"The women who guarded you today, for a start," she said, without so much as pretending to pause for thought, "and a few more that I'll pick. Maybe twenty or so, altogether. Too few can't protect you day and night, and you bloody well must be," she put in firmly, though Elayne had not offered any protest. "Women can guard you where men can't, and they'll be discreet just by being who they are. Most people will think they're ceremonial—your very own Maidens of the Spear—and we'll give them something, a sash maybe, to make them look more so." That earned her a very sharp look from Aviendha, which she affected not to notice. "The problem is who to command," she said, frowning in thought. "Two or three nobles, Hunters, are already arguing for rank 'sufficient to their station.' The bloody women know how to give orders, but I'm not sure they know the right bloody orders to give. I could promote Caseille to lieutenant, but she's more a bannerman at heart, I think." Birgitte shrugged. "Maybe one of the others will show promise, but I think they are better followers than leaders."
Oh, yes; all thought out. Twenty or so? She would have to keep a close eye on Birgitte to make sure the number did not climb to fifty. Or more. Able to guard her where men could not. Elayne winced. That probably meant guards watching her bathe at the very least. "Caseille will do, surely. A bannerman can handle twenty." She was certain she could talk Caseille into keeping it all unobtrusive. And keeping the guards outside while she took a bath. "The man who arrived just in the nick of time. Mellar? What do you know of him, Birgitte?"
"Doilin Mellar," Birgitte said slowly, her brows drawing down as a sharp angle. "A coldhearted fellow, though he smiles a lot. Mainly at women. He pinches serving girls, and he's tumbled three in four days that I know of—he likes to talk about his 'conquests'—but he hasn't pressed anyone who said no. He claims to have been a merchant's guard and then a mercenary, and now a Hunter for the Horn, and he certainly has the skills. Enough that I made him a lieutenant. He's Andoran, from somewhere out west, near Baerlon, and he says he fought for your mother during the Succession, though he couldn't have been much more than a boy at the time. Anyway, he knows the right answers—I checked—so maybe he was involved in it. Mercenaries lie about their pasts without thinking twice."
Folding her hands on her middle, Elayne considered Doilin Mellar. She remembered only the impression of a wiry man with a sharp face, choking one of her assailants while they struggled over the poisoned dagger. A man with enough of a soldier's skills that Birgitte had made him an officer. She was trying to make sure that as many as possible of the officers, at least, were Andoran. A rescue just in time, one man against three, and a sword hurled across the room like a spear; very much like a gleeman's tale. "He deserves a suitable reward. A promotion to captain and command of my bodyguard, Birgitte. Caseille can be his second."
"Are you mad?" Nynaeve burst out, but Elayne shushed her.
"I'll feel much safer knowing he's there, Nynaeve. He won't try pinching me, not with Caseille and twenty more like her around him. With his reputation, they'll watch him like hawks. You did say twenty, Birgitte? I will hold you to that."
"Twenty," Birgitte said absently. "Or so." There was nothing absent about the gaze she fixed on Elayne, though. She leaned forward intently, hands on her knees. "I suppose you know what you're doing." Good; she was going to behave like a Warder for once instead of arguing. "Guardsman-Lieutenant Mellar becomes Guardsman-Captain Mellar, for saving the life of the Daughter-Heir. That will add to his swagger. Unless you think it's better to keep the whole thing secret."
Elayne shook her head. "Oh, no; not at all. Let the whole city know. Someone tried to murder me, and Lieutenant—Captain—Mellar saved my life. We will keep the poison to ourselves, though. Just in case someone makes a slip of the tongue."
Nynaeve harrumphed and gave her a sidelong glare. "One day you will be too clever, Elayne. So sharp you cut yourself."
"She is clever, Nynaeve al'Meara." Rising smoothly to her feet, Aviendha settled her heavy skirts, then patted her horn-hiked belt knife. It was not so large as the blade she had worn as a Maiden, yet still a credible weapon. "And she has me to watch her back. I have permission to stay with her, now."
Nynaeve opened her mouth angrily. And for a wonder, closed it again, composing herself visibly, smoothing her skirts and her features. "What are you all staring at?" she muttered. "If Elayne wants this fellow close enough to pinch her whenever he feels like, who am I to argue?" Birgitte's mouth dropped open, and Elayne wondered whether Aviendha was going to choke. Her eyes were certainly popping.
