Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag, ruler of the Glorious Seanchan Empire, marched into her Teaching Chamber. She wore a magnificent gown of golden cloth, cut after the highest Imperial fashion. The skirt split at the front to just above the knees, and was so long that it took five da’covale to carry the sides and train.
She wore an ornate headdress, of gold and crimson silk with beautiful silken wings shaped like those of an owl taking flight, and her arms glittered with thirteen bracelets, each of a different gemstone combination. She wore crystal at her throat in a long strand. She had heard an owl above her window the last night, and it had not flown away when she looked out. An omen indicating great care should be taken, that the next days would be ones of important decisions. The proper response was to wear jewelry with powerful symbolism.
When she entered the chamber, those inside prostrated themselves. Only the Deathwatch Guard—men in armor of blood red and deep green—was exempt; they bowed, but kept their eyes up, watching for danger.
The large chamber was windowless. Lines of stacked pottery stood at one end, a place for damane to practice weaves of destruction. The floor was covered in woven mats where stubborn damane were sent to the ground, writhing in pain. It would not do for them to be harmed physically. Damane were among the most important tools the Empire had, more valuable than horses or raken. You did not destroy a beast because it was slow to learn; you punished it until it learned.
Fortuona crossed the chamber to where a proper Imperial Throne had been set up. She commonly came here, to watch the damane being worked or broken. It soothed her. The throne was atop a small dais; she climbed the steps, train rustling as her da’covale carried it. She turned to face the room, allowing the servants to arrange her dress. They took her by her arms and lifted her back into the throne, draping her long golden skirts down the front of the dais like a tapestry.
Those skirts were sewn with the writings of Imperial power. The Empress IS Seanchan. The Empress WILL live forever. The Empress MUST be obeyed. She sat as a living banner to the might of the Empire.
Selucia took her position on the lower steps of the dais. This done, the courtiers raised themselves. The damane, of course, remained kneeling. There were ten of them, with heads bowed, their sul’dam holding their leashes and—in a few cases—patting them affectionately on the heads.
King Beslan entered. He’d shaved most of his head, leaving only a dark strip on the top, and seven of his fingernails had been lacquered. One more fingernail than anyone on this side of the ocean, excepting Fortuona herself. He still wore Altaran clothing—a uniform of green and white—rather than Seanchan robes. She had not pressed him on this.
So far as she knew, since his raising, Beslan hadn’t made any plans to have her assassinated. Remarkable. Any Seanchan would have immediately begun scheming. Some would have tried an assassination; others would have decided to make only plans, but remain supportive. But all would have considered killing her.
Many on this side of the ocean thought differently. She’d never have believed it, if not for her time with Matrim. That was obviously one reason why Fortuona had been required to go with him. She just wished she’d interpreted the omens earlier.
Beslan was joined by Captain-General Lunal Galgan and a few members of the low Blood. Galgan was a wide-shouldered fellow with a crest of white hair atop his head. The other members of the Blood deferred to him; they knew he had her favor. If things went well here and with the reclamation of Seanchan, there was a good chance she’d raise him to the Imperial family. The ranks of the family would need to be refilled, after all, once Fortuona returned and restored order. Undoubtedly, many had been assassinated or executed. Galgan was a valuable ally. He’d not only worked openly against Suroth, but had suggested the assault on the White Tower, which had gone well. Extremely well.
Melitene, Fortuona’s der’sul’dam, stepped forward and bowed again. The stout, graying woman led a damane with dark brown hair and bloodshot eyes. Apparently this one wept often.
Melitene had the presence to look embarrassed at the weeping, and bowed extra low. Fortuona chose not to notice that the damane was acting so displeasingly. This one was a fine catch, despite her petulance.
Fortuona made a series of gestures to Selucia, instructing her in what to say. The woman watched with keen eyes, half of her head covered in cloth while she waited for the hair to grow there, the other half shaved. Fortuona would eventually have to choose another Voice, as Selucia was now her Truthspeaker.
“Show us what this woman can do,” Selucia said, Voicing the words Fortuona had signed to her.
