Текст книги "Towers of midnight"

Автор книги: Robert Jordan

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The dying monster crashed down on him, pinning him to the ground. Pain shot up his leg, but he ignored it. He dropped his sword, trying to shove the carcass free. Bornhald, swearing, fended off a Trolloc that had the snout of a boar. It made a horrid grunting sound.

Galad heaved off the stinking carcass. To the side, he could see men in white—Trom, with Byar at his side, fighting desperately to reach Galad. There were so many Trollocs, and those Children immediately nearby had mostly fallen.

Galad reached for his sword just as a mounted figure burst through the shadows and Trollocs just to the north. Aybara. He rode up and pounded that massive hammer of his into a boar Trolloc, sending it crashing to the ground. Aybara leaped off his horse as Bornhald scrambled over to help Galad to his feet.

"You are wounded?" Aybara asked.

"My ankle," Galad said.

"On my horse," Aybara said.

Galad didn't protest; it made sense. He did, however, feel embarrassed as Bornhald helped him up. Aybara's men filled in around them, pushing the Trollocs back. Now that Aybara's army had joined the fray, Galad's men were rallying.

Rushing down the slope had been a dangerous gamble, but as soon as Galad was astride Aybara's horse, he could see that the gamble had worked, The massive charge had broken the Trollocs apart, and some groups started fleeting. Tongues of flame fell from above, burning Myrddraal and dropping entire fists of Trollocs linked to them.

There was still a great deal of fighting to do, but the tide was turning. Aybara's forces carved out a section around their leader, giving him—and by extension Galad—some breathing room to consider the next stage of the attack.

Galad turned to Aybara, who was studying the Trollocs with keen eves. "I assume you think that saving me will influence my decision about your judgment," Galad said.

"It had better," Aybara muttered.

Galad raised an eyebrow. It wasn't the response he'd been expecting. "My men find it suspicious that you appeared so soon before the Trollocs."

"Well, they can think that if they want," Aybara said. "I doubt anything I say will change their minds. In a way, this is my fault. The Trollocs were here to kill me; I just got away before they could spring their trap. Be glad I didn't leave you to them. You Whitecloaks have caused me nearly as much grief as they have."

Oddly, Galad found himself smiling. There was a straightforward air about this Perrin Aybara. A man could ask for little more in an ally.

Are we allies, then? Galad thought, nodding to Trom and Byar as they approached. Perhaps for now. He did trust Aybara. Yes, perhaps there were men in the world who would put together an intricate plot like this one, all to trick his way into Galad's favor. Valda had been like that.

Aybara wasn't. He really was straightforward. If he'd wanted the Children out of his way, he'd have killed them and moved on.

"Then so be it, Perrin Aybara," Galad said. "I name your punishment here, this night, at this moment."

Perrin frowned, turning away from his contemplation of the battle lines. "What? Now?"

"I deem, as punishment, that you pay blood price to the families of the dead Children in the amount of five hundred crowns. I also order you to fight in the Last Battle with all the strength you can muster. Do these things, and I pronounce you cleansed of guilt."

It was an odd time for him to give this proclamation, but he had made his decision. They would still fight, and perhaps one would fall. Galad wanted Aybara to know the judgment, in case.

Aybara studied him, then nodded. "I name that fair, Galad Damodred." He held up his hand.

"Creature of darkness!" Someone moved behind Aybara. A figure, pulling free his sword. A hiss, a flash of metal. Byar's eyes, alight with anger. He'd positioned himself right where he could strike Aybara in the back.

Aybara spun; Galad raised his sword. Both were too slow.

But Jaret Byar's blow did not fall. He stood with his weapon upraised, frozen, blood dribbling from his lips. He fell to his knees, then flopped onto the ground right at Aybara's feet.

Bornhald stood behind him, eyes wide with horror. He looked down at his sword. "I… It wasn't right, to strike a man in the back after he saved us. It…" He dropped his sword, stumbling back from Byar's corpse…

"You did the right thing, Child Bornhald," Galad said with regret. He shook his head. "He was a fine officer. Unpleasant at times, perhaps, but also brave. I am sorry to lose him."

Aybara glanced to the sides, as if looking for other Children who might strike him. "From the beginning, that one was looking for an excuse to see me dead."

Bornhald looked at Aybara, eyes still hateful, then cleaned his sword and rammed it into its sheath. He walked away, toward the area where the wounded had been taken. The area around Galad and Aybara was increasingly safe, the Trollocs pushed back, more solid battle lines forming, made of Aybara's men and the remaining Children.

"That one still thinks I killed his father," Aybara said.

