A Crown of Swords twot-7

by Robert Jordan

  Rand stepped away from Min to fetch his boots from beside the wardrobe and take a rolled pair of stockings from inside. "I'll join you in the anteroom as soon as I'm booted, Dashiva."

  The plain-faced Asha'man gave a start. He had been frowning at Adley. "As you command, my Lord Dragon," he said, pressing fist to heart.

  Waiting until the four men were gone, Rand sat down in a chair with a feeling of relief and began pulling on his stockings. He was sure his legs felt stronger just for being up and moving. Stronger, but they still did not want to support him very well.

  "Are you sure this is wise?" Min said, kneeling beside his chair, and he gave her a startled look. If he had talked in his sleep during those two days, the Aes Sedai would have known. Amys would have had Enaila and Somara and fifty more Maidens waiting when he woke.

  He tugged the stocking the rest of the way up. "Do you have a viewing?"

  Min sat back on her heels, folded her arms beneath her breasts and gave him a firm look. After a moment, she decided it was not working and sighed. "It's Cadsuane. She is going to teach you something, you and the Asha'man. All the Asha'man, I mean. It's something you have to learn, but I don't know what it is, except that none of you will like learning it from her. You aren't going to like it at all."

  Rand paused with a boot in hand, then stuffed his foot in. What could Cadsuane, or any Aes Sedai, teach the Asha'man? Women could not teach men, or men women; that was as hard a fact as the One Power itself. "We will see" was all he said.

  Plainly that did not satisfy Min. She knew it would happen, and so did he; she was never wrong. But what could Cadsuane possibly teach him? What would he let her teach him? The woman made him unsure of himself, uneasy in a way he had not felt since before the Stone of Tear fell.

  Stamping his foot to settle it in the second boot, he fetched his sword belt from the wardrobe, and a red coat worked in gold, the same he had worn to the Sea Folk. "What bargain did Merana make for me?" he asked, and she made an exasperated sound in her throat.

  "None, as of this morning," she said impatiently. "She and Rafela haven't left the ship since we did, but they've sent half a dozen messages asking if you're well enough to return. I don't think the bargaining has gone well for them without you. I suppose it's too much to hope that's where you're going."

  "Not yet," he told her. Min said nothing, but she said it very loudly, fists on her hips and one eyebrow raised high. Well, she would know most of it soon enough.

  In the anteroom, all the Asha'man except Dashiva sprang out of their chairs when Rand appeared with Min. Staring at nothing and talking to himself, Dashiva did not notice until Rand reached the Rising Sun set in the floor, and then he blinked several times before rising.

  Rand addressed himself to Adley while fastening the Dragon-shaped buckle of his sword belt. "The army's reached the hillforts in Illian already?" He wanted to take one of the gilded armchairs, but would not let himself. "How? It should have been several more days at the best. At best." Flinn and Narishma looked as startled as Dashiva; none of them had known where Adley and Hopwil had gone — or Morr. Deciding who to trust was always the difficulty, and trust a razor's edge.

  Adley drew himself up. There was something about his eyes, beneath those thick eyebrows. He had seen the wolf, as they said in Cairhien. "The High Lord Weiramon left the foot behind and pressed forward with the horse," he said, reporting stiffly. "The Aiel kept up, of course." He frowned. "We encountered Aiel yesterday. Shaido; I don't know how they got there. There were maybe nine or ten thousand, altogether, but they didn't seem to have any Wise Ones who could channel with them, and they didn't really slow us down. We reached the hillforts at noon today."

  Rand wanted to snarl. Leaving the foot behind! Did Weiramon think he was going to take palisaded forts on hilltops with horsemen? Probably. The man probably would have left the Aiel behind too, if he could have outrun them. Fool nobles and their fool honor! Still, it did not matter. Except to the men who died because the High Lord Weiramon was contemptuous of anyone who did not fight from horseback.

  "Eben and I began destroying the first palisades soon as we arrived," Adley went on. "Weiramon didn't much like that; I think he would have stopped us, but he was afraid to. Anyway, we began setting fire to the logs and blowing holes in the walls, but before we more than started, Sammael came. A man channeling saidin , at least, and a lot stronger than Eben or me. As strong as you, my Lord Dragon, I'd say."

