The Deathwatch Guards slowly climbed off Mat. He let out a groan. What did they feed these men? Bricks? He did not like being called “Highness,” but a little respect would have been nice here. If it had prevented him from being sat upon, that was.
He climbed to his feet, then held out his hand to a sheepish Death-watch Guard. The fellow’s face had more scars than skin. He handed Mat the ashandarei, then went off to help search the garden.
Tuon folded her arms, obviously unshaken. “You have chosen to delay your return to me, Matrim.”
“Delay my ... I came to bloody warn you, not return to’ you. I’m my own man.”
“You may pretend whatever you wish,” Tuon said, looking over her shoulder as the Deathwatch Guards beat at the shrubbery. “But you must not stay away. You are important to the Empire, and I have use for you.
“Sounds delightful,” Mat grumbled.
“What was it?” Tuon asked softly. “I did not see the man until you drew attention. These guards are the best of the Empire. I have seen Daruo there catch an arrow in flight with his bare hand, and Barrin once stopped a man from breathing on me because he suspected an assassin whose mouth was filled with poisons. He was right.”
“It’s called a Gray Man,” Mat said, shivering. “There’s something freakishly ordinary about them—they’re hard to notice, hard to fixate upon.”
“Gray Man,” Tuon said idly. “More myths come to life. Like your Trollocs.”
“Trollocs are real, Tuon. Bloody—”
“Of course Trollocs are real,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I believe that they are?” She looked at him defiantly, as if daring him to mention the times she had called them myths. “This Gray Man appears to be real as well. There is no other explanation for why my guards let him pass.”
“I trust the Deathwatch Guards well enough,” Mat said, rubbing his shoulder where one of them had placed his knee. “But I don’t know, Tuon. General Galgan is trying to have you killed; he could be working with the enemy.”
“He’s not serious about having me killed,” Tuon said indifferently.
“Are you bloody insane?” Mat asked.
“Are you bloody stupid?” she asked. “He hired assassins from this land only, not true killers.”
“That Gray Man is from this land,” Mat pointed out.
That quieted her. “With whom did you gamble away that eye?”
Light! Was everyone going to ask him about it that way? “I went through a rough patch,” he said. “I made it through alive, which is all that matters.”
“Hmm. And did you save her? The one you went to rescue?”
“How did you know about that?”
She did not reply. “I have decided not to be jealous. You are fortunate. The missing eye suits you. Before, you were too pretty.
Too pretty? Light. What did that mean?
“Good to see you, by the way,” Mat said. He waited a few moments. “Usually, when a fellow says something like that, it’s customary to tell them that you’re happy to see them as well.”
“I am the Empress now,” Tuon said. “I do not wait upon others, and do not find it good’ that someone has returned. Their return is expected, as they serve me.”
“You know how to make a fellow feel loved. Well, I know how you feel about me.”
“And how is that?”
“You looked over your shoulder.”
She shook her head. “I had forgotten that you are supremely good at saying that which has no meaning, Matrim.”
“When you saw me,” Mat explained, “with a dagger in hand—as if to throw at you—you didn’t call for your guards. You didn’t fear I was here to kill you. You looked over your shoulder to see what I was aiming at. That’s the most loving gesture I think a man could receive from a woman. Unless you’d like to sit on my knee for a little while . . .”
She did not reply. Light, but she seemed cold. Was it all going to be different, now that she was the Empress? He could not have lost her already, could he?
Furyk Karede, the captain of the Deathwatch Guard, soon arrived with Musenge walking behind him. Karede looked like he had just found his house on fire. The other Deathwatch Guards saluted him and seemed to wither before him.
“Empress, my eyes are lowered,” Karede said, going down on his belly before her. “I will join those who failed you in spilling our lives before you as soon as a new squad has arrived to see to your protection.”
