Knife of Dreams

by Jordan, Robert

  Tylee’s hand twitched as if it wanted to make one of those signs against evil. “That’s a fair summing up,” she said. To Perrin, not Annoura. The Seanchan woman seemed to find speaking to an Aes Sedai difficult. “Except the part about good coming of it. Oath-breaking and desertion can never be called good.”

  “I take it they’re not moving toward you, or you’d have said.” Perrin put a hint of question into that, though there was no question in his mind.

  “North,” Tylee answered. “They’re heading north.” Balwer half opened his mouth again, then shut it with a click of teeth.

  “If you have advice,” Perrin told him, “then give it. But I don’t care how many Whitecloaks desert the Seanchan. Faile is the only thing I care about. And I don’t think the Banner-General will give up the chance to collar three or four hundred more damane to chase after them.” Berelain grimaced. Annoura’s face remained smooth, but she took a long swallow of her wine. None of the Aes Sedai felt very complacent about that part of the plan. None of the Wise Ones did, either.

  “I will not,” Tylee said firmly. “I think I’ll take some wine after all.” Breane took a deep breath before moving to comply, and a hint of fear entered her scent. Apparently the tall dark woman intimidated her.

  “I won’t deny I would enjoy a chance to strike a blow at the Whitecloaks,” Balwer said in that dry-as-dust voice, “but in truth, I feel I owe this Galad Damodred a debt of gratitude.” Perhaps his grudge was against this Valda personally. “In any case, you have no need of my advice here. Events are in motion in Malden, and if they weren’t, I doubt you’d hold back even a day. Nor would I have advised it, my Lord. If I may be so bold, I am quite fond of the Lady Faile.”

  “You may,” Perrin told him. “Banner-General, you said two pieces of news?”

  The Seanchan took the proffered winecup from Breane and looked at him so levelly it was clear she was avoiding a glance at the others in the tent. “May we speak alone?” she asked quietly.

  Berelain glided across the carpet to rest a hand on his arm and smile up at him. “Annoura and I don’t mind leaving,” she said. Light, how could anyone believe there was anything between him and her? She was as beautiful as ever, true, yet the scent that had minded him of a hunting cat was so long gone from her smell that he barely remembered it. The bedrock of her scent was patience and resolve, now. She had come to accept that he loved Faile and only Faile, and she seemed as determined to see Faile freed as he was.

  “You can stay,” he said. “Whatever you have to say, Banner-General, you can say in front of everyone here.”

  Tylee hesitated, glancing at Annoura. “There are two large parties of Aiel heading toward Malden,” she said at last, reluctantly. “One to the southeast, one to the southwest. The morat’raken estimate they could be there in three days.”

  Suddenly, everything seemed to ripple in Perrin’s sight. He felt himself ripple. Breane gave a cry and dropped the pitcher. The world rippled again, and Berelain clutched his arm. Tylee’s hand seemed frozen in that odd gesture, thumb and forefinger forming a crescent. Everything rippled for a third time, and Perrin felt as if he were made of fog, as if the world were fog with a high wind coming. Berelain shuddered, and he put a comforting arm around her. She clung to him, trembling. Silence and the scent of fear filled the tent. He could hear voices being raised outside, and they sounded afraid, too.

  “What was that?” Tylee demanded finally.

  “I don’t know.” Annoura’s face remained serene, but her voice was unsteady. “Light, I have no idea.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it was,” Perrin told them. He ignored their stares. “In three days, it will all be over. That’s all that matters.” Faile was all that mattered.

  The sun stood short of its noonday peak, but Faile already felt harassed. The water for Sevanna’s morning bath—she bathed twice a day, now!—had not been hot enough, and Faile had been beaten along with everyone else, although she and Alliandre had only been there to scrub the woman’s back. More than twenty wetlander gai’shain had begged to be allowed to swear fealty just since sunrise. Three had suggested rising up, pointing out that there were more gai’shain in all these tents than Shaido. They had seemed to listen when she pointed out that nearly all of the Aiel knew how to use a spear, while most of the wetlanders were farmers or craftsfolk. Few had ever held a weapon, and fewer still used one. They had seemed to listen, but this was the first day anyone had suggested such a thing right after swearing. Usually they took several days to work themselves around to it. The pressure was building. Toward a slaughter unless she could thwart it. And now this. . . .

