you conclude that you should leave her alone."
"I
… Bryne, she doesn't make sense!"
The corner of Bryne's mouth raised in a wry smile. He lowered his papers, turning to Gawyn. "I warned you that my advice would be of little use. I'm not sure if there are answers that will suit you. But let me ask this: What is it you want, Gawyn Trakand?"
"Egwene," he said immediately. "I want to be her Warder."
"Well, which is it?"
Gawyn frowned.
"Do you want Egwene, or do you want to be her Warder?"
"To be her Warder, of course. And… and, well, to marry her. I love her, Bryne."
"It seems to me that those are two different things. Similar, but separate. But, other than things to do with Egwene, what is it that you want?"
"Nothing," Gawyn said. "She's everything."
"Well, there's your problem."
"How is that a problem? I love her."
"So you said." Bryne regarded Gawyn, one arm on the table, the other resting on his leg. Gawyn resisted the urge to squirm beneath that gaze. "You always were the passionate one, Gawyn. Like your mother and your sister. Impulsive, never calculating like your brother."
"Galad doesn't calculate," Gawyn said. "He just acts."
"No," Bryne said. "Perhaps I spoke wrong—Galad may not be calculating, but he isn't impulsive. To be impulsive is to act without careful thought; Galad has given everything a great deal of thought. He's worked out his code of morality that way. He can act quickly and decisively because he's already determined what to do.
"You act with passion. You don't act because of the way you think, but because of the way you feel. In a rush, with a snap of emotion. That gives you strength. You can act when you need to, then sort through the ramifications later. Your instincts are usually good, just like your mother's were. But because of that, you've never had to face what to do when your instincts lead you in the wrong direction."
Gawyn found himself nodding.
"But son," Bryne said, leaning forward. "A man is more than one drive one goal. No woman wants that in a man. It seems to me that men who spend time making something of themselves—rather than professing their devotion—are the ones who get somewhere. Both with women, and with life itself." Bryne rubbed his chin. "So, if I have advice for you, it's this: Find out who you would be without Egwene, and then figure out how to fit her into that. I think that's what a woman—"
"You're an expert on women now?" a new voice asked.
Gawyn turned, surprised, to find Siuan Sanche pushing open the door.
Bryne didn't miss a beat. "You've been there listening long enough, Siuan, to know that's not what the conversation was about."
Siuan snorted, bustling into the room with a pot of tea. "You should be in bed," she said, ignoring Gawyn after a cursory glance.
"Very true," Bryne said casually. "Oddly, the needs of the land don't submit to my whims."
"Maps can be studied in the morning."
"And they can be studied at night. And during the afternoon. Every hour I spend could mean leagues of ground defended if Trollocs break through."
Siuan sighed loudly, handing him a cup, then pouring the tea, which smelled of cloudberry. It was decidedly odd to see Siuan—who, because of her stilling, looked like a woman Gawyn's age—mothering the grizzled General Bryne.
Siuan turned to Gawyn as Bryne accepted his drink. "And you, Gawyn Trakand," she said. "I've been meaning to speak to you. Giving orders to the Amyrlin, telling her what she should do? Honestly. Men seem to think that women are nothing more than their personal messengers, sometimes. You dream up all sorts of ridiculous schemes, then expect us to somehow carry them out."
She eyed him, not looking like she expected any response other than an ashamed lowering of the eyes. Gawyn gave that and then made a hasty exit to avoid further bullying.
He wasn't surprised by anything Bryne had said. The man was nothing if not consistent, and he had repeated the same themes to Gawyn before. Think instead of being impulsive; be deliberate. But he'd spent weeks thinking, his ideas chasing one another in circles like flies trapped in a jar.
He'd gotten nowhere.
Gawyn walked the hallways, noting Chubain's guards posted at regular intervals. He told himself he wasn't climbing to Egwene; he was merely checking on the guards. And yet, he soon found himself in a hallway near the Amyrlin's quarters. Just one hallway over. He'd check on her quickly and…
Gawyn froze. What am I doing? he thought.
A lot of his nervousness tonight came from not knowing if Egwene was properly guarded or not. He wouldn't be able to sleep until— No, he told himself forcefully. This time, I'll do as she asks. He turned to go.
A sound made him hesitate, glancing over his shoulder. Footfalls and clothing rustling. It was too late for novices, but servants might well be delivering late meals. Bryne and Gawyn weren't the only ones who kept unusual hours in the White Tower.
It came again. So soft, barely audible. Frowning, Gawyn slipped off his boots, then sneaked forward to glance around the corner.