“Your lives are mine,” Tuon said, “and you do not end them unless I give you leave. This assassin was not of natural birth, but a creation of the Shadow. Your eyes are not lowered. The Prince of the Ravens will teach you how to spot this kind of creature, so you will not be so surprised again.” Mat was fairly certain that Gray Men were of natural birth, but then, so were Trollocs and Fades. It did not seem appropriate to point this out to Tuon. Besides, something else in her orders drew his attention.
“I’m going to do what, now?” Mat asked.
“Teach them,” Tuon said softly. “You are Prince of the Ravens. This will be part of your duties.”
“We need to talk about that,” Mat said. “Everyone calling me ‘Highness’ is not going to do, Tuon. It just won’t.”
She did not reply. She waited as the search proceeded, and made no move to retreat to the palace.
Finally, Karede approached again. “Highest One, there is no sign of the thing in the gardens, but one of my men has found blood on the wall. I suspect the assassin fled into the city.”
“He is unlikely to try again tonight,” Tuon said, “while we are alerted. Do not spread news of this to the common soldiers or guards. Inform my Voice that our ruse has stopped being effective, and that we will need to consider a new one.”
“Yes, Empress,” Karede said, bowing low again.
“For now,” Tuon said, “clear out and secure the perimeter. I will be spending time with my consort, who has requested that I ‘make him feel loved.’ ”
“That’s not exactly—” Mat said as the members of the Deathwatch Guard faded into the darkness.
Tuon studied Mat for a moment, then began to disrobe.
“Light!” Mat said. “You meant it?”
“I’m not going to sit on your knee,” Tuon said, pulling one arm out of her robe, exposing her breasts, “though I may allow you to sit on mine. Tonight, you have saved my life. That will earn you special privilege. It—”
She cut off as Mat grabbed her and kissed her. She was tense with surprise. In the bloody garden, he thought. With soldiers standing all about, well within earshot. Well, if she expected Matrim Cauthon to be shy, she had a surprise coming.
He released her lips from the kiss. Her body was pressed against his, and he was pleased to find her breathless.
“I won’t be your toy,” Mat said sternly. “I won’t have it, Tuon. If you intend it to be that way, I will leave. Mark me. Sometimes, I do play the fool. With Tylin, I did for sure. I won’t have that with you.”
She reached up and touched his face, surprisingly tender. “I would not have said the words I did if I had found in you only a toy. A man missing an eye is no toy anyway. You have known battle; everyone who sees you now will know that. They will not mistake you for a fool, and I have no use for a toy. I shall have a prince instead.”
“And do you love me?” he asked, forcing the words out.
“An empress does not love,” she said. “I am sorry. I am with you because the omens state it so, and so with you I will bring the Seanchan an heir.
Mat had a sinking feeling.
“However,” Tuon said. “Perhaps I can admit that it is . . . good to see you.”
Well, Mat thought, guess I can take that. For now.
He kissed her again.
CHAPTER 16
A Silence Like Screaming
Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, had secretly always wanted to be hasty.
Humans fascinated him, of that he made no secret. He was sure most of his friends knew, thoug
h he could not be certain. It amazed him what humans didn’t hear. Loial could speak to them all day, then find that they had heard only part. Did they think that someone would speak without intending for others to listen?
Loial listened when they spoke. Every word out of their mouths revealed more about them. Humans were like the lightning. A flash, an explosion, power and energy. Then gone. What would it be like?
Hastiness. There were things to learn from hastiness. He was starting to wonder if he had learned that particular lesson too well.
Loial strode through a forest of too-silent trees, Erith at his side, other Ogier surrounding them. All held axes on shoulders or carried long knives as they marched toward the battlefront. Erith’s ears twitched; she was not a Treesinger, but she could sense that the trees did not feel right.
It was horrible, horrible indeed. He could not explain the sense of a healthy stand of trees any more than he could explain the sensation of wind on his skin. There was a rightness, like the scent of morning rain, to healthy trees. It was not a sound, but it felt like a melody. When he sang to them, he found himself swimming in that rightness.
These trees had no such rightness. If he drew close to them, he felt he could hear something. A silence like screaming. It was not a sound, but a feeling.