  “It is only a game, Faile Bashere,” Rolan said, towering over her as they walked along one of the muddy streets that wound through the Shaido tents. He sounded amused, and a very small smile curved his lips. A beautiful man to be sure.

  “A kissing game, you said.” She shifted the lengths of striped toweling folded over her arm to draw his attention. “I have work to do, and no time for games. Especially kissing games.”

  She could see a few Aiel, several of them men staggering drunk even at this hour, but most of the people in the street were wetlanders wearing dirty gai’shain robes or children splashing happily in the mud puddles left by the night’s heavy rain. The street was thronged with men and women in mud-stained white carrying baskets or buckets or pots. Some actually went about chores. There were so many gai’shain in the camp that there really was not enough work to go around. That would not stop a Shaido from ordering what were seen as idle hands to some work or other if those hands stuck out of white sleeves, however, even if it was make-work. To avoid having to dig useless holes in muddy fields or scrub pots that were already clean, a good many of the gai’shain had taken to carrying something that made them look as if they were working. That did not help anyone avoid the real work, but it did help avert the other kind. Faile did not have to worry about that with most of the Shaido, not so long as she wore those thick golden chains around her waist and neck, but the necklace and belt were inadequate for deterring Wise Ones. She had scrubbed clean pots for some of them. And sometimes had been punished for not being available when Sevanna wanted her. Thus the toweling.

  “We could start with a kissing game children play,” he said, “though the forfeits in that are sometimes embarrassing. In the game adults play, the forfeits are fun. Losing can be as pleasant as winning.”

  She could not help laughing. The man certainly was persistent. Suddenly she saw Galina hurrying through the crowd in her direction, holding her white silk robes up out of the mud, eyes searching avidly. Faile had heard the woman was allowed clothing again as of this morning. Of course, she had never been without the tall necklace and wide belt of gold and firedrops. A cap of hair less than an inch long covered her head, and of all things, a large red bow was pinned in it. It seemed unlikely that was by the woman’s choice. Only a face Faile could not put an age to convinced her that Galina really was Aes Sedai. Beyond that, she was unsure of anything about her except the danger she presented. Galina spotted her and stopped dead, hands kneading her robes. The Aes Sedai eyed Rolan uncertainly.

  “I’ll have to think on it, Rolan.” She was not about to chase him away until she was sure of Galina. “I need time to think.”

  “Women always want time to think. Think on forgetting your troubles in the pleasure of a harmless game.”

  The finger he drew softly down her cheek before walking away made her shiver. To Aiel, touching someone’s cheek in public was as much as a kiss. It surely had felt like a kiss to her. Harmless? Somehow, she doubted that any game that involved kissing Rolan would end with just kissing. Luckily, she would not have to find out—or hide anything from Perrin—if Galina proved true. If.

  The Aes Sedai darted to her as soon as Rolan was gone. “Where is it?” Galina demanded, seizing her arm. “Tell me! I know you have it. You must have it!” The woman sounded almost pleading. Therava’s treatment of her had shattered that
fabled Aes Sedai composure.

  Faile shook off her grip. “First tell me again that you will take my friends and me with you when you go. Tell me straight out. And tell me when you are going.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me that way,” Galina hissed.

  Faile saw black flecks floating in her vision before she realized that she had been slapped. To her surprise, she slapped the other woman back as hard as she could, staggering her. She refrained from putting a hand to her stinging face, but Galina rubbed her own cheek, her eyes wide with shock. Faile steeled herself, perhaps for a blow with the Power or something worse, but nothing happened. Some of the passing gai’shain stared at them, but none stopped or even slowed. Anything that looked like a gathering of gai’shain would draw Shaido eyes, and earn punishments for everyone involved.

  “Tell me,” she said again.

  “I will take you and your friends with me,” Galina practically snarled, snatching her hand down. “I leave tomorrow. If you have it. If not, Sevanna will know who you are within the hour!” Well, that was certainly speaking straight out.