  "He was there right away?" Rand said incredulously, but then he understood. He had been sure Sammael would stay safe in Illian behind defenses woven of the Power if he thought he had to face Rand; too many of the Forsaken had tried, and most were dead now. In spite of himself, Rand laughed — and had to hug his side; laughing hurt. All that elaborate deception to convince Sammael he would be anywhere but with the invading army, to bring the man out of Illian, and all made unnecessary by a knife in Padan Fain's hand. Two days. By this time, everybody who had eyes-and-ears in Cairhien — which certainly included the Forsaken — knew that the Dragon Reborn lay on the edge of death. As well toss wet wood on the fire as think otherwise. "Men scheme and women plot, but the Wheel weaves as it will"; that was how they said it in Tear. "Go on," he said. "Morr was with you last night?"

  "Yes, my Lord Dragon; Fedwin comes every night, just like he's supposed to. Last night, it was plain as Eben's nose we'd reach the forts today."

  "I don't understand any of this." Dashiva sounded upset; a muscle in his cheek was twitching. "You've lured him out, but to what purpose? As soon as he feels a man channel with anything near your strength, he'll flee back to Illian and whatever traps and alarms he has woven. You won't get at him there; he will know as soon as a gateway opens within a mile of the city."

  "We can save the army," Adley burst out, "that's what we can do. Weiramon was still sending charges against that fort when I left, and Sammael cuts every one to rags despite anything Eben or I can do." He shifted the arm with the singed sleeve. "We have to strike back and run immediately, and even so, he nearly burned us where we stood, more than once. The Aiel are taking casualties too. They're only fighting the Illianers who come out — the other hillforts must be emptying, so many were coming when I left — but any time Sammael sees fifty of us together, Aiel or anybody, he rips them apart. If there were three of him, or even two, I'm not sure I'd find anybody alive when I go back." Dashiva stared at him as if at a madman, and Adley shrugged suddenly, as though feeling the lightness of his bare black collar compared with the sword and Dragon on the older man's. "Forgive me, Asha'man," he muttered, abashed, then added in a still lower voice, "But we can at least save them."

  "We will," Rand assured him. Just not the way Adley expected. "You're all going to help me kill Sammael today." Only Dashiva looked startled; the other men just nodded. Not even the Forsaken frightened them anymore.

  Rand expected argument out of Min, maybe a demand to come along, but she surprised him. "I expect you would as soon no one found out you're gone before they have to, sheepherder." He nodded and she sighed. Perhaps the Forsaken had to depend on pigeons and eyes-and-ears just like anyone else, but being too sure could be fatal.

  "The Maidens will want to come if they know, Min." They would want to, and he would be hard-pressed to refuse. If he could refuse. Yet the disappearance even of Nandera and whoever she had on guard might be too much.

  Min sighed again. "I suppose I could go talk to Nandera. I might be able to keep them out in the hallway for an hour, but they won't be pleased with me when they find out." He almost laughed again before he remembered his side; they definitely would not be pleased with her, or with him. "More to the point, farmboy, Amys won't be pleased. Or Sorilea. The things I let you get me into."

  He opened his mouth to tell her he had not asked her to do anything, yet before he could utter a word, she moved very close. Looking up at him through long lashes, she put a hand on his chest, tapping her fingers. She smiled warmly and kept her voice soft, but the fingers we
re a giveaway. "If you let anything happen to you, Rand al'Thor, I'll give Cadsuane a hand whether she needs one or not." Her smile brightened for a moment, almost cheerily, before she turned for the doors. He watched her go; she might make his head spin sometimes — nearly every woman he had ever met had done that at least a time or two — but she did have a way of walking that made him want to watch.

  Abruptly he realized Dashiva was watching as well. And licking his lips. Rand cleared his throat loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the door closing behind her. For some reason, the plain-faced man raised his hands defensively. It was not as though Rand glared at him; he could not go around glaring at men just because Min wore tight breeches. Surrounding himself with the emptiness of the Void, he seized saidin and forced frozen fire and molten filth into the weaves for a gateway. Dashiva leaped back as it opened. Maybe having a hand sliced off would teach the man not to lick his lips like a goat. Something crooked and red spiderwebbed across the outside of the Void.

  He stepped through onto bare dirt, with Dashiva and the others right behind, releasing the Source as soon as the last stepped clear. A sense of loss rushed in as saidin left, as awareness of Alanna dwindled. The loss had not seemed so great while Lews Therin was there; not so huge.