The faint sound of the gong atop the Palace's tallest tower, tolling the hour, made her jerk. It was later than she had thought. "Nynaeve, Egwene might already be waiting for us." None other clothes were anywhere to be seen. "Where's my purse? My ring is in it." Her Great Serpent ring was on her finger, but that was not the one she meant.
"I will see Egwene alone," Nynaeve said firmly. "You are in no condition to enter Tel'aran'rhiod. In any case, you just slept the afternoon away. You won't go to sleep again soon, I'll wager. And I know you've had no luck putting yourself into a waking trance, so that is that." She smiled smugly, certain other victory. She had gone cross-eyed and dizzy attempting to enter the waking trance Egwene had tried to teach them.
"You'll wager that, will you?" Elayne murmured. "What will you bet? Because I intend to drink that," she glanced at the silver cup on the sidetable, "and I wager I'll go right to sleep. Of course, if you didn't put something in it, if you didn't intend trying to trick me into drinking it… Well, of course, you wouldn't do that. So what shall we wager?"
That insufferable smile slid greasily off Nynaeve's face, replaced by bright spots of color in her cheeks.
"A fine thing," Birgitte said, standing. Fists on hips, she squared herself at the foot of the bed, her face and tone alike censuring. "The woman saves you a roiling belly, and you snip at her like Mistress Priss. Maybe if you drink that cup and go to sleep and forget about adventuring in the World of Dreams tonight, I'll decide you've grown up enough that I can trust fewer than a hundred guards to keep you alive. Or do I need to hold your nose to make you drink?" Well, Elayne had not expected her to keep holding back for long. Fewer than a hundred?
Aviendha spun to face Birgitte before she finished, and barely waited for the last word to leave the other woman's mouth. "You should not speak to her so, Birgitte Trahelion," she said, drawing herself to gain the full advantage other greater height. Given the raised heels on Birgitte's boots, it was not that much, yet with her shawl drawn tightly over her breasts, she looked very much a Wise One rather than an apprentice. Some had faces not much older than hers. "You are her Warder. Ask Aan'allein how to behave. He is a great man, yet he obeys as Nynaeve tells him." Aan'allein was Lan, The Man Alone, his story well known and much admired among the Aiel.
Birgitte eyed her up and down as if measuring her, and adopted a lounging posture that all but lost the extra inches of her boot heels. With a mocking grin, she opened her mouth, plainly ready to prick Aviendha's bubble if she could. She usually could. Before she said a word, Nynaeve spoke quietly and quite firmly.
"Oh, for the love of the Light, give over, Birgitte. If Elayne says she's going, then she is going. Now, not another word out of you." She stabbed a finger at the other woman. "Or you and I will have words, later."
Birgitte stared at Nynaeve, her mouth working soundlessly, the Warder bond carrying an intense blend of irritation and frustration. At last, she flung herself back into her chair, legs sprawled and boots balanced on her lion-head spurs, and began a sullen muttering under her breath. If Elayne had not known her better, she would have sworn the woman was sulking. She wished she knew how Nynaeve did it. Once, Nynaeve had been as much in awe of Birgitte as Aviendha ever was, but that had changed. Completely. Now Nynaeve bullied Birgitte as readily as anyone else. And more successfully than with most. She's a woman just like any other, Nynaeve had said. She told me so herself, and I realized she was right. As if that explained anything. Birgitte
was still Birgitte.
"My purse?" Elayne said, and of all people, Birgitte went to fetch the gold-embroidered red purse from the dressing room. Well, a Warder did do that sort of thing, but Birgitte always made some comment when she did. Though perhaps her return was meant for one. She presented the purse to Elayne with a flourishing bow. And a twist of her lips for Nynaeve and Aviendha. Elayne sighed. It was not that the other women disliked one another; they really got on very well, if you ignored their little foibles. They just rubbed against each other sometimes.