Fighting raged ahead of them in the forest. Queen Elayne’s forces carefully withdrew eastward, out of the trees. They were nearly to the edge of Braem Wood now; once out, they would march for the bridges, cross them and burn them behind. Then the soldiers would launch volleys of destruction at the Trollocs trying to cross the river after them on their own bridges. Bashere hoped to reduce the enemy’s numbers considerably at the Erinin before they continued east.
Loial was certain this would all make fascinating information for his book, once he wrote it. If he was able to write it. He laid his ears flat as the Ogier began their war song. He lent his voice to theirs, glad for the terrible song—the call to blood, to death—as it filled the silence left by the trees.
He started running with the others, Erith at his side. Loial drew out in front, axe raised above his head. Thoughts left him as he found himself angry, furious, at the Trollocs. They didn’t just kill trees. They took the peace from the trees.
The call to blood, to death.
Bellowing his song, Loial laid into the Trollocs with his axe, Erith and the other Ogier joining him and stopping the brunt of this Trolloc flanking force. He had not intended to lead the Ogier charge. He did anyway.
He hacked at the shoulder of a ram-faced Trolloc, shearing its arm free. The thing yelled and fell to its knees, and Erith kicked it in the face, throwing it back into the legs of a Trolloc behind.
Loial did not stop his song, the call to blood, to death. Let them hear! Let them hear Swing after swing. Chopping dead wood, that was all this was. Dead, rotting, horrible wood. He and Erith fell into place with Elder Haman, who—with ears laid back—looked utterly fierce. Placid Elder Ha-man. He felt the rage too.
A beleaguered line of Whitecloaks—whom the Ogier had relieved— stumbled back, making way for the Ogier.
He sang and fought and roared and killed, hacking at Trollocs with an axe meant for cutting wood, and never flesh. Working with wood was a reverent business. This . . . this was killing weeds. Poisonous weeds. Strangling weeds.
He continued to chop the Trollocs, losing himself in the call to blood, to death. The Trollocs began to fear. He saw terror in their beady eyes, and he loved it. They were used to fighting men, who were smaller than themselves.
Well, let the Trollocs fight someone their own size. They snarled as the Ogier line forced them back. Loial landed blow after blow, shearing through arms, hacking through torsos. He shoved his way between two bear Trollocs, laying about him with his axe, yelling in fury—fury now for what the Trollocs had done to the Ogier. They should be enjoying the peace of the stedding. They should be able to build, sing, and grow.
They could not. Because of these . . . these weeds, they could not! The Ogier were forced to kill. The Trollocs made builders into destroyers. They forced Ogier and humans to be like themselves. The call to blood, to death.
Well, the Shadow would see just how dangerous the Ogier could be. They would fight, and they would kill. And they would do it better than any human, Trolloc or Myrddraal could imagine.
By the fear Loial saw in the Trollocs—by their terrified eyes—they were beginning to understand.
“Light!” Galad exclaimed, falling back from the thick of the fight. “Light!”
The Ogier attack was terrible and glorious. The creatures fought with ears drawn back, eyes wide, broad faces flat as anvils. They seemed to transform, all placidity gone. They cut through ranks of Trollocs, hacking the beasts to the ground. The second row of Ogier, made up mostly of females, sliced up Trollocs with long knives, bringing down any who made it through the first line.
Galad had thought Trollocs fearsome with their twisted mix of human and animal features, but the Ogier disturbed him more. Trollocs were simply horrible . . . but Ogier were gentle, soft-spoken, kindly. Seeing them enraged, bellowing their terrible song and attacking with axes nearly as long as men were tall . . . Light!
Galad waved the Children back, then ducked as a Trolloc slammed into a tree nearby. Some of the Ogier were seizing wounded Trollocs by their arms and hurling them out of the way. Many of the other Ogier were blood-soaked to their waists, hacking and chopping like butchers preparing meat. Now and then, one of them fell, but unarmored though they were, their skin seemed tough.