  Overhead, the golden sun was more than halfway down to the horizon. A gust of wind swept dust from under his boots without leaving any coolness behind. The gateway had opened in a cleared area, marked off by a rope strung between four wooden posts. At each corner stood a pair of guards in short coats and baggy trousers stuffed into their boots, swords that appeared slightly serpentine hanging at their sides. Some had heavy mustaches that hung to their chins or thick beards, and all had bold noses and dark eyes that seemed tilted. As soon as Rand appeared, one of them went running.

  "What are we doing here?" Dashiva said, looking about incredulously.

  Around them stretched hundreds of sharp-peaked tents, gray and dusty white, tents and picket lines of already saddled horses. Caemlyn lay not many miles away, hidden behind the trees, and the Black Tower not much farther, but Taim would not know of this unless he had a spy watching. One of Fedwin Morr's tasks had been to listen — to feel — for anyone trying to spy. In a ripple of murmurs spreading outward from the ropes, men with bold noses and serpentine swords rose from their heels and turned to stare expectantly toward Rand. Here and there women stood as well; Saldaean women often rode to the wars with their husbands, at least among the nobles and officers. There would be none of that today, though.

  Ducking under the rope, Rand strode directly to a tent no different from any other except for the banner on the staff in front, three simple red blossoms on a field of blue. The kingspenny did not die back even in Saldaean winters, and when fires blackened the forests, those red flowers were always the first to reappear. A blossom nothing could kill: the sign of House Bashere.

  Inside the tent, Bashere himself was already booted and spurred, and his sword on his hip. Ominously, Deira was with him, in a riding dress the same shade as her husband's gray coat, and if she wore no sword, the long dagger at her belt of heavy silver roundels would do to go on with. The leather gauntlets tucked behind that belt spoke of someone meaning to ride hard.

  "I hadn't expected this for days yet," Bashere said, rising from a folding camp chair. "Weeks, I hoped, in truth. I had hoped to have most of Taim's leavings armed the way young Mat and I planned — I've gathered every maker of crossbows I could find into a manufactory, and they're starting to produce them like a sow dropping piglets — but as it is, no more than fifteen thousand have crossbows and know what to do with them." With a questioning look, he lifted a silver pitcher from atop the maps spread out on his folding table. "Do we have time for punch?"

  "No punch," Rand said impatiently. Bashere had spoken before about the men Taim found who could not learn to channel, but he had scarcely listened. If Bashere thought he had trained them well enough, that was all that mattered. "Dashiva and three more Asha'man are waiting outside; as soon as Morr joins them, we'll be ready." He eyed Deira ni Ghaline t'Bashere, towering over her diminutive husband with her hawk's beak of a nose and her eyes that made a hawk's look mild. "No punch, Lord Bashere. And no wives. Not today."

  Deira opened her mouth, her dark eyes all but glowing suddenly.

  "No wives," Bashere said, knuckling his heavy gray-streaked mustaches. "I will pass the order." Turning to Deira, he held out his hand. "Wife," he said mildly. Rand winced, mild tone or no, and waited for the eruption.

  Deira's mouth thinned. She scowled down at her husband, a hawk ready to stoop on a mouse. Not that Bashere looked anything like a mouse, of course; just a much smaller hawk. She drew a deep breath; Deira could make drawing a deep breath seem a thing that should cause the earth to tremble. And unhooking her sheathed dagger from her belt, she laid it in her husband's hand. "We will talk of this later, Davram," she said. "At length."

  One day when he had time, Rand decided, he was going to make Bashere explain how he did that. If there ever was time.

  "At length," Bashere agreed, grinning through his mustaches as he stuffed the dagger behind his own belt. Maybe the man was simply suicidal.

  The rope had been taken down outside, and Rand stood waiting with Dashiva and the other Asha'man while nine thousand Saldaean light horse arrayed themselves behind Bashere in a column of threes. Somewhere behind them, fifteen thousand men who called themselves the Legion of the Dragon would be gathering afoot. Rand had glimpsed them, every one in a blue coat made to button up the side so the red-and-gold Dragon across the chest would not be broken. Most carried steel-armed crossbows; some bore heavy unwieldy shields instead, but not one carried a pike. Whatever odd notion Mat and Bashere had cooked up, Rand hoped it would not lead a lot of this legion to death.

