“You said every sword was needed,” Galad replied. “You’d leave us?”
“Yes. If I don’t have that oath, I will. Rand may come back for you himself, though. In me, you know what you’re getting. I’ll be fair to you. All I’ll ask is that your men stay in line, then fight where they’re told when the battle comes. Rand…well, you can say no to me. You’ll find it much harder to say it to him. And I doubt you’ll like the result half as much, either, once you end up saying yes.”
Galad frowned. “You’re an oddly compelling man, Perrin Aybara.”
“We have a bargain?” Perrin held out a hand.
Galad took it. It wasn’t the threat that did it; it was remembering Perrin’s voice when he’d found Jerum wounded. That compassion. No Darkfriend could feign that.
“You have my oath,” Galad said. “To accept you as my military commander until the end of the Last Battle.” He suddenly felt weaker than he had before, and he released a breath, then sat on a nearby rock.
“And you have my oath,” Perrin said. “I’ll see your men cared for like the others. Sit here and rest a spell; I’ll search that patch over there. The weakness will pass soon.”
“Weakness?”
Perrin nodded. “I know what it’s like to be caught up in the needs of a ta’veren. Light, but I do.” He eyed Galad. “You ever wonder why we ended up here, in this same place?”
“My men and I assumed it was because the Light had placed you before us,” Galad said. “So we could punish you.”
Perrin shook his head. “That’s not it at all. Truth is, Galad, I apparently needed you. And that’s why you ended up here.” With that, he headed off.
Alliandre carefully folded the bandage, then passed it to a waiting gai’shain. His fingers were thick and callused, his face hidden beneath the hood of his robe. She thought it might be Niagen, the Brotherless that Lacile had been taking after. That still irked Faile, but Alliandre couldn’t fathom why. An Aiel man would probably match Lacile well.
Alliandre began rolling another bandage. She sat with other women in a small clearing near the battlefield, surrounded by scraggly scatterhead and stands of leatherleaf. The cool air was quiet save for the nearby groans of the wounded.
She cut another length of cloth in the morning light. The cloth had been a shirt. Now it was bandages. Not a great loss; it hadn’t been a very good shirt, by the looks of it.
“The battle is through?” Berelain said softly. She and Faile worked nearby, sitting on stools across from one another as they cut.
“Yes, it appears that it is,” Faile replied.
Both fell silent. Alliandre raised an eyebrow, but did not say anything. Something was going on between those two. Why suddenly start pretending they were the greatest of friends? The act seemed to fool many of the men in camp, but Alliandre could see the truth in the way their lips tightened when they saw one another. It had lessened after Faile had saved Berelain’s life, but not vanished entirely.
“You were right about him,” Berelain said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am not often wrong when it comes to men.”
“My husband is not like other men. It—” Faile cut off. She looked toward Alliandre, eyes narrowing.
Bloody ashes, Alliandre thought. She’d sat too far away, which made her strain, turning to eavesdrop. That was suspicious.
The two of them fell silent again, and Alliandre held up a hand, as if inspecting her nails. Yes, she thought. Ignore me. I don’t matter, I’m just a woman in over her head and struggling to keep up. Faile and Berelain didn’t think that, of course, any more than the Two Rivers men had ever thought Perrin had been unfaithful. If you sat them down and asked them—really made them think about it—they’d come to the conclusion that something else must have happened.
But things like superstition and bias ran deeper than mere thoughts. What the other two thought about Alliandre and what they instinctively felt were different. Besides, Alliandre really was a woman who was in over her head and struggling to keep up.
Best to know what your strengths were.
Alliandre turned back to cutting bandages. Faile and Berelain had insisted on staying to help; Alliandre couldn’t go. Not with the two of them acting so bloody fascinating lately. Besides, she didn’t mind the work. Compared to their captivity by the Aiel, this was really quite pleasant. Unfortunately, the two didn’t go back to their conversation. In fact, Berelain rose, looking frustrated, and walked toward the other side of the clearing.