There was nothing. Egwene's door—inlaid with gold in the shape of Avendesora—sat closed, the hallway empty. Sighing, Gawyn shook his head, leaning back against the wall to slip his boots back on. He wished Egwene would at least let Chubain set guards at her room. Leaving it unwatched was— Something moved in the shadow just down from Egwene's doorway. Gawyn froze. There wasn't much of a dark patch there, only a shadow a few inches wide made by an alcove, But as he studied that patch, he had trouble keeping his eyes on it. His gaze slid free, like a dollop of butter on a hot turnip.
It seemed… it seemed that the darkness was larger than he had originally thought. Why couldn't he look straight at it?
There was a flash of movement, and something spun in the air. Gawyn threw himself to the side, and steel struck stone. One boot on, he dropped the other as he pulled his sword free. The knife that had been thrown for his heart skidded across the tiled floor.
Gawyn peered round the corner, tense. Someone was fleeing down the hallway. Someone wearing all black, a hood over the head.
Gawyn took off after the person, sword held before him, arms pumping, gait awkward as his unbooted foot hit opposite his booted one. The assassin was extremely fast. Gawyn bellowed the alarm, his voice echoing through the silent halls of the Tower; then he cut left. The assassin would have to turn and come up the hallway here to the right.
Gawyn burst into another hallway, charging on a heading that would cut off the assassin. He skidded around the corner.
The hallway was empty. Had the assassin doubled back? Gawyn cursed as he ran forward and reached the original hallway at the other end. It was empty. A doorway, perhaps? All would be dead ends. If Gawyn waited until help came…
No, Gawyn thought, spinning. Darkness. Look for darkness. There was a deep patch of it by a doorframe to his left. Far too small to hold anyone, but he had that same sense of disorientation as he looked at it.
A person leaped out, swinging a sword for Gawyn's head. He whipped his blade into Cutting the Reeds, knocking aside the attack. The assassin was much shorter than Gawyn, so he should have had a strong advantage in reach. Yet the assassin moved with a blurring speed, sword darting at Gawyn in a series of thrusts, not using any sword forms Gawyn recognized.
Gawyn fell into Twisting the Wind, as he was forced to act as if he were surrounded. He barely kept the attacker at bay. He could hear yells in the distance—guards responding to his call. He shouted again.
He could sense frustration in the attacker's moves; the assassin had expected to defeat Gawyn quickly. Well, Gawyn had expected the same, but focusing on this opponent was very difficult. Gawyn's blows—when he could make them—hit air when they should have landed on flesh. Gawyn twisted to the side, raising his blade for Boar Rushes Down the Mountain. But that gave the assassin an opening; he flung another knife at Gawyn, forcing him to the side.
The knife clanged against the wall, and the assassin fled down the hallway. Gawyn rushed after, but he couldn't keep up.
Soon the assassin was far away, darting to the left. That direction led to a series of intersections.
Such speed, Gawyn thought, stopping, breathing in and out in gasps, hands on knees. It isn't natural. Two of Chubain's guards arrived a moment later, swords at the ready. Gawyn pointed. "Assassin. Listening at Egwene's door. Went that way."
One ran where he pointed. The other went to raise the general alarm.
Light! Gawyn thought. What if I didn't interrupt him listening? What if I interrupted him on his way out?
Gawyn dashed to Egwene's door, fatigue evaporating. Sword out, he tested the door. It was unlocked!
"Egwene!" he cried, throwing the door open and leaping into the room.
There was a sudden explosion of light and a crashing sound. Gawyn found himself wrapped up in something strong: invisible cords, towing him into the air. His sword fell to the ground, and his mouth filled with an unseen force.
And so it was that he found himself hanging from the ceiling, disarmed, struggling, as the Amyrlin herself walked from her bedroom. She was alert and fully dressed in a crimson dress trimmed with gold. She did not look pleased.
Mat sat beside the inn's hearth, wishing the fire were a little less warm. He could feel its heat through the layers of his ragged jacket and white shirt, matched by a pair of workman's thick trousers. The boots on his feet had good soles, but the sides were worn. He did not wear his hat, and his scarf was pulled up around the bottom half of his face as he leaned back in the mountain oak chair.
Elayne still had his medallion. He felt naked without it. He had a shortsword sitting by his chair, but that was mostly for show. A walking staff leaned innocently beside it; he would rather use that, or the knives hidden in his coat. But a sword was more visible, and would make the footpads who sauntered through the streets of Low Caemlyn think twice.
"I know why you're asking after him," Chet said. There was a man like Chet in nearly every tavern. Old enough to have seen men like Mat be born, grow up, and die, and willing to talk of all those years if you got enough drink in them. Or often if you didn't.
Towers of midnight wot-13 Page 40