  Morr grinned eagerly while he waited, all but bouncing on his toes. Perhaps he was simply glad to be back in his black coat with the silver sword on his collar, yet Adley and Narishma wore almost identical grins, and for that matter, Flinn's was not far off. They knew where they were going now, and what to do there. Dashiva scowled at nothing as usual, his lips moving silently. As usual. Also silent, scowling, were the Saldaean women gathered behind Deira, watching from one side. Eagles and falcons, feathers ruffled and furious. Rand did not care how they grimaced and frowned; if he could face Nandera and the rest of the Maidens after keeping them back from this, then the Saldaean men could put up with any number of lengthy discussions. Today, the Light willing, no women would die because of him.

  So many men could not be lined up in a minute, even when they had been awaiting the order, but in a remarkably short time, Bashere raised his sword and called, "My Lord Dragon!"

  A shout rippled down the great column behind him. "The Lord Dragon!"

  Seizing the Source, Rand made a gateway between the posts, four paces by four, and ran through as he tied off the weave, filled with saidin and the Asha'man on his heels, into a great open square surrounded by huge white columns, each topped with a marble wreath of olive branches. At the two ends of the square stood nearly identical purple-roofed palaces of columned walks and high balconies and slender spires. Those were the King's Palace and the slightly smaller Great Hall of the Council, and this was the Square of Tammuz, in the heart of Illian.

  A skinny man in a blue coat, with a beard that left his upper lip bare, stood gaping at the sight of Rand and the black coated Asha'man leaping out of a hole in midair, and a stout woman, in a green dress cut high enough to show green slippers and her ankles in green stockings, pressed both hands to her face and stood rooted right in front of them, her dark eyes popping. All the people were stopping to stare, hawkers with their trays, carters halting their oxen, men and women and children with their mouths hanging open.

  Rand thrust his hands high and channeled. "I am the Dragon Reborn!" The words boomed across the square, amplified by Air and Fire, and flames shot up from his hands a hundred feet. Behind him, the Asha'man filled the sky with ball
s of fire streaking in every direction. All save Dashiva, who made blue lightnings crackle in a jagged web above the square.

  No more was needed. A shrieking flood of humanity fled in all directions, away from the Square of Tammuz. They fled just in time. Rand and the Asha'man darted aside from the gateway, and Davram Bashere led his wildly screaming Saldaeans into Illian, a flood of horsemen waving their swords as they poured out. Straight ahead Bashere led the center line of the column, just as they had planned what seemed so long ago, while the other two lines peeled off to either side. They streamed away from the gateway, breaking apart into smaller groups, galloping into the streets leading out of the square.

  Rand did not wait to see the last of the horsemen exit. With well under a third out of the gateway, he immediately wove another, smaller opening. You did not need to know a place at all to Travel if you only intended to go a very short distance. Around him he felt Dashiva and the rest weaving their gateways, but he was already stepping through his own, letting it close behind him atop one of the slender towers of the King's Palace. Absently he wondered whether Mattin Stepaneos den Balgar, the King of Illian, was somewhere below him at that moment.

  The top of the spire stretched no more than five paces across, surrounded by a wall of red stone not quite chest-high on him. At fifty paces, it was the highest point in all of the city. From there he could see across rooftops glittering beneath the afternoon sun, red and green and every color, to the long earthen causeways that cut through the vast tall-grass marsh surrounding city and harbor. A sharp tang of salt hung in the air. Illian had no need of walls, with that all-enveloping marsh to stop an attacker. Any attacker who could not make holes in the air. But then, walls would have done no good either.

  It was a pretty city, the buildings mainly of pale dressed stone, a city crisscrossed by as many canals as streets, like traceries of blue-green from this height, but he did not stop to admire it. Low across the roofs of taverns and shops and spired palaces he directed flows of Air and Water, Fire and Earth and Spirit, turning as he did so. He did not try to weave the flows, simply swept them out over the city and a good mile out over the marsh. From five other towers came flows sweeping low, and where they touched one another uncontrolled, light flashed and sparks flared and clouds of colored steam burst, a display any Illuminator might have envied. A better way to frighten people under their beds and out of the way of Bashere's soldiers, he could not imagine, though that was not the reason for it.