  “It’s hidden in the town. I’ll get it for you now.”

  But as she turned, Galina grabbed her arm again. The Aes Sedai’s eyes darted, and she lowered her voice as if suddenly concerned about being overheard. She sounded frightened. “No. I’ll take no chances on anyone seeing. You’ll give it to me tomorrow morning. In the town. We’ll meet there. In the south end of the town. I’ll mark the building. With a red scarf.”

  Faile blinked. The southern half of Malden was a burned-out shell. “Why there?” she asked incredulously.

  “Because no one goes there, fool! Because no one will see us!” Galina’s eyes were still darting. “Tomorrow morning, early. Fail me, and you’ll regret it!” Gathering the skirts of her silk robe, she scurried away into the crowd.

  Faile frowned as she watched the woman go. She should have felt exultation, but she did not. Galina seemed almost a wild thing, unpredictable. Still, Aes Sedai could not lie. There seemed no way for her to wriggle out of her promise. And if she found one, there were still her own plans for an escape, though those seemed no further along, if much more dangerous, than they had when first begun. Which left Rolan. And his kissing games. Galina had to prove true. She had to.

  CHAPTER 27

  A Plain Wooden Box

  The midday Altaran sun was warm, though a gusting breeze sometimes whipped Rand’s cloak. They had been on the hilltop for two hours, now. A great mass of dark clouds creeping down from the north above blue-gray haze spoke of rain to come, and a cooling. Andor lay only a few miles in that direction across low, forested hills of oak and pine, leatherleaf and sourgum. That border had seen countless generations of cattle raids going in both directions. Was Elayne watching it rain in Caemlyn? That lay a good hundred and fifty leagues east, too far for her to be more than a faint presence in the back of his head. Aviendha, in Arad Doman, was fainter still. He had not considered that the Wise Ones would take her along. Still, she would be safe among tens of thousands of Aiel, as safe as Elayne behind Caemlyn’s walls. Tai’daishar stamped a hoof and tossed his head, eager to be moving. Rand patted the big black’s neck. The stallion could reach the border in under an hour, but their way was west today. A short way west in just a short while, now.

  He had to impress at today’s meeting, and he had chosen his garb with care. The Crown of Swords sat on his head for more reason than making an impression, though. Half the small swords nestled among the wide band of laurel leaves pointed down, making it uncomfortable to wear, giving constant reminders of its weight, in gold and in responsibility. A small chip in one of those laurel leaves dug at his temple to remind him of the battle against the Seanchan where it had been made. A battle lost when he could not afford to lose. His dark green silk coat was embroidered in gold on the sleeves, shoulders and high collar, a gold-inlaid buckle in the shape of a dragon fastened his swordbelt, and he had the Dragon Scepter in hand, a two-foot length of spearhead with a long green-and-white tassel below the polished steel point. If the Daughter of the Nine Moons recognized it for part of a Seanchan spear, she must also see the dragons that Maidens had carved winding around the remaining haft. Today, he wore no gloves. The golden-maned dragonheads on the backs of his hands glittered metallically in the sun. However high she stood among the Seanchan, she would know whom she faced.

  A fool. Lews Therin’s wild laughter echoed inside his head. A fool to walk into a trap. Rand ignored the madman. It might be a trap, but he was ready to spring it if it was. It was worth the risk. He needed this truce. He could crush the Seanchan, but at what cost in blood, and in time he might not have? He glanced north again. The sky above Andor was clear except for a few high white clouds, drifting wisps. The Last Battle was coming. He had to take the risk.

  Min, toying with the reins of her gray mare nearby, was feeling smug, and that irritated him. She had inveigled a promise from him in a weak moment and refused to release him. He could just break it. He should break it. As if she had heard his thoughts, she looked at him. Her face, surrounded by dark shoulder-length ringlets, was smooth, but the bond suddenly carried suspicion and hints of anger. She seemed to be trying to suppress both, yet she adjusted the cuffs of her ornately embroidered red coat the way she did when checking her knives. Of course, she would not use one of her blades on him. Of course not.