Alliandre could practically feel the frost coming off the woman. Berelain stopped over where others were rolling the strips of cloth. Alliandre stood up, carrying her stool, scissors and cloths over to Faile. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her this unsettled,” Alliandre said.
“She’s not fond of being wrong,” Faile noted. She took a deep breath, then shook her head. “She sees the world as a network of half-truths and inferences, ascribing complex motivations to the simplest of men. I suspect it makes her very good at court politics. But I wouldn’t want to live that way.”
“She’s very wise,” Alliandre said. “She does see things, Faile. She understands the world; she merely has a few blind spots, like most of us.”
Faile nodded absently. “The thing I pity most is the fact that, despite all of this, I don’t believe she was ever in love with Perrin. She chased him for sport, for political advantage, and for Mayene. In the end, it was more the challenge than anything else. She may be fond of him, but nothing more. I could, perhaps, understand her if it had been for love.”
Alliandre kept her tongue after that, cutting bandages. She ran across a fine blue silk shirt in the pile. Surely there could be something better done with that! She stuffed it between two others and set those beside her, as if in a pile she intended to cut.
Perrin eventually tramped into the clearing, followed by some workers in bloodied clothing. He made instantly for Faile, sitting down on Berelain’s stool, setting his marvelous hammer down in the weeds beside him. He looked exhausted. Faile got him something to drink and then rubbed his shoulder.
Alliandre excused herself, leaving Perrin and his wife. She made her way over to where Berelain stood at the edge of the clearing, sipping a cup of tea taken from the pot on the fire. Berelain eyed her.
Alliandre poured herself a cup of tea, then blew on it for a moment. “They are good for one another, Berelain,” she said. “I cannot say I’m sorry to see this result.”
“Every relationship deserves to be challenged,” Berelain replied. “And if she had fallen in Malden—an outcome all too possible—he would have needed someone. It is not a great loss to me, however, to take my eyes off Perrin Aybara. I would have liked to make a connection to the Dragon Reborn through him, but there will be other opportunities.” She seemed far less frustrated now than she had moments ago. In fact, she seemed to have returned to her calculating self.
Alliandre smiled. Clever woman. Faile needed to see her rival completely beaten down, so that she would consider the threat passed. This was why Berelain let some of her frustration show, more than she normally would have.
Alliandre sipped her tea. “Marriage seems nothing to you other than a calculation, then? The advantages gained?”
“There’s also the joy of the hunt, the thrill of the game.”
“And what of love?”
“Love is for those who do not rule,” Berelain said. “A woman is worth far more than her ability to make a match, but I must care for Mayene. If we enter the Last Battle without my having secured a husband, that puts the succession in danger. And when Mayene has a succession crisis, Tear is all too quick to assert itself. Romance is an unaffordable distraction I…”
She trailed off suddenly, her expression changing. What was going on? Alliandre turned to the side, frowning until she saw the cause.
Galad Damodred had entered the clearing.
He had blood on his white uniform, and he looked exhausted. Yet he sto
od upright, straight-backed, and his face was clean. He almost seemed too beautiful to be human, with that perfectly masculine face and graceful, lean figure. And those eyes! Like deep, dark pools. He practically seemed to glow.
“I…What was I saying?” Berelain asked, eyes on Damodred.
“That there is no place for romance in a leader’s life?”
“Yes,” Berelain said, sounding distracted. “It’s just not reasonable at all.”
“Not at all.”
“I—” Berelain began, but Damodred turned toward them. She cut off as their eyes met.
Alliandre suppressed a smile as Damodred crossed the clearing. He executed another set of perfect bows, one for each of them, though he barely seemed to notice Alliandre.
“My…Lady First,” he said. “Lord Aybara says that, when he first approached this battle, you pled to him on my behalf.”
“Foolishly,” Berelain said. “I feared he would attack you.”
“If fearing that makes one a fool,” Damodred said, “then we two are fools together in it. I was certain that my men would soon fall to Aybara.”
She smiled at him. That quickly, she seemed to have forgotten everything she’d been saying previously.
