The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  The city became an enormous ambush. A man couldn’t ask for better vantages than those buildings, and the streets were wide enough to allow a charge by those who knew the layout. The Trollocs went from bellowing in joy to screaming in pain, and scrambled over one another in their haste to get away. They entered the courtyard by the broken wall.

  The Saldaean horsemen followed, their hooves and flanks wet with the noxious blood of the fallen. Men appeared at windows of “burning” buildings—the fires carefully created in sectioned-off rooms—and began loosing arrows down into the large courtyard. Others tossed new lances to the horsemen, who, reequipped, lined up and rode into the Trollocs. The arrows stopped falling, and the cavalry made a sweeping charge across the courtyard.

  Hundreds of Trollocs died. Perhaps thousands. Those that didn’t die scrambled out of the gap. Most of the Myrddraal fled. Those that did not were targets for the archers. Killing one of them could kill dozens of Trollocs linked to them. The Fades went down—many sprouting dozens of arrows.

  “I’ll give the order to unite and hold the breach again,” Yoeli said eagerly.

  “No.” Ituralde said.

  “But—”

  “Fighting at the breach will gain us nothing,” Ituralde said. “Give the orders for the men to move to different buildings, and have the archers take different positions. Are there warehouses or other large buildings that can hide the horsemen? Move them there, quickly. And then we wait.”

  “They won’t be caught again.”

  “No,” Ituralde said. “But they’ll be slow and cautious. If we fight them head on, we lose. If we hold, buy time, we win. That’s the only way out of this, Yoeli. To survive until help comes. If it’s coming.”

  Yoeli nodded.

  “Our next trap won’t kill as many,” Ituralde said, “but Trollocs are cowards at heart. The knowledge that any roadway could suddenly turn into a death trap will make them hesitate, and will earn us more time than would losing half of our men holding that wall.”

  “All right,” Yoeli said. He hesitated. “But…doesn’t this mean that they’re anticipating us? This phase of the plan will work only because they expect our ambushes.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “So shouldn’t we do something different? You said that if we’ve got a hint that the enemy knows what we’re going to do, we should change plans.”

  “You’re thinking about it too much, son. Go do as I commanded.”

  “Er, yes, my Lord.” He hurried away.

  This, Ituralde thought, is why I should never teach tactics. It was hard to explain to students that there was a rule that trumped all of the others: Always trust your instincts. The Trollocs would be afraid. He could use that. He’d use anything they gave him.

  He didn’t like to think too long about that rule, lest he dwell on the fact that he’d violated it already. Because his every instinct screamed that he should have abandoned this city hours ago.

  Chapter 29

  A Terrible Feeling

  “What is Perrin plotting, do you think?” Berelain asked as she strolled beside Faile and Alliandre.

  Faile didn’t answer. The late afternoon was softly lit by a distant sun shrouded in clouds. Soon it would make the horizon burn as it sank down for the night. In two days, Perrin would go on trial. He’d delayed specifically, she knew, to gain more time for the Asha’man to work out the strange problem with gateways.

  Their army was growing, still more people flooding to them. Scout reports indicated that the Whitecloak force was growing as well. More slowly, but still growing. In days like these, an army was a symbol of strength and—at the very least—food.

  A stand of fingeroot trees glutted themselves on the water of the stream near Perrin’s war camp. Such strange plants they were, with those roots that dipped into the water. Trunks like flowing glass that had pooled while hardening. There was nothing like them up in Saldaea. It seemed that two wrong steps here could lead you into a swamp.

  “No answer for me?” Berelain asked. She seemed distracted these days. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps it would be good to send an envoy to the Whitecloak army. Do you think Perrin would allow me to go and speak with them? Perhaps I could make a personal appeal on his behalf.”

  She kept bringing up that topic. “No,” Faile said. “You know his mind is made up on this trial, Berelain.”

  The First pursed her lips, but did not press further. The three continued their walk, accompanied by ten Maidens. Once, Faile might have complained about the attention. That was before she’d been taken so unexpectedly, and so easily.