“Light!” Trom said, moving up to Galad. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
Galad shook his head. It was the most honest answer he could think of.
“If we had an army of those . . .” Trom said.
“They’re Darkfriends,” Golever said, joining them. “Shadowspawn for certain.”
“Ogier are no more Shadowspawn than I am,” Galad said dryly. “Look, they’re slaughtering the Trollocs.”
“Any moment now, they’ll all turn on us,” Golever said. “Watch . . .” He trailed off, listening to the Ogier chant their war song. One large group of Trollocs broke, fleeing back around cursing Myrddraal. The Ogier didn’t let them go. Enraged, the giant Builders chased after the Trollocs, long-handled axes chopping their legs, dropping them in sprays of blood and cries of agony.
“Well?” Trom asked.
“Maybe . . .” Golever said. “Maybe it’s a scheme of some kind. To gain our trust.”
“Don’t be a fool, Golever,” Trom said.
“I’m not—”
Galad held up a hand. “Gather our wounded. Let’s head toward the bridge.”
Rand let the swirling colors fade from his vision. “It is nearly time for me to go,” he said.
“To battle?” Moiraine asked.
“No, to Mat. He is in Ebou Dar.”
He had returned from Elayne’s camp to Merrilor. The conversation with Tam still bounced around in his head. Let go. It wasn’t nearly so easy. And yet, something had lifted from him in speaking with his father. Let go. There seemed a depth to Tam’s words, one far beyond the obvious.
Rand shook his head. He couldn’t afford to waste time on such thoughts. The Last Battle ... it had to claim his attention.
I have been able to draw close without drawing attention, he thought, fingering the deerhorn-hilted dagger at his belt. It seems to be true. The Dark One can’t sense me when I carry this.
Before he could move against the Dark One, he had to do something about the Seanchan. If what Thom said was true, Mat might be the key. The Seanchan had to join the Dragon’s Peace. If they did not . . .
“That is an expression I remember,” a soft voice said. “Consternation. You do it so well, Rand al’Thor.”
He turned toward Moiraine. Beyond her, on the table in his tent, maps that Aviendha had sent by messenger showed positions where his army could gather in the Blight.
Moiraine stepped up beside Rand
. “Did you know that I used to spend hours in thought, trying to discover what that mind of yours was conjuring? It is a wonder I did not pull every hair from my head in frustration.”
“I was a fool for not trusting you,” Rand said.
She laughed. A soft laugh, the laugh of an Aes Sedai who was in control. “You trusted me enough. That was what made it all the more frustrating that you would not share.”
Rand breathed in deeply. The air here at Merrilor was sweeter than in other places. He had coaxed the land here back to life. Grass grew. Flowers budded. “Tree stumps and men,” he said to Moiraine. “The Two Rivers has both, and one is about as likely to budge as the other.”
“Perhaps that is too harsh,” Moiraine said. “It was not merely stubbornness that drove you; it was a will to prove to yourself, and to everyone else, that you could do this on your own.” She touched his arm. “But you cannot do this on your own, can you?”
Rand shook his head. He reached up to Callandor; strapped on his back, touching it. The sword’s final secret lay bare to him now. It was a trap, and a clever one, for this weapon was a sa’angreal not for just the One Power, but for the True Power as well.
He had thrown away the access key, but on his back he carried something so very tempting. The True Power, the Dark One’s essence, was the sweetest thing he had ever touched. With Callandor; he could draw it forth in strength such as no man had ever before felt. Because Callandor lacked the safety measures of most other angreal and sa’angreal, there was no telling how much of the Powers it could draw.
“There it is again,” Moiraine murmured. “What are you planning, Rand al’Thor, Dragon Reborn? Can you finally let go enough to tell me?” He eyed her. “Did you set this entire conversation up to pull that secret from me?”
“You think very highly of my conversational abilities.”
“An answer that says nothing,” Rand said.
“Yes,” Moiraine said. “But might I point out that you did it first in deflecting my question?”
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