The Fires of Heaven

by Jordan, Robert

  The lamps did not seem to be bothering either of the women, so she left them alight and sat on the floor between the beds. They should help keep her awake. Not that she knew why she should remain awake, really. She had done what she could as much as Nynaeve had. Unthinkingly she leaned back against the front wall, and her chin sank slowly to her chest.

  The dream was a pleasant one, if odd. Rand knelt before her, and she put a hand on his head and bonded him as her Warder. One of her Warders; she would have to choose Green now, with Birgitte. There were other women there, faces changing between one glance and the next. Nynaeve, Min, Moiraine, Aviendha, Berelain, Amathera, Liandrin, others she did not know. Whoever they were, she knew that she had to share him with them, because in the dream she was certain that that was what Min had viewed. She was not sure how she felt about that—some of those faces she wanted to claw to shreds—but if it was fated by the Pattern, it would have to be. Yet she would have one thing of him the others could never have, the bond between Warder and Aes Sedai.

  “Where is this place?” Berelain said, raven-haired and so beautiful that Elayne wanted to bare her teeth. The woman wore the low-cut red dress that Luca wanted Nynaeve to wear; she always dressed revealingly. “Wake up. This is not Tel’aran’rhiod.”

  Elayne started awake to find Birgitte leaning over the side of the bed, gripping her arm weakly. Her face was too pale, and damp with sweat as if a fever had broken, but her blue eyes were sharp and intent on Elayne’s face.

  “This is not Tel’aran’rhiod.” It was not a question, but Elayne nodded, and Birgitte sank back with a long sigh. “I remember everything,” she whispered. “I am here as I am, and I remember. All is changed. Gaidal is out there, somewhere, an infant, or even a young boy. But even if I find him, what will he think of a woman more than old enough to be his mother?” She scrubbed angrily at her eyes, muttering, “I do not cry. I never cry. I remember that, the Light help me. I never cry.”

  Elayne got up on her knees beside the woman’s bed. “You will find him, Birgitte.” She kept her voice low. Nynaeve still seemed sound asleep—a small, rasping snore rose from her regularly—but she needed rest, not to confront this all over again now. “Somehow you will. And he will love you. I know he will.”

  “Do you think that is what matters? I could stand him not loving me.” Her glistening eyes gave her the lie. “He will need me, Elayne, and I will not be there. He always has more courage than is good for him; I always must supply him with caution. Worse, he will wander, searching for me, not knowing what he is looking for, not knowing why he feels incomplete. We are always together, Elayne. Two halves of a whole.” The tears welled up, flowing across her face. “Moghedien said she would make me cry forever, and she . . .” Suddenly her features contorted; low ragged sobs came as if ripped from her throat.

  Elayne gathered the taller woman into her arms, murmuring words of comfort she knew were useless. How would she feel if Rand were taken away from her? The thought was nearly enough to make her put her head down atop Birgitte’s and join her weeping.

  She was not sure how long it took Birgitte to cry herself out, but eventually she pushed Elayne away and settled back, wiping her cheeks with her fingers. “I have never done that except as a small child. Never.” Twisting her neck, she frowned at Nynaeve, still asleep on the other bed. “Did Moghedien hurt her badly? I have not seen anyone trussed like that since the Tourag took Mareesh.” Elayne must have looked confused, because she added, “In another Age. Is she hurt?”

  “Not badly. Her spirit, mainly. What you did allowed her to escape, but only after . . .” Elayne could not make herself say it. Too many wounds were too fresh. “She blames herself. She thinks that . . . everything . . . is her fault, for asking you to help.”

  “If she had not asked me, Moghedien would be teaching her to beg right now. She has as little caution as Gaidal.” Birgitte’s dry tone sounded odd with her wet cheeks. “She did not drag me into this by my hair. If she claims responsibility for the consequences, then she claims responsibility for my actions.” If anything, she sounded angry. “I am a free woman, and I made my own choices. She did not decide for me.”

  “I must say you are taking this better than . . . I would.” She could not say “better than Nynaeve.” That was true, but the other was as well.