  In the distance, she saw a small group of refugees leaving the camp, walking away to the southeast, cross-country. Before things had gone wrong with the gateways, about ten thousand had been sent to rural areas in Cairhien. All had instructions to remain quiet. Perrin didn’t want his location known yet. Women would be still, but of course the men would gossip; they always did.

  Few knew that gateways failed; Perrin had told the people that he needed the Asha’man strong, in case there was fighting with the Whitecloaks. It was true enough. Still, some refugees had asked to leave, going on foot. To these, Faile gave bits of gold or a jewel from Sevanna’s store and wished them the best. She was surprised at how many wanted to return to homes that were in Seanchan-controlled lands.

  Despite the departures, the size of Perrin’s force was swelling day by day. Faile and the others passed a large group practicing with swords. The refugees who had decided to train were now some twenty-five thousand strong. They practiced late into the day, and Faile could still hear barked orders from Tam.

  “Well.” Berelain continued her musings. “What will Perrin do? Why set up this trial? He wants something from those Whitecloaks.” She stepped around a gnarled fingeroot. The First, like so many others, read much more into Perrin’s actions than there was to find. He’d be amused if he knew the plots they ascribed to him.

  And she claims to understand men, Faile thought. Perrin was by no means stupid, nor was he the simple man he sometimes claimed to be. He planned, he thought, and he was careful. But he was also direct. Deliberate. When he said something, he meant it.

  “I agree with Berelain,” Alliandre said. “We should just leave, march away. Or attack those Whitecloaks.”

  Faile shook her head. “It bothers Perrin when people think he did something wrong. As long as the Whitecloaks continue to insist he is a murderer, his name will not be clear.” He was being bullheaded and foolish, but there was a nobility about it.

  So long as it didn’t get him killed. However, she loved him for that very sense of honor. Changing him would be ill-advised, so she had to make certain others didn’t take advantage of him.

  As she always did when they discussed the Whitecloaks, Berelain got a strange look in her eyes, and she glanced—perhaps unconsciously—in the direction their army camped. Light. She wasn’t going to ask again if she could go speak to them? She had come up with a dozen different reasons why she wanted to.

  Faile noticed a large group of soldiers trying to look inconspicuous as they rounded the inside of the camp, keeping pace with Faile and their guards on their promenade. Perrin wanted her well protected.

  “This young Lord Captain Commander,” Alliandre said idly. “He looks quite striking in that white uniform, wouldn’t you say? If you can get past that sunburst on his cloak. Such a beautiful man.”

  “Oh?” Berelain said. Surprisingly, warm color rose in her cheeks.

  “I’d always heard that Morgase’s stepson was a handsome man,” Alliandre continued. “But I hadn’t anticipated him being so…pristine.”

  “Like a statue carved from marble,” Berelain whispered, “a relic from the Age of Legends. A perfect thing left behind. For us to worship.”

  “He’s passable,” Faile said with a sniff. “I prefer a bearded face, myself.”

  It wasn’t a lie—she loved a bearded face, and Perrin was handsome. He had a burly power to hi
m that was quite appealing. But this Galad Damodred was…well, it wasn’t fair to compare him to Perrin. That would be like comparing a stained glass window to a cabinet made by a master carpenter. Both were excellent examples of their craft, and it was hard to weigh them against one another. But the window certainly did shine.

  Berelain’s expression seemed distant. She was definitely taken with Damodred. Such a short time for it to have happened. Faile told Berelain that finding another man for her attentions would help with the rumors, but the Whitecloak commander? Had the woman lost all sense?

  “So what do we do?” Alliandre asked as they rounded the south side of the camp, halfway to the point from which they’d started.

  “About the Whitecloaks?” Faile asked.

  “About Maighdin,” Alliandre said. “Morgase.”

  “I can’t help feeling that she took advantage of my kindness,” Faile said. “After all we went through together, she didn’t tell me who she was?”