Melitene patted the damane on the head. “Suffa will show the Empress—may she live forever—the Power of slicing the air.”
“Please,” Suffa said, looking pleadingly toward Fortuona. “Please, listen to me. I am the Amyrlin Seat.”
Melitene hissed, and Suffa’s eyes opened wide, obviously feeling a blast of pain through the a’dam. The damane continued anyway. “I can offer great bounty, powerful Empress! If I am returned, I will give you ten women to take my place. Twenty! The most powerful the White Tower has. I—” She broke off, moaning, and collapsed to the ground.
Melitene was sweating. She looked to Selucia, speaking quickly, nervously. “Please explain to the Empress of us all—may she live forever—that my eyes are lowered for not having trained this one properly. Suffa is amazingly stubborn, despite how quick she is to weep and offer others in her place.”
Fortuona sat for a moment, letting Melitene sweat. Eventually, she signed for Selucia to speak.
“The Empress is not displeased with you,” Selucia Voiced. “These marath’damane who call themselves Aes Sedai have all proven stubborn.”
“Please express my gratitude to the Greatest One,” Melitene said, relaxing. “If it pleases She Whose Eyes Look Upward, I can make Suffa perform. But there may be further outbursts.”
“You may continue,” Selucia Voiced.
Melitene knelt beside Suffa, speaking sharply at first, then consolingly. She was very skilled at working with former marath’damane. Of course, Fortuona considered herself good with damane as well. She enjoyed breaking marath’damane as much as her brother Halvate had enjoyed training wild grolm. She’d always found it a pity that he had been assassinated. He was the only one of her brothers who she’d ever been fond of.
Suffa finally got back onto her knees. Fortuona leaned forward, curious. Suffa bowed her head, and a line of light—brilliant and pure—cut the air in front of her. That line turned sideways along a central axis, opening a hole directly in front of Fortuona’s throne. Trees rustled beyond, and Fortuona’s breath caught as she saw a hawk with a white head streak away from the portal. An omen of great power. The normally unflappable Selucia gasped, though whether it was at the portal or the omen, Fortuona did not know.
Fortuona covered her own surprise. So it was true. Traveling wasn’t a myth or a rumor. It was real. This changed everything about the war.
Beslan walked forward, bowing to her, looking hesitant. She waved for him and Galgan to come to where they could see the forest glade through the opening. Beslan stared, mouth hanging open.
Galgan clasped his hands behind his back. He was a curious one. He’d met with assassins in the city, and had inquired about the cost for having Fortuona killed. Then, he’d had each of the men who quoted him a price executed. A very subtle maneuver—it was meant to show that she should consider him a threat, as he was not afraid of meeting with assassins. However, it was also a visible sign of loyalty. I follow you for now, the move said, but I am watching, and I am ambitious.
In many ways, his careful maneuvering was more comforting to her than Beslan’s apparently unwavering loyalty. The first, she could anticipate. The second…well, she wasn’t certain what to make of it yet. Would Matrim be equally loyal? What would it be like, to have a Prince of the Ravens whom she did not have to plot against? It seemed almost a fantasy, the type of tale told to common children to make
them dream of an impossible marriage.
“This is incredible!” Beslan said. “Greatest One, with this ability…” His station made him one of the only people able to speak directly to her.
“The Empress wishes to know,” Selucia Voiced, reading Fortuona’s fingers, “if any of the captured marath’damane spoke of the weapon.”
“Tell the highest Empress—may she live forever—that they did not,” Melitene said, sounding worried. “And, if I may be so bold, I believe that they are not lying. It seems that the explosion outside the city was an isolated accident—the result of some unknown ter’angreal, used imprudently. Perhaps there is no weapon.”
It was possible. Fortuona had already begun to doubt the validity of those rumors. The explosion had happened before Fortuona had arrived in Ebou Dar, and the details were confusing. Perhaps this had all been a ploy by Suroth or her enemies.
“Captain-General,” Selucia Voiced. “The Greatest One wishes to know what you would do with a Power such as this Traveling ability.”
