Her audience chair was relatively simple. A wooden seat with black velvet on the arms and back. She sat down, wearing a pleated gown of the deepest sea blue, a white cape fluttering behind her. As soon as she did, the people in the room rose from their positions of adulation—all save the da’covale, who remained kneeling. Selucia stood and stepped up beside the chair, her golden hair in a braid down her right side, the left side of her head shaven. She did not wear the ashes, since she was not of the Blood, but the white band on her arm indicated that she—like the entire Empire—mourned the loss of the Empress.
Yuril, Tuon’s secretary and secretly her Hand, stepped up to the other side of the chair. The Deathwatch Guards moved in subtly around her, dark armor glittering faintly in the sunlight. They had been particularly protective of her lately. She didn’t blame them, recent events considered.
Here I am, Tuon thought, surrounded by my might, damane on one side and Deathwatch Guard on the other. And yet I feel no safer than I did with Matrim. How odd, that she should have felt safe with him.
Directly in front of her, lit by indirect sunlight from the open balcony behind, was a collection of the Blood, Captain-General Galgan highest of them. He wore armor this day, the breastplate painted a deep blue, nearly dark enough to be black. His powdery white hair ran in a crest with the sides of his head shaven, and was plaited to his shoulders, for he was of the High Blood. With him were two members of the low Blood—Banner-General Najirah and Banner-General Yamada—and several commoner officers. They waited patiently, carefully not meeting Tuon’s eyes.
A gathering of other members of the Blood stood several steps behind, to witness her acts. Wiry Faverde Nothish and long-faced Amenar Shumada led them. They were both important—important enough to be dangerous. Suroth wouldn’t be the only one who saw opportunity in these times. If Tuon were to fall, practically anyone could become Empress. Or Emperor.
The war in Seanchan would not end quickly; but when it did, the victor would undoubtedly raise him- or herself to the Crystal Throne as well. And then there would be two leaders of the Seanchan Empire, divided by an ocean, united in desire to conquer one another. Neither could allow the other to live.
Order, Tuon thought, tapping the black wood of her armrest with a blue-lacquered fingernail. Order must emanate from me. I will bring the calm airs to those beset by storms.
“Selucia is my Truthspeaker,” she announced to the room. “Let it be published among the Blood.”
The statement was expected. Selucia bowed her head in acceptance, though she had no desire for any appointment other than to serve and protect Tuon. She would not welcome this position. But she was also honest and straightforward; she would make an excellent Truthspeaker.
At least this time, Tuon could be certain that her Truthspeaker wasn’t one of the Forsaken.
Did she believe Falendre’s story, then? It stretched plausibility; it sounded like one of Matrim’s fanciful tales of imaginary creatures that lurked in the dark. And yet, the other sul’dam and damane had corroborated Falendre’s tale.
Some facts, at least, seemed straightforward. Anath had been working with Suroth. Suroth—after some persuasion—had admitted that she had met with one of the Forsaken. Or, at least, she thought she had. She hadn’t known that the Forsaken was the same as Anath, but she seemed to find the revelation believable.
Whether or not she really was Forsaken, Anath had met with the Dragon Reborn, imitating Tuon. And had then tried to kill him. Order, Tuon thought, keeping her face still. I represent order.
Tuon gestured rapidly to Selucia, who was still Tuon’s Voice—and her shadow—even with the added responsibility of Truthspeaker. When ordering those far beneath herself, Tuon would first pass the words to Selucia, who would speak them.
“You are required to send him in,” Selucia said to a da’covale beside the throne. He bowed himself to the ground, touching head to the floor, then hurried to the other end of the large room and opened the door.
Beslan, King of Altara and High Seat of House Mitsobar, was a slender youth with black eyes and hair. He had the olive skin common to the Altaran people, but he had taken to wearing clothing like that favored by the Blood. Loose trousers of yellow and a high-collared coat that came down only to the middle of his chest, a yellow shirt underneath. The Blood had left a clear passage down the middle of the room, and Beslan walked through it, eyes lowered. Upon reaching the supplication space before the throne, he went down on his knees, then bowed low. The perfect image of a loyal subject, except for the thin golden crown on his head.