  “You seem to be determined to give her very little credit,” Berelain said.

  Faile didn’t reply. She’d been thinking about what Perrin said, and he was probably right. Faile should not be so angry with her. If Morgase really had been fleeing one of the Forsaken, it was a miracle that she was still alive. Besides, she herself had lied about who she was, when first meeting Perrin.

  In truth, her anger was because Morgase was going to judge Perrin. She presumed to judge Perrin. Maighdin the lady’s maid might be grateful, but Morgase the Queen would see Perrin as a rival. Would Morgase really treat this judgment fairly, or would she take the chance to discredit a man who had raised himself up as a lord?

  “I feel as you do, my Lady,” Alliandre said softly.

  “And how is that?”

  “Deceived,” Alliandre said. “Maighdin was our friend. I thought I knew her.”

  “You would have acted exactly as she did in that situation,” Berelain said. “Why give away information if you don’t have to?”

  “Because we were friends,” Alliandre said. “After what we went through together, it turns out that she’s Morgase Trakand. Not just a queen—the Queen. The woman’s a legend. And she was here, with us, serving us tea. Poorly.”

  “You have to admit,” Faile said thoughtfully, “she did get better with the tea.”

  Faile reached to her throat, touching the cord that bore Rolan’s stone. She didn’t wear it every day, but she did so often enough. Had Morgase been false that entire time they’d been with the Shaido? Or had she, in a way, been more true? With no titles to live up to, she hadn’t been forced to be the “legendary” Morgase Trakand. Under circumstances like that, wouldn’t a person’s true nature be more likely to show through?

  Faile gripped the cord. Morgase would not turn this trial against Perrin out of spite. But she would offer judgment in honesty. Which meant Faile needed to be prepared, and have ready—

  Screams sounded nearby.

  Faile reacted immediately, spinning toward the woods. She instinctively anticipated Aiel leaping from the bushes to kill and capture, and she felt a moment of sheer panic.

  But the screams were coming from inside camp. She cursed, turning about, but felt something tug at her belt. She looked down with a start to see her belt knife pull itself from its sheath and flip into the air.

  “A bubble of evil!” Berelain said, stumbling to the side.

  Faile ducked, throwing herself to the ground as her knife flipped through the air toward her head. It narrowly missed. As Faile came up in a crouch, she saw with a start that Berelain was facing down a dagger, one that looked—from the damage to Berelain’s shirt—to have ripped its way free of a hidden sheath inside her sleeve.

  Beyond Berelain, the camp was in a tumult. The nearby practicing refugees were scattering, swords and spears flipping through the air of their own volition. It looked as if every weapon in the camp had suddenly sprung to life, rising up to attack its master.

  Motion. Faile dodged to the side as her knife came back for her, but a white-haired figure in brown snatched the weapon from the air, holding it in a tight grip. Sulin rolled, clinging to it, her teeth gritted as she wrenched it from the air and slammed it down onto a stone, breaking the blade from the hilt.

  It stopped moving. Sulin’s spears, however, pulled from their place on her back and spun in the sky, tips pointing toward her.

  “Run!” the Maiden said, turning and trying to face all three spears at once.

  “Where?” Faile demanded, picking up a stone from the ground. “The weapons are everywhere.” Berelain was struggling with her dagger. She’d grabbed it, but it was fighting her, wrenching her arms from side to side. Alliandre was surrounded by three knives. Light! Faile suddenly felt lucky for having worn only one today.

  Several of the Maidens charged in to help Alliandre, throwing stones at the knives, dodging spears that lunged for them. Berelain was alone.

  Gritting her teeth—feeling half a fool for helping the woman she hated—Faile jumped in and placed her hands over Berelain’s, lending her strength to that of the First. Together, they wrenched the dagger to the side, toward the ground, where they could drive its point into the earth. When they did, remarkably, it stopped moving.

  Faile released it hesitantly, then looked up at the disheveled Berelain. The woman pressed her right hand to her other palm, stanching the blood from a cut she’d taken. She nodded at Faile. “Thank you.”