The oddly twisted stone ring, strung on a plain loop of leather, lay in the bottom of the purse underneath a mix of coins, next to the carefully folded silk handkerchief full of feathers she considered her greatest treasure. The ter'angreal appeared to be stone, anyway, all flecks and stripes of blue and red and brown, but it felt as hard and slick as steel, and too heavy even for that. Settling the leather cord around her neck, and the ring between her breasts, she pulled the drawstrings tight and set the purse on the side table, taking up the silver cup instead. The fragrance was simply that of good wine, but she raised an eyebrow anyway and smiled at Nynaeve.
"I will go to my own room," Nynaeve said stiffly. Rising from the mattress, she shared out a stern look between Birgitte and Aviendha. Somehow, the ki'sain on her forehead made it seem even more uncompromising. "The pair of you stay awake and keep your eyes open! Until you have those women around her, she is still in danger. And after, I hope I don't have to remind you."
"You think I do not know that?" Aviendha protested at the same time that Birgitte growled, "I'm not a fool, Nynaeve!"
"So you say," Nynaeve answered them both. "I hope so, for Elayne's sake. And for your own." Gathering her shawl, she glided from the room, as stately as any Aes Sedai could wish to be. She was getting very good at that.
"You'd think she was the bloody queen here," Birgitte muttered.
"She is the one who is overproud, Birgitte Trahelion," Aviendha grumbled. "As proud as a Shaido with one goat." They nodded at one another in perfect agreement.
But Elayne noticed that they had waited to speak until the door had shut behind Nynaeve. The woman who had denied so hard wanting to be Aes Sedai was becoming very much Aes Sedai. Perhaps Lan had something to with that. Coaching her, from his experience. She still had to work at staying composed, sometimes, but it seemed to come more and more easily since her peculiar wedding.
The first sip of the wine had no taste other than wine, a very good wine, but Elayne frowned at the cup and hesitated. Until she realized what she was doing, and why. The memory of fork-root hidden in her tea was still strong. What had Nynaeve put in here? Not forkroot, of course, but what? Raising the cup to take a full swallow seemed very difficult. Defiantly, she drained the wine. I was thirsty, that's all, she thought, stretching to set the cup back on the silver tray. I certainly wasn't trying to prove anything.
The other two women had been watching her, but as she began settling herself in a more comfortable position for sleep. They turned to one another.
"I'll keep watch in the sitting room," Birgitte said. "I have my bow and quiver in there. You stay here in case she needs you for anything."
Rather than arguing, Aviendha drew her belt knife and knelt, ready to spring up again, off to one side, where she would secure anyone coming through the door before they saw her. "Knock twice, then once, and name yourself before you enter," she said. "Otherwise, I will assume it is an enemy." And Birgitte nodded as if that were the most reasonable thing in the world.
"This is sil—" Elayne smothered a yawn behind her hand. "Silly," she finished when she could speak again. "No one is going to try to—" Another yawn, and she could have put her fist into her mouth! Light, what had Nynaeve put in that wine? "To kill me—tonight," she said drowsily, "and you—both know—" Her eyelids were leaden, sliding down despite every effort to keep them open. Unconsciously snuggling her face into her pillow, she tried to finish what she had been about to say, but…
She was in the Grand Hall, the throne room of the Palace. In the Grand Hall's reflection in Tel'aran'rhiod. Here, the twisted stone ring that felt too heavy for its size in the waking world seemed light enough to float up from between her breasts. There was light, of course, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. It was not like sunlight, or lamps, but even if it was night here, too, there was always enough of that odd light to see. As in a dream. The ever-present sensation of unseen eyes watching was not dreamlike—more like a nightmare—but she had grown accustomed to that.
Great audiences were held in the Grand Hall, foreign ambassadors formally received, important treaties and declarations of war announced to gathered dignitaries, and the long chamber suited its name and function. Empty of people save for her, it seemed cavernous. Two rows of thick gleaming white columns, ten spans high, marched the length of the room, and at one end, the Lion Throne stood atop a marble dais, with red carpeting climbing the white steps from the red-and-white floor tiles. The throne was sized for a woman, but still massive on its heavy lion-pawed legs, carved and gilded, with the White Lion picked out in moonstones on a field of rubies at the top of its high back, announcing that whoever sat there ruled a great nation. From large, colored windows set in the arched ceiling high overhead, the queens who had founded Andor stared down, their images alternating with the White Lion and scenes of the battles they had fought to build Andor from a single city in Artur Hawkwing's shattering empire into that nation. Many lands that had come out of the War of the Hundred Years no longer existed, yet Andor had survived the thousand years since and prospered. Sometimes Elayne felt those images judging her, weighing her worth to follow in their footsteps.