“Would you like some tea?” Damodred said, speaking a little abruptly as he reached for the teacups, which sat on a cloth away from the fire.
“I’m drinking some,” she noted.
“Some more then?” he asked, hastily kneeling and pouring a cup.
“Er.”
He stood up, holding the cup, then seeing that she already had one in her hands.
“There are still bandages to cut,” Berelain said. “Perhaps you could help.”
“Perhaps,” he said. He handed the cup he’d poured over to Alliandre. Berelain—her eyes still holding his—handed hers over as well, seeming oblivious to what she was doing.
Alliandre smiled deeply—now holding three teacups—as the two of them walked over to the stack of cloths to be cut. This might turn out well indeed. At the very least, it would get those blasted Whitecloaks out of her kingdom.
She walked back toward Faile and Perrin. As she did so, she slipped the blue silk shirt from the pile of cloth she’d set aside to cut.
It really would make a nice sash.
Chapter 44
A Backhanded Request
Morgase stepped out of her hillside tent and looked out at Andor. Whitebridge lay below, blessedly familiar, although she could see that it had grown. The farms were failing, the last of the winter stores spoiling, so people made for the cities.
The landscape should have been green. Instead, even the yellowed grass was dying off, leaving scars of brown. It wouldn’t be long before the entire land was like the Waste. She longed to take action. This was her nation. Or it had once been.
She left her tent, looking for Master Gill. On the way, she passed Faile, who was speaking with the quartermaster again. Morgase nodded, showing deference. Faile nodded back. There was a rift between the two of them now. Morgase wished it could be otherwise. She and the others had shared a sliver of their lives when hope had been weaker than a candle’s flame. It had been Faile who had encouraged Morgase to use the One Power—squeezing every last drop from her pathetic ability—to signal for help while they were trapped.
The camp was already well set up, and amazingly the Whitecloaks had joined them, but Perrin hadn’t yet decided what to do. Or at least if he had decided, he wasn’t sharing that decision with Morgase.
She walked to the wagon lines, past farriers and grooms looking for the best pasture, people arguing in the supply dump, soldiers grudgingly digging trenches for waste. Everyone had their place except Morgase. Servants backed away, half-bowing, uncertain how to treat her. She wasn’t a queen, but neither was she simply another noblewoman. She certainly wasn’t a servant anymore.
Though her time with Galad had reminded her what it was to be a queen, she was thankful for what she had learned as Maighdin. That hadn’t been as bad as she had feared; there had been advantages to being a lady’s maid. The camaraderie of the other servants, the freedom from the burdens of leadership, the time spent with Tallanvor….
That life was not hers. It was time to be done with pretending.
She eventually found Basel Gill packing the cart, Lini supervising, Lamgwin and Breane helping. Faile had released Breane and Lamgwin from her service so they could serve Morgase. Morgase had kept silent about Faile so graciously granting her back her servants.
Tallanvor wasn’t there. Well, she couldn’t moon over him like a girl any longer. She had to get back to Caemlyn and help Elayne.
“Your Majes—” Master Gill said, bowing. He hesitated. “I mean, my Lady. Pardon me.”
“Don’t mind it, Master Gill. I have trouble remembering myself.”
“You sure you want to go forward with this?” Lini folded her thin arms.
“Yes,” Morgase said. “It is our duty to return to Caemlyn and offer Elayne what assistance we can.”
“If you say so,” Lini said. “Me, I think that anyone who allows two roosters in the same barnyard deserves the ruckus they get.”
Morgase raised an eyebrow. “Noted. But I think you’ll find that I am quite capable of helping without usurping authority from Elayne.”
Lini shrugged.
She had a point; Morgase had to be careful. Staying in the capital for too long could throw a shadow across Elayne. But if there was one thing Morgase had learned from her months as Maighdin it was that people needed to be doing something productive, even if it was something as simple as learning to serve tea. Morgase had skills that Elayne could use for the dangerous times ahead. If she began to overshadow her daughter, however, she would move out of Caemlyn to her holdings in the west.