  “What stopped it?” Faile asked, heart thumping. Shouts sounded from around the camp. Cursing. Clangs from weapons.

  “The dirt?” Berelain asked, kneeling.

  Faile dug her fingers into the loam. She turned, noticing with alarm that one of the Maidens was down, though others had felled several of the flying spears. Faile tossed her handful of soil at one that was still whipping about.

  When the dirt touched the spear, the weapon dropped. Sulin saw it, eyes widening behind her veiled face. She dropped the stones she’d been wielding and took up a handful of soil, spraying it over her head as a spear drove for her heart.

  The dirt stopped it, and it fell to the ground. Nearby, the soldiers who had been following along to guard Faile and the others were having a worse time of things. They had backed into a circle, using their shields to block incoming weapons, hunkered down with worried expressions.

  “Quickly!” Faile said to the Maidens, digging both hands into the soil. “Spread the word! Let the others know how to stop the weapons!” She threw soil at the daggers beside Alliandre, dropping two with one throw, then began running for the nearby soldiers.

  “There is no need for you to apologize, Galad,” Morgase said softly. “You couldn’t have known what was happening in the Fortress of the Light. You were leagues and leagues away.”

  They sat in his tent, chairs facing each other, late-afternoon light shining on the walls. Galad sat with hands clasped before him as he leaned forward. So thoughtful. She remembered her first impressions of him, long ago when she’d married his father. The young child had simply been part of the deal, and while Morgase had adopted him, she had always worried that he felt less loved than his siblings.

  Galad had always been so solemn. Quick to point out when someone did something wrong. But unlike other children—Elayne especially—he had not used his knowledge as a weapon. She should have seen. She should have realized he’d be attracted to the Whitecloaks for their vision of a world that was black and white. Could she have prepared him better? Shown him that the world was not black and white—it wasn’t even gray. It was full of colors that sometimes didn’t fit into any spectrum of morality.

  He looked up, hands still clasped, eyes troubled. “I accused Valda wrongly. When I went to him, I said I was demanding Trial Beneath the Light because he had abused you and killed you. Half was wrong. I have done something where I was in error, at least in part. Regardless of that fact, I’m pleased that I killed him.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Valda had reputedly been one of the grea
test swordsmen alive. And Galad had bested him in a duel? This youth? But he was a youth no longer. Galad had made his choices, and she had a difficult time judging him for them. In some ways, they seemed more admirable than her own choices.

  “You did well,” she said. “Valda was a snake. I am certain he was behind Niall’s death. Galad, you did the world a service.”

  He nodded. “For what he did to you, he deserved death. But I shall need to release a statement anyway.” He rose, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked, his white clothing seeming to glow in the light. “I will explain that my accusation of murder was false, but that Valda still deserved death for his other offenses. Dire offenses.” He stopped for a moment. “I wish I had known.”

  “There was nothing you could have done, son,” she said. “My captivity was my own fault. For trusting my enemies.”

  Galad waved a hand. “There was no resisting Gaebril, if what you have heard is true. As for your captivity, you did not trust your enemies. You were betrayed, like all of us, by Valda. The Children are never the enemies of a person who walks in the Light.”

  “And Perrin Aybara?” she asked.

  “Shadowspawn.”

  “No, son. I don’t like some of the things he is doing, but I promise you, he is a good man.”

  “Then the trial will prove that,” Galad said.

  “Good men can make mistakes. If you proceed with this, it could end in a way that none of us wish.”

  Galad froze, frowning. “Mother, are you implying that he should be allowed to escape his crime?”

  “Come,” she said, gesturing. “Sit back down. You’re dizzying me with that pacing about.”

  Perhaps he’d risen to the position of Lord Captain Commander only recently, but he already seemed to bristle at taking an order. He did sit, however.

  Oddly, she felt like a queen again. Galad hadn’t seen her during the hard months. He thought of her as the old Morgase, so around him, she actually felt like the old Morgase. Almost.