  “I always say, if you must mount the gallows, give a jest to the crowd, a coin to the hangman, and make the drop with a smile on your lips.” Birgitte’s smile was grim. “Moghedien sprang the trap, but my neck is not yet snapped. Perhaps I will surprise her before it is done.” The smile faded into a frown as she studied Elayne. “I can . . . feel you. I think I could close my eyes and point to you a mile away.”

  Elayne took a very deep breath. “I bonded you as a Warder,” she said in a rush. “You were dying, and Healing did no good, and . . .” The woman was looking at her. Not frowning anymore, but her eyes were disconcertingly sharp. “There was no other choice, Birgitte. You would have died, else.”

  “A Warder,” Birgitte said slowly. “I think I remember hearing a tale of a female Warder, but it was in a life so long ago that I cannot remember more than that.”

  It was time for another deep breath, and this time she had to force the words. “There is something you should know. You will discover it sooner or later, and I’ve decided not to keep things from people who have a right to know, not unless I absolutely must.” A third breath. “I am not Aes Sedai. I am only Accepted.”

  For a long moment, the golden-braided woman stared up at her, then slowly shook her head. “An Accepted. In the Trolloc Wars, I knew an Accepted who bonded a fellow. Barashelle was due to be tested the next day for raising to full Aes Sedai, and certain to be given the shawl, but she was afraid that a woman testing that same day would take him. In the Trolloc Wars, the Tower tried to raise women as quickly as possible, from necessity.”

  “What happened?” Elayne could not stop herself from asking. Barashelle? That name sounded familiar.

  Lacing her fingers over the blanket atop her bosom, Birgitte shifted her head on the pillow and put on a look of mock sympathy. “Needless to say, she was not allowed to take the tests once it was discovered. Necessity did not outweigh such an offense. They made her pass the poor fellow’s bond to another, and to teach her patience, put her into the kitchens among the scullions and spit-girls. I heard that she stayed there three years, and when she did receive her shawl, the Amyrlin Seat herself chose her Warder, a leather-faced, stone-stubborn man named Anselan. I saw them a few years after, and I could not tell which of them gave the commands. I do not think Barashelle was certain either.”

  “Not pleasant,” Elayne muttered. Three years in the . . . Wait. Barashelle and Anselan? It could not be the same pair; that story said nothing about Barashelle being Aes Sedai. But she had read two versions and heard Thom tell another, and all had Barashelle doing some long, arduous service to earn Anselan’s love. Two thousand years could change a great deal in a story.

  “Not pleasant,” Birgitte agreed, and suddenly her eyes were much too large and innocent in her pale face. “I suppose, since you wish me to keep your dreadful secret, you will not ride me as hard as some Aes Sedai ride their Warders. It would not do to push me to tell just to escape you.”

  Elayne’s chin came up instinctively. “That sounds very like a threat. I do not take well to threats, from you or anyone else. If you think—”

  The reclining woman caught her arm and cut her off apologetically; her grip was noticeably stronger. “Please. I did not intend it that way. Gaidal claims I have a sense of humor like a rock tossed into a shoja-circle.” A cloud swept across her face at Gaidal’s name, and was gone. “You saved my life, Elayne. I will keep your secret and serve you as Warder. And be your friend, if you will have me.”

  “I will be proud to have you for friend.” Shoja-circle? She would ask another time. Birgitte might be stronger, but she needed rest, not questions. “And for Warder.” It seemed that she really was
going to choose the Green Ajah; aside from everything else, that was the only way she could bond Rand. The dream was still clear in her mind, and she intended to convince him to accept it one way or another. “Perhaps you could try to . . . moderate . . . your sense of humor?”

  “I will try.” Birgitte sounded as if she were saying she would try to pick up a mountain. “But if I am to be your Warder, even in secret, then I will be Warder to you. You can barely hold your eyes open. It is time for you to sleep.” Elayne’s eyebrows and chin shot up together, but the woman gave her no opportunity to speak. “Among many other things, it is a Warder’s place to tell his—her—Aes Sedai when she pushes herself too hard. Also to provide a dose of caution when she thinks she can walk into the Pit of Doom. And to keep her alive so she can do what she must. I will do these things for you. Never fear for your back when I am near, Elayne.”