Tuon gestured to Selucia.
“You are bidden to rise,” Selucia said.
Beslan rose, though he kept his gaze averted. He was a fine actor.
“The Daughter of the Nine Moons expresses her condolences to you for your loss,” Selucia said to him.
“I give the same to her for her loss,” he said. “My grief is but a candle to the great fire felt by the Seanchan people.”
He was too servile. He was a king; he was not required to bow himself so far. He was the equal of many of the Blood.
She could almost have believed he was just being submissive before the woman who would soon become Empress. But she knew too much of his temperament, through both spies and hearsay.
“The Daughter of the Nine Moons wishes to know the reason you have ceased holding court,” Selucia said, watching Tuon’s hands move. “She finds it distressing that your people cannot have audience with their king. Your mother’s death was as tragic as it was shocking, but your kingdom needs you.”
Beslan bowed. “Please have her know that I did not think it appropriate to elevate myself above her. I am uncertain how to act. I meant no insult.”
“Are you certain that is the true reason?” Selucia Voiced. “It is not, perhaps, because you are planning a rebellion against us, and do not have time for your other duties?”
Beslan looked up sharply, eyes wide. “Your Majesty, I—”
“You need not speak any further lies, child of Tylin,” Tuon said directly to him, causing gasps of surprise from the assembled Blood. “I know of the things you have said to General Habiger and your friend, Lord Malalin. I know of your quiet meetings in the basement of The Three Stars. I know of it all, King Beslan.”
The room fell silent, Beslan bowed his head for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he rose to his feet and stared her directly in the eyes. She wouldn’t have thought the soft-spoken youth had it in him. “I will not allow my people to—”
“I would still my tongue if I were you,” Tuon interrupted. “You stand on sand as it is.”
Beslan hesitated. She could see the question in his eyes. Wasn’t she going to execute him? If I intended to kill you, she thought, you would be dead already, and you would never have seen the knife.
“Seanchan is in upheaval,” Tuon said, regarding him. He appeared shocked at the words. “Oh, did you think I would ignore it, Beslan? I am not content to stare at the stars while my empire collapses around me. The truth must be acknowledged. My mother is dead. There is no empress.
“However, the forces of the Corenne are more than sufficient to maintain our positions here on this side of the ocean, Altara included.” She leaned forward, trying to project a sense of control, of firmness. Her mother had been able to do so at all times. Tuon did not have her mother’s height, but she would need that aura. Others had to feel safer, more secure, simply by entering her presence.
“In times such as these,” Tuon continued, “threats of rebellion cannot be tolerated. Many will see opportunity in the Empire’s weakness, and their divisive squabbling—if left unchecked—would prove the end of us all. Therefore, I must be firm. Very firm. With those who defy me.”
“Then why,” Beslan said, “am I still alive?”
“You started planning your rebellion before events in the Empire were made known.”
He frowned, dumbfounded.
“You began your rebellion when Suroth led here,�
� Tuon said, “and when your mother was still queen. Much has changed since then, Beslan. Very much. In times like these, there is potential for great accomplishment.”
“You must know I have no thirst for power,” Beslan said. “The freedom of my people is all I desire.”
“I do know it,” Tuon said, clasping her hands before her, lacquered nails curling, elbows on the armrests of her chair. “And that is the other reason you are still alive. You rebel not out of lust for station, but out of sheer ignorance. You are misguided, and that means you can change, should you receive the proper knowledge.”
He looked at her, confused. Lower your eyes, fool. Don’t make me have you strapped for insolence! As if he had heard her thoughts, he averted his eyes, then lowered them. Yes, she had judged correctly regarding this one.
How precarious her position was! True, she had armies—but so many of them had been thrown away by Suroth’s aggression.