No sooner did she find herself in the Grand Hall than another woman appeared, sitting on the Lion Throne, a dark-haired young woman in flowing red silk embroidered in silver lions on the sleeves and hem, with a strand of firedrops as large as pigeon's eggs around her neck and the Rose Crown sitting on her head. One hand resting lightly on the lion-headed arm of the throne, she gazed regally about the Hall. Then her eyes fell on Elayne, and recognition dawned, along with confusion. Crown and firestone ring that felt too heavy for its size in the waking world seemed light enough to float up from between her breasts. There was light, of course, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. It was not like sunlight, or lamps, but even if it was night here, too, there was always enough of that odd light to see. As in a dream. The ever-present sensation of unseen eyes watching was not dreamlike—more like a nightmare—but she had grown accustomed to that.
Great audiences were held in the Grand Hall, foreign ambassadors formally received, important treaties and declarations of war announced to gathered dignitaries, and the long chamber suited its name and function. Empty of people save for her, it seemed cavernous. Two rows of thick gleaming white columns, ten spans high, marched the length of the room, and at one end, the Lion Throne stood atop a marble dais, with red carpeting climbing the white steps from the red-and-white floor tiles. The throne was sized for a woman, but still massive on its heavy lion-pawed legs, carved and gilded, with the White Lion picked out in moonstones on a field of rubies at the top of its high back, announcing that whoever sat there ruled a great nation. From large, colored windows set in the arched ceiling high overhead, the queens who had founded Andor stared down, their images alternating with the White Lion and scenes of the battles they had fought to build Andor from a single city in Artur Hawkwing's shattering empire into that nation. Many lands that had come out of the War of the Hundred Years no longer existed, yet Andor had survived the thousand years since and prospered. Sometimes Elayne felt those images judging her, weighing her worth to follow in their footsteps.
No sooner did she find herself in the Grand Hall than another woman appeared, sitting on the Lion Throne, a dark-haired young woman in flowing red silk embroidered in silver lions on the sleeves and hem, with a strand of firedrops as large as pigeon's eggs around her neck and the Rose Crown sitting on her hea
d. One hand resting lightly on the lion-headed arm of the throne, she gazed regally about the Hall. Then her eyes fell on Elayne, and recognition dawned, along with confusion. Crown and firedrops and silks vanished, replaced by plain woolens and a long apron. An instant later, the young woman vanished, too.
Elayne smiled in amusement. Even scullions dreamed of sitting on the Lion Throne. She hoped the young woman had not been wakened in fright by the start she received, or at least that she had gone on to another pleasant dream. A safer dream than Tel'aran'rhiod.
Other things shifted in the throne room. The elaborately worked stand-lamps standing in rows down the chamber seemed to vibrate against the tall columns. The great arched doors stood now open, now closed, in the blink of an eye. Only things that had stood in one place for a goodly time had a truly permanent reflection in the World of Dreams.
Elayne imagined a stand-mirror, and it was before her, reflecting her image in high-necked green silk worked in silver across the bodice, with emeralds in her ears and smaller ones strung in her red-gold curls. She made the emeralds disappear from her hair, and nodded. Fit for the Daughter-Heir, but not too ostentatious. You had to be careful of how you imagined yourself, here, or else… Her modest green silk gown became the snug, form-hugging folds of a Taraboner gown, then flashed to dark, wide Sea Folk trousers and bare feet, complete with golden earrings and nose ring and chain full of medallions, and even dark tattoos on her hands. But without a blouse, the way the Atha'an Miere went at sea. Cheeks coloring, she hastily returned everything to how it had been, then changed the emerald earrings for plain silver hoops. The simpler you imagined your garb, the easier it was to maintain.
Letting the stand-mirror disappear—she just had to stop concentrating on it—she looked up at those stern faces overhead. "Women have taken the throne as young as I," she told them. Not very many, though; only seven who had managed to wear the Rose Crown for very long. "Women younger than I." Three. And one of those lasted barely a year. "I don't claim I will be as great as you, but I will not make you ashamed, either. I will be a good queen."
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