  She did need sleep, she supposed, but Birgitte needed it more. Elayne dimmed the lamps and got the woman settled and asleep, though not until Birgitte had seen her put a pillow and blankets on the floor between the beds for herself. There was some slight argument over who would sleep on the floor, but Birgitte was still weak enough that Elayne had no trouble making her stay in the bed. Well, not very much anyway. At least Nynaeve’s soft snore never broke.

  She herself did not go to sleep immediately, whatever she had told Birgitte. The woman could not put her nose outside the wagon until she had something to wear, and she was taller than Elayne or Nynaeve. Sitting down between the beds, Elayne began letting out the hem on her dark gray silk riding dress. There would hardly be time in the morning for more than a quick fitting and stitching the new hem. Sleep overtook her with her ripping no more than half done.

  She had the dream of bonding Rand again, more than once. Sometimes he knelt voluntarily, and sometimes she had to do what she had done with Birgitte, even sneaking into his bedchamber while he slept. Birgitte was one of the other women now. Elayne did not mind that too much. Not her, or Min, or Egwene, or Aviendha, or Nynaeve, though she could not imagine what Lan would say to that last. Others, though . . . She had just ordered Birgitte, in a Warder’s color-shifting cloak, to drag Berelain and Elaida to the kitchens for three years, when suddenly the two women began pummeling her. She awakened to find Nynaeve trampling her to reach Birgitte and check on the woman. The gray light just before dawn showed in the small windows.

  Birgitte woke claiming she was as strong as ever, and ravenous besides. Elayne was not certain whether Nynaeve had finished her bout of self-blame. She did not wring her hands or speak of it, but while Elayne washed her face and hands, and explained about the menagerie and why they had to remain with it a while longer, Nynaeve hastily peeled and cored red pears and yellow apples, sliced cheese, and handed it all to Birgitte on a plate with a cup of watered wine with honey and spices. She would have fed the woman had Birgitte let her. Nynaeve washed Birgitte’s hair in white henpepper herself, until it was as black as Elayne’s—Elayne did her own, of course—donated her best stockings and shift, and looked disappointed when a pair of Elayne’s slippers fit better. She insisted on helping Birgitte into the gray silk as soon as her hair had been toweled dry and braided again—the hips and bosom needed letting out, too, but that would have to wait—and even wanted to stitch the hem herself, until Elayne’s incredulous stare made her retreat to her own ablutions, muttering as she scrubbed her face that she could sew as well as anyone. When she wanted to.

  When they went outside at last, the first sharp golden edge of the sun was peeking above the trees to the east. For this little while, the day felt deceptively comfortable. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky, and by noon the air would be hot and gritty.

  Thom and Juilin were hitching the team to the wagon, and the whole camp bustled in preparation for moving. Skulker was already saddled, and Elayne made a note to herself to speak up about riding today herself before one of the men took possession of the saddle. Even if Thom or Juilin got there first, though, she would not be too disappointed. This very afternoon she would highwalk in front of people for the first time. The costume Luca had shown her made her a little nervous, but at least she was not moaning about it as Nynaeve did.

  Luca himself came striding rapidly through the camp, red cloak fluttering behind, chivvying and shouting unneeded instructions. “Latelle, wake those bloody bears! I want them on their feet, snarling, when we drive through Samara. Clarine, you watch those dogs this time. If one of them goes chasing after a cat again . . . Brugh, you and your brothers do your tumbling just ahead of my wagon, mind. Just ahead. This is supposed to be a stately procession, not a race to see which of you can backflip the fastest! Cerandin, keep those boar-horses in hand. I want people to gasp in amazement, not run in terror!”

  He stopped at their wagon, glowering at Nynaeve and herself equally with a bit left over for Birgitte. “Kind of you to decide to come with the rest of us, Mistress Nana, my Lady Morelin. I thought you meant to sleep until midday.” He nodded toward Birgitte. “Having a chat with someone from across the river, are you? Well, we’ve no time for visitors. I mean to be set up and performing by noon.”