All kingdoms on this side of the ocean would need to bow before the Crystal Throne, eventually. Each marath’damane would be leashed, each king or queen would swear the oaths. But Suroth had pushed too hard, particularly in the fiasco with Turan. A hundred thousand men, lost in one battle. Madness.
Tuon needed Altara. She needed Ebou Dar. Beslan was well loved by the people. Putting his head on a pike after the mysterious death of his mother. . . . Well, Tuon would have stability in Ebou Dar, but she would rather not have to leave battlefronts unmanned to accomplish it.
“Your mother’s death is a loss,” Tuon said. “She was a good woman. A good queen.”
Beslan’s lips tightened.
“You may speak,” Tuon said.
“Her death . . . is unexplained,” he said. The implication was obvious.
“I do not know if Suroth caused her to be killed,” Tuon said, softening her voice. “She claims that she did not. But the matter is being investigated. If it turns out that Suroth was behind the death, you and Altara will have an apology from the throne itself.”
Another gasp from the Blood. She silenced them with a glance, then turned back to Beslan. “Your mother’s loss is a great one. You must know that she was loyal to her oaths.”
“Yes,” he said, voice bitter. “And she gave up the throne.”
“No,” Tuon said curtly. “The throne belongs to you. This is the ignorance of which I spoke. You must lead your people. They must have a king. I have neither time nor desire to do your duty for you.
“You assume that the Seanchan dominance of your homeland will mean your people lack freedom. That is false. They will be more free, more protected, and more powerful when they accept our rule.
“I sit above you. But is this so undesirable? With the might of the empire, you will be able to hold your borders and patrol your lands outside of Ebou Dar. You speak of your people? Well, I have ordered something prepared for you.” She nodded to the side, where a willowy-limbed da’covale stepped forward with a leather satchel.
“Inside,” Tuon said, “you will find numbers gathered by my scouts and guard forces. You can see directly the reports of crimes during our occupation here. You will have reports and manifests, comparing how the people were before the Return and after it.
“I believe you know what you will find. The Empire is a resource to you, Beslan. A powerful, powerful ally. I will not insult you by offering you thrones you do not want. I will entice you by promising stability, food, and protection for your people. All for the simple price of your loyalty.”
He hesitantly accepted the satchel.
“I offer you a choice, Beslan,” Tuon said. “You may choose execution, if you wish. I will not make you da’covale. I will let you die with honor, and it will be published that you died because you rejected the oaths and chose not to accept the Seanchan. If you wish it, I will allow it. Your people will know that you died in defiance.
“Or, you may choose to serve them better. You may choose to live. If you do so, you will be raised to the High Blood. You will step forward and reign as your people need you to do. I promise you that I will not direct the affairs of your people. I will demand resources and men for my armies, as is proper, and your word cannot countermand my own. Aside from that, your power in Altara will be absolute. No Blood will have the right to command, harm, or imprison your people without your permission.
“I will accept and review a list of noble families you feel should be raised to the low Blood, and I will raise no fewer than twenty of them. Altara will become the permanent seat of the Empress on this side of the ocean. As such, it will be the most powerful kingdom here. You may choose.”
She leaned forward, unlacing her fingers. “But understand this. If you decide to join with us, you will give me your heart, and not just your words. I will not allow you to ignore your oaths. I have given you this chance because I believe you can be a strong ally, and I think that you were misguided, perhaps by Suroth’s twisted webs.
“You have one day to make your decision. Think well. Your mother thought this to be the best course, and she was a wise woman. The Empire means stability. A rebellion would mean only suffering, starvation and obscurity. These are not times to be alone, Beslan.”
She sat back as Beslan regarded the satchel in his hands. He bowed in supplication to withdraw, though the motion was jerky, as if he were distracted.
“You may go,” she said to him.
He rose, but did not turn to leave. The room fell still as he stared down at his hands and the satchel. She could read his struggle in his expression. A da’covale approached to hasten him on his way, as he had been dismissed, but Tuon raised her hand, stilling the servant.