“That depends,” Galgan said, rubbing his chin. “What is its range? How large can she make it? Can all damane do this? Are there limitations on where a hole can be opened? If it pleases the Greatest One, I will speak with the damane and get these answers.”
“It does please the Empress,” Selucia Voiced.
“This is troubling,” Beslan said. “They could attack behind our battle lines. They could open a portal like this into the Empress’s own chambers, may she live forever. With this…everything we know about war will change.”
The members of the Deathwatch Guard shuffled—a sign of great discomfort. Only Furyk Karede did not move. If anything, his expression grew harder. Fortuona knew that he would soon be suggesting a new, rotating location of her sleeping quarters.
Fortuona thought for a moment, staring at that rent in the air. That rent in reality itself. Then, contrary to tradition, she stood up on her dais. Fortunately, Beslan was there, one she could address directly—and let the others hear her commands.
“Reports say,” Fortuona announced, “that there are still hundreds of marath’damane in the place called the White Tower. They are the key to recapturing Seanchan, the key to holding this land, and the key to preparing for the Last Battle. The Dragon Reborn will serve the Crystal Throne.
“We have been provided with a way to strike. Let it be said to the Captain-General that he should gather his finest soldiers. I want each and every damane we control to be brought back to the city. We will train them in this method of Traveling. And then we will go, in force, to the White Tower. Before, we struck them with a pinprick. Now, we will let them know the full weight of our sword. All of the marath’damane must be leashed.”
She sat back down, letting the room fall still. It was rare that the Empress made such announcements personally. But this was a time for boldness.
“You should not allow word of this to spread,” Selucia said to her, voice firm. She was now speaking in her role as Truthspeaker. Yes, another would have to be chosen to be Fortuona’s Voice. “You would be a fool to let the enemy know for certain we have this Traveling.”
Fortuona took a deep breath. Yes, that was true. She would make certain each in this room was held to secrecy. But once the White Tower was captured, they would talk of her proclamation, and would read the omens of her victory upon the skies and world around them.
We will need to strike soon, Selucia signed.
Yes, Fortuona signed back. Our previous attack will have them gathering arms.
Our next move will have to be decisive, then, Selucia signed. But think. Delivering thousands of soldiers into the White Tower through a hidden basement room. Striking with the force of a thousand hammers against a thousand anvils!
Fortuona nodded.
The White Tower was doomed.
“Don’t know that there’s much more to say, Perrin,” Thom said, leaning back in his chair, tabac smoke curling out of his long-stemmed pipe. It was a warm night, and they didn’t have a fire in the hearth. Just a few candles on the table, with some bread, cheeses and a pitcher of ale.
Perrin puffed on his own pipe. Only he, Thom and Mat were in the room. Gaul and Grady waited out in the common room. Mat had cursed Perrin for bringing those two—an Aiel and an Asha’man were rather conspicuous. But Perrin felt safer with those two than with an entire company of soldiers.
He’d shared his story with Mat and Thom first, speaking of Malden, the Prophet, Alliandre, and Galad. Then they had filled him in on their experiences. It stunned Perrin, how much had happened to the three of them since their parting.
“Empress of the Seanchan, eh?” Perrin said, watching the smoke twist above him in the dim room.
“Daughter of the Nine Moons,” Mat said. “It’s different.”
“And you’re married.” Perrin grinned. “Matrim Cauthon. Married.”
“You didn’t have to share that part, you know,” Mat said to Thom.
“Oh, I assure you, I did indeed.”
“For a gleeman, you seem to leave out most of the heroic parts of the things I do,” Mat said. “At least you mentioned the hat.”
Perrin smiled, contented. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed sitting with friends to spend the evening chatting. A carved wooden sign hung outside the window, dripping with rainwater. It depicted faces wearing strange hats and exaggerated smiles. The Happy Throng. There was probably a story behind the name.
The three of them were in a private dining chamber, paid for by Mat. They’d brought in three of the inn’s large hearth chairs. They didn’t fit the table, but they were comfortable. Mat leaned back, putting his feet up on the table. He took up a hunk of ewe’s milk cheese and bit off a piece, then balanced the rest on his chair arm.