  A woman’s love can be violent, Lews Therin murmured. Sometimes they hurt a man worse than they think they have, worse than they mean to. Sometimes, they’re even sorry afterwards. He sounded sane for the moment, but Rand shoved the voice down.

  “You should let us scout farther out, Rand al’Thor,” Nandera said. She and the two dozen other Maidens on the sparsely wooded hilltop wore their black veils up. Some had their bows in hand and arrows nocked. The rest of the Maidens were among the trees well out from the hill, keeping watch against unpleasant surprises. “The land is clear all the way to the manor house, but this still smells of a trap to me.” There had been a time when words like “manor” and “house” sounded awkward on her tongue. She had been a long time in the wetlands now, though.

  “Nandera speaks truth,” Alivia muttered sullenly, heeling her roan gelding closer. Apparently the golden-haired woman still resented the fact that she would not be going with him, but her reaction to hearing her native accents in Tear made that impossible. She admitted having been shaken, but claimed it had been the surprise of the thing. He could not chance it, though. “You cannot trust any of the High Blood, especially not a daughter of the Empress, may she—” Her mouth snapped shut, and she smoothed her dark blue skirts unnecessarily, grimacing at what she had almost said. He trusted her, literally with his life, but she had too many deep-buried instincts to risk putting her face-to-face with the woman he was going to meet. The bond carried anger with no effort to suppress it, now. Min disliked seeing Alivia near him.

  “It smells of a trap to me, too,” Bashere said, easing his sinuously curved sword in its scabbard. He was plainly clad, in burnished helmet and breastplate, his gray silk coat alone marking him out from the eighty-one Saldaean lancers arrayed around the hilltop. His thick, down-curved mustaches almost bristled behind the face-bars of his helmet. “I’d give ten thousand crowns to know how many soldiers she has out there. And how many damane. This Daughter of the Nine Moons is the heir to their throne, man.” He had been shocked when Alivia revealed that. No one in Ebou Dar had mentioned it to him, as if it were of no importance. “They may claim their control ends far south of here, but you can wager she has at least a small army to see to her safety.”

  “And if our scouts find this army,” Rand replied calmly, “can we be sure they won’t be seen?” Nandera made a scornful sound. “Best not to assume you’re the only one with eyes,” he told her. “If they think we’re planning to attack them or kidnap the woman, everything falls apart.” Maybe that was why they had kept their secret. The Imperial heir would be a more tempting target for a kidnapping
than a mere high-ranking noblewoman. “You just keep watch to make sure they don’t catch us by surprise. If it all goes wrong, Bashere, you know what to do. Besides, she may have an army, but so do I, and not so small.” Bashere had to nod at that.

  Aside from the Saldaeans and the Maidens, the hilltop was crowded with Asha’man and Aes Sedai and Warders, better than twenty-five all told, and as formidable a group as any small army. They mingled with surprising ease, and few outward signs of tension. Oh, Toveine, a short, coppery-skinned Red, was scowling at Logain, but Gabrelle, a dusky Brown with sooty green eyes, was talking with him quite companionably, perhaps even coquettishly. That might have been the reason for Toveine’s scowl, though disapproval seemed more likely than jealousy. Adrielle and Kurin each had an arm around the other’s waist, though she was tall enough to overtop the Domani Asha’man, and beautiful where he was plain and had gray at his temples. Not to mention that he had bonded the Gray against her will. Beldeine, new enough to the shawl that she simply looked like any young Saldaean woman with slightly tilted brown eyes, reached out every now and then to touch Manfor, and he smiled at her whenever she did. Her bonding of him had been a shock, but apparently the yellow-haired man had been more than willing. Neither had asked Rand his opinion before the bonding.

  Strangest of all perhaps were Jenare, pale and sturdy in a gray riding dress embroidered with red on the skirts, and Kajima, a clerkish fellow in his middle years who wore his hair like Narishma, in two braids with silver bells at the ends. She laughed at something Kajima said, and murmured something that made him laugh in turn. A Red joking with a man who could channel! Maybe Taim had effected a change for the better, whatever he had intended. And maybe Rand al’Thor was living in a dream, too. Aes Sedai were famous for their dissembling. But could a Red dissemble that far?