She leaned forward, several members of the Blood shuffling their feet as they waited. Beslan just stared at that satchel. Finally, he looked up, eyes determined. And then, surprisingly, he got back down on his knees.
“I, Beslan of House Mitsobar, pledge my fealty and service to the Daughter of the Nine Moons and through her to the Seanchan Empire, now and for all time, save that she chooses to release me of her own will. My lands and throne are hers, and I yield them to her hand. So I do swear before the Light.”
Tuon let herself smile. Behind Beslan, Captain-General Galgan stepped forward, addressing the King. “That is not the proper way to—”
Tuon silenced him with a gesture. “We demand that this people adopt our ways, General,” she said. “It is fitting that we accept some of theirs.” Not too many of those ways, of course. But she could thank her long conversations with Mistress Anan for allowing her to understand this. The Seanchan had, perhaps, made a mistake with this people in making them swear Seanchan oaths of obedience. Matrim had sworn those oaths, but ignored them handily when the time came—yet he had been certain to keep his word to her, and his men had assured her he was a man of honor.
How strange that they would be willing to elevate one oath over another. These people were odd. But she would have to understand them in order to rule them—and she would have to rule them to gather strength for her return to Seanchan.
“Your oath is pleasing to me, King Beslan. I raise you to the High Blood and give you and your House dominance over the kingdom of Altara, for now and all time, your will for the administration and governance of it second only to that of the Imperial Throne itself. Rise.”
He stood, legs looking shaky. “Are you certain you’re not ta’veren, my Lady?” he asked. “Because I certainly wasn’t expecting to do that when I walked in here.”
Ta’veren. These people and their foolish superstitions! “I am pleased with you,” she said to him. “I knew your mother for only a short time, but I did find her quite capable. I would not have enjoyed being forced to execute her only remaining son.”
He nodded in appreciation. To the side, Selucia covertly signed, That was well handled. Unconventional, perhaps, but very delicately done.
Tuon felt a warm sense of pride. She turned to the white-haired General Galgan. “General. I realize you have been waiting to speak with me, and you
r patience is to be commended. You may now speak your thoughts. King Beslan, you may withdraw or remain. It is your right to attend any public conferences I have in your kingdom, and you need no permission or invitation to attend.”
Beslan nodded, bowing but retreating to the side of the room to watch.
“Thank you, Highest Daughter,” Galgan said reverently, stepping forward. He waved to his so’jhin, who stood in the hallway outside. They entered—first prostrating themselves before Tuon—then quickly set up a table and several maps. One servant brought Galgan a bundle, which he carried, approaching Tuon. Karede was at her right shoulder in a moment, Selucia at her left, but Galgan kept a respectful distance. He bowed and unrolled the item on the ground. It was a banner of red, bearing a circle in the center, split by a sinuous line. One half of the circle was black, the other white.
“What is it?” Tuon asked, leaning forward.
“The banner of the Dragon Reborn,” Galgan said. “He sent it with a messenger, asking yet again for a meeting.” He glanced up—not meeting her eyes, but showing a thoughtful, concerned face.
“This morning when I arose,” Tuon said, “I saw a pattern like three towers in the sky and a hawk, high in the air, passing between them.”
The various members of the Blood in the room nodded appreciatively. Only Beslan seemed confused. How did these people live, not knowing the omens? Had they no desire to understand the visions of fate the Pattern was giving them? The hawk and three towers were an omen of difficult choices to come. They indicated that boldness would be needed.
“What are your thoughts on the Dragon Reborn’s request for a meeting?” Tuon asked Galgan.
“Perhaps it would be unwise to meet with this man, Highest Daughter. I am not certain of his claims to his title. Beyond this question, does the Empire not have other concerns at this time?”
“You wonder why our forces have not retreated,” Tuon said. “Why we have not struck out for Seanchan to secure the throne.”
He bowed his head. “I trust your wisdom, Highest Daughter.”
The Gathering Storm Page 36