  Nynaeve looked taken aback by the onslaught, but by the end of his second sentence she was meeting him glare for glare. Whatever her awkwardness toward Birgitte, it apparently did not hinder her temper where others were concerned. “We will be ready as soon as anyone, and you know it, Valan Luca. Besides, an hour or two will make no difference anyway. There are enough people gathered on the other side of the river that if one in a hundred comes to your show it will be more than you ever dreamed. If we decide to make a leisurely breakfast, you can just twiddle your thumbs and wait. You’ll not get what you want if you leave us behind.”

  That was her bluntest reminder yet of the promised hundred gold marks, but for once it did not slow him. “Enough people? Enough people! People must be attracted, woman. Chin Akima has been in place three days, and he has a fellow who juggles swords and axes. And nine acrobats. Nine! Some woman I’ve never heard of has two women acrobats who do things on a hanging rope that would make the Chavanas’ eyes pop. You would not believe the crowds. Sillia Cerano has men with their faces painted like court fools, splashing each other with water and hitting each other over the head with bladders, and people are paying an extra silver penny just to watch!” Suddenly his eyes narrowed, focusing on Birgitte. “Would you be willing to paint your face? Sillia doesn’t have a woman among her fools. Some of the horse handlers would be willing. It doesn’t hurt, getting hit with an inflated bladder, and I will pay you. . . .” He trailed off, musing—he did not like parting with money any more than Nynaeve did—and Birgitte spoke into his momentary silence.

  “I am not a fool, and will not be a fool. I am an archer.”

  “An archer,” he muttered, eyeing the intricate glossy black braid pulled over her left shoulder. “And I suppose you call yourself Birgitte. What are you? One of those idiots hunting the Horn of Valere? Even if the thing exists, what chance any one of you will find it more than another? I was in Illian when the Hunters’ oaths were given, and there were thousands in the Great Square of Tammaz. But for glory that you can attain, nothing can outshine the applause of—”

  “I am an archer, pretty man,” Birgitte broke in firmly. “Fetch a bow, and I will outshoot you or anyone you name, a hundred gold crowns to your one.” Elayne expected Nynaeve to yelp—it was they who would have to cover the wager if Birgitte lost, and whatever she claimed, Elayne did not think Birgitte could be fully recovered already—yet all Nynaeve did was close her eyes briefly and draw a deep, long breath.

  “Women!” Luca growled. Thom and Juilin did not have to look as if they agreed. “You are a fine match for the Lady Morelin and Nana, or whatever their names are.” He swept his silk cloak in a wide gesture at the surrounding hustle of men and horses. “It may have escaped your keen eye, Birgitte, but I have a show to get under way, and my rivals are already draining Samara of coin like the cutpurses the
y are.”

  Birgitte smiled, a slight curving of her lips. “Are you afraid, pretty man? We can make your side a silver penny.”

  Elayne thought Luca might have apoplexy from the color that crept into his face. His neck suddenly looked too big for his collar. “I will fetch my bow,” he almost hissed. “You can work off the hundred marks with your face painted, or cleaning cages for all I care!”

  “Are you sure that you are well enough?” Elayne asked Birgitte as he stalked off muttering to himself. The only word she caught was a repeat of “Women!” Nynaeve was looking at the woman with the braid as if she wanted the ground to open and swallow her; herself, not Birgitte. A number of the horse handlers had gathered around Thom and Juilin for some reason.

  “He has nice legs,” Birgitte said, “but I have never liked tall men. Add a pretty face, and they are always insufferable.”

  Petra had joined the group of men, twice as wide as any other. He said something, then shook hands with Thom. The Chavanas were there as well. And Latelle, talking earnestly with Thom while darting dark looks at Nynaeve and the two women with her. By the time Luca returned with an unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows, no one was making preparations any longer. The wagons and horses and cages—even the tethered boar-horses—stood abandoned, the people all clustered around Thom and the thief-catcher. They followed as Luca led the way a short distance out of the camp.

  “I am accounted a fair shot,” he said, carving a white cross chest-high to himself on the trunk of a tall oak. He had some of his jauntiness back, and he swaggered as he strode off fifty paces. “I will take the first shot, so you can see what you face.”