“You know, Mat,” Perrin said, “your wife is probably going to expect you to be taught table manners.”
“Oh, I’ve been taught,” Mat said. “I just never learned.”
“I’d like to meet her,” Perrin said.
“She’s something interesting,” Thom replied.
“Interesting,” Mat said. “Yeah.” He looked wistful. “Anyway, you’ve heard the lot of it now, Perrin. That bloody Brown brought us here. Haven’t seen her in over two weeks, now.”
“Can I see the note?” Perrin asked.
Mat patted a few pockets, then fished out a small white piece of paper, folded closed and sealed with red wax. He tossed it onto the table. The corners were bent, the paper smudged, but it hadn’t been opened. Matrim Cauthon was a man of his word, at least when you could pry an oath out of him.
Perrin lifted the note. It smelled faintly of perfume. He turned it over, then held it up to a candle.
“Doesn’t work,” Mat said.
Perrin grunted. “So what do you think it says?”
“Don’t know,” Mat said. “Bloody insane Aes Sedai. I mean, they’re all odd. But Verin’s fallen completely off her stone. Don’t suppose you’ve heard from her?”
“I haven’t.”
“Hope she’s all right,” Mat said. “She sounded worried something might happen to her.” He took the note back, then tapped it on the table.
“You going to open it?”
Mat shook his head. “I’ll open it when I get back. I—”
A knock came at the door, then it creaked open, revealing the innkeeper, a younger man named Denezel. He was tall, with a lean face and a head he kept shaved. The man was all but Dragonsworn, from what Perrin had seen, even going so far as to have a portrait of Rand commissioned and hung in the common room. It wasn’t a bad likeness.
“I apologize, Master Crimson,” Denezel said, “but Master Golden’s man insisted on speaking with him.”
“It’s all right,” Perrin said.
Grady poked his weathered face into the room and Denezel retreated.
“Ho, Grady,” Mat said, waving. “Blown up anyone interesting lately?”
The tanned Asha’man frowned, looking to Perrin. “M
y Lord. Lady Faile asked me to remind you when midnight arrived.”
Mat whistled. “See, this is why I left my wife in another kingdom.”
Grady’s frown deepened.
“Thank you, Grady,” Perrin said with a sigh. “I hadn’t realized the time. We’ll be going soon.”
The Asha’man nodded, then withdrew.
“Burn him,” Mat said. “Can’t the man at least smile? Flaming sky is depressing enough without people like him trying to imitate it.”
“Well, son,” Thom said, pouring some ale, “some just don’t find the world particularly humorous lately.”
“Nonsense,” Mat said. “The world’s plenty humorous. The whole bloody place has been laughing at me, lately. I’m telling you, Perrin. With those drawings of us about, you need to keep your head low.”
“I don’t see how I can,” Perrin said. “I’ve got an army to lead, people to care for.”
“I don’t think you’re taking Verin’s warning seriously enough, lad,” Thom said, shaking his head. “You ever heard of the Banath people?”
“No,” Perrin said, looking at Mat.
“They were a group of savages who roamed what is now Almoth Plain,” Thom said. “I know a couple fine songs about them. See, their various tribes always painted the skin of their leader red to make him stand out.”
Mat took another bite of his cheese. “Bloody fools. Painted their leader red? That would make him a target for every soldier on the field!”
“That was the point,” Thom said. “It was a challenge, you see. How else would their enemies be able find him and test their skill against him?”
Mat snorted. “I’d have painted a few decoy soldiers red to distract them from me, then had my archers feather their leader with arrows while everyone was trying to hunt down the fellows they thought were leading my army.”
“Actually,” Thom said, taking a sip of his ale, “that’s exactly what Villiam Bloodletter did during his first, and last, battle with them. ‘The Song of a Hundred Days’ talks about it. Brilliant maneuver. I’m surprised you’ve heard of that song—it’s very obscure, and the battle happened so long ago, most history books don’t even remember it.”
The Wheel of Time Page 1192