The others worked quickly loading up, and Morgase had to fold her arms to keep from helping. There was a certain fulfillment to caring for oneself. As she waited, she noticed someone riding up the path from Whitebridge. Tallanvor. What had he been doing in the city? He saw her and approached, then bowed, his lean, square face a model of deference. “My Lady.”
“You visited the city? Did you get Lord Aybara’s permission?” Perrin hadn’t wanted a sudden flood of soldiers and refugees going into the city, causing trouble.
“My Lady, I have family there,” Tallanvor said, climbing from the saddle. His voice was stiff and formal. “I felt it wise to investigate the information discovered by Lord Aybara’s scouts.”
“Is that so, Guardsman-Lieutenant Tallanvor?” Morgase said. If he could act in such a formal way, then so could she. Lini, passing with an armload of linens to pack, gave a quiet snort at Morgase’s tone.
“Yes, my Lady,” Tallanvor replied. “My Lady…if I may make a suggestion?”
“Speak.”
“By reports, your daughter still assumes you dead. I’m certain if we speak to Lord Aybara, he will command his Asha’man to make a gateway for us to return to Caemlyn.”
“An interesting suggestion,” Morgase said carefully, ignoring the smirk on Lini’s face as she walked back by in the other direction.
“My Lady,” Tallanvor said, eyeing Lini, “might we speak in private?”
Morgase nodded, stepping off to the side of the camp. Tallanvor followed. A short distance away, she turned to look at him. “Well?”
“My Lady,” he continued in a softer voice. “The Andoran court is certain to hear that you still live, now that Aybara’s entire camp knows. If you don’t present yourself and explain that you’ve renounced the throne, the rumors of your survival could erode Elayne’s authority.”
Morgase didn’t reply.
“If the Last Battle truly is coming,” Tallanvor said, “we can’t afford—”
“Oh, hush,” she said curtly. “I’ve already given Lini and the others the order to pack up. Didn’t you notice what they were doing?”
Tallanvor flushed as he noticed Gill hauling a chest over and setting it on the cart.
&nb
sp; “I apologize for my forwardness. With your leave, my Lady.” Tallanvor nodded to her and turned to go.
“Must we be so formal with one another, Tallanvor?”
“The illusion has ended, my Lady.” He walked away.
Morgase watched him go, and felt her heart twist. Curse her stubbornness! Curse Galad! His arrival had reminded her of her pride, of her royal duty.
It was bad for her to have a husband. She’d learned that from Taringail. For all of the stability her marriage to him had brought, each and every advantage had come with a threat to her throne. That was why she’d never made Bryne or Thom her official consort, and Gaebril only proved that she had been right to worry.
Any man who married her could, potentially, be a threat to Elayne as well as Andor. Her children, if she had any more, would be rivals to Elayne’s. Morgase couldn’t afford to love.
Tallanvor stopped a short distance away, and her breath caught. He turned, then walked back to her. He drew his sword and bent down, placing it reverently at her feet as she stood in weeds and scrub.
“I was wrong to threaten to leave, before,” he said softly. “I was hurt, and pain makes a man stupid. You know that I will always be here, Morgase. I’ve promised it to you before, and I mean it. These days, I feel like a biteme in a world of eagles. But I have my sword and my heart, and both are yours. Forever.”
He stood to go.
“Tallanvor,” she said, almost in a whisper. “You’ve never asked me, you know. If I would have you.”
“I can’t put you into that position. It wouldn’t be right to force you to do what we both know you must, now that you have been exposed.”
“And what must I do?”
“Turn me down,” he spat, obviously growing angry. “For the good of Andor.”
“Must I?” she asked. “I keep telling myself that, Tallanvor, but still I question it.”
“What good am I to you?” he asked. “At the very least, you should marry to help Elayne secure the loyalty of one of the factions you offended.”
“And so I go to marriage without love,” she said. “Again. How many times must I sacrifice my heart for Andor?”
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