"No," Galad replied. "I think he believes that you did not. But he has hated you for very long, Lord Aybara, and has loved Byar longer." He shook his head. "Killing a friend. It is sometimes painful to do what is right."

Aybara grunted. "You should get to the wounded," he said, hefting his hammer and looking toward where the fighting was still thick.

"I am well enough to fight if I have your mount."

"Well then, let's be on with it." Aybara eyed him. "I'll stay by you, though, just in case it looks like you might fall."

"Thank you."

"I'm fond of the horse."

Smiling, Galad joined him, and they waded back into the melee.

CHAPTER 42

Stronger than Blood

Once again, Gawyn sat in the small, unadorned room of Egwene's quarters. He was exhausted, which wasn't surprising, considering what he'd been through, Healings included.

His attention was consumed by the new awareness inside of him. That wonderful blossoming in the back of his mind, that link to Egwene and her emotions. The connection was a wonder, and a comfort. Sensing her let him know she was alive.

Able to anticipate her approach, he stood up as the door opened. "Gawyn," she said as she stepped in, "you shouldn't be standing up in your condition. Please, sit."

"I'm fine," he said, but did as commanded.

She pulled over the other stool, sitting down in front of him. She was calm and serene, but he could sense that she was overwhelmed by events during the night. Servants were still dealing with the bloodstains and the bodies while Chubain was holding the entire Tower at alert, checking on each and every sister. One other assassin had turned up. They'd lost two soldiers and a Warder killing her.

Yes, he could feel her emotional tempest behind that calm face. During the past few months, Gawyn had begun to think that maybe Aes Sedai learned not to feel anything at all. The bond gave him proof otherwise, Egwene did feel; she merely didn't let her emotions touch her features.

Looking at her face and feeling the storm inside, Gawyn was given—for the first time—another perspective on the Warder and Aes Sedai relationship. Warders weren't just bodyguards; they were the ones—the only ones—who saw the truth of what happened within the Aes Sedai. No matter how proficient the Aes Sedai became at hiding emotions, her Warder knew there was more than the mask.

"You found Mesaana?" he asked.

"Yes, though it took some time. She was impersonating an Aes Sedai named Danelle, of the Brown Ajah. We found her in her room, babbling like a child. She had already soiled herself. I'm not sure what we will do with her."

"Danelle. I didn't know her."

"She kept to herself," Egwene said. "Which is probably why Mesaana picked her."

They sat in silence for a few moments longer. "So," Egwene finally said, "how do you feel?"

"You know how I feel," Gawyn said honestly.

"It was simply a means of beginning the conversation."

He smiled. "I feel wonderful. Amazing. At peace. And concerned, and worried, anxious. Like you."

"Something must be done about the Seanchan."

"I agree. But that's not what is worrying you. You're bothered by how I disobeyed you, and yet you know it was the right thing to do."

"You didn't disobey," Egwene said. "I did tell you to return."

"The moratorium on guarding your room had not been lifted. I could have unhinged plans, caused a disturbance, and scared off the assassins."

"Yes," she said. Her emotions grew more troubled. "But instead, you saved my life."

"How did they get in?" Gawyn asked. "Shouldn't you have awakened when the maid tripped your alarms?"

She shook her head. "I was deep within the dream, fighting Mesaana. Tower Guards were within range to hear the alarms," Egwene said. "They have all been found dead. It sounds like the assassins were expecting me to come running. They had one of their members hiding in the entry room to kill me after I captured the other two." She grimaced. "It might have worked. I was anticipating the Black Ajah, or maybe a Gray Man."

"I sent warning."

"The messenger has been found dead as well." She eyed him. "You did the right thing tonight, but it still has me worried."

"We'll work it out," Galad said. "You let me protect you, Egwene, and I'll obey you in anything else. I promise it."

Egwene hesitated, then nodded. "Well, I'll need to go speak with the Hall. They'll be ready to break down my door and demand answers, by now." How could tell that on the inside, she was grimacing.

"It may help," he said, "if you imply that my return was always part of the plan."

"It was," Egwene said. "Though the timing wasn't anticipated." She hesitated. "When I realized how Silviana had phrased my request that you return, I was worried that you wouldn't come back at all."

"I nearly didn't."

"What made the difference?"

"I had to learn how to surrender. It's something I've never been good at."

Egwene nodded, as if understanding. "I'll leave orders for a bed to be brought into this room. I was always planning this to be my Warder's station."

Gawyn smiled. Sleep in another room? Underneath it all, there was still some of the conservative innkeeper's daughter remaining. Egwene blushed as she sensed his thoughts.

"Why don't we get married?" Gawyn said. "Right here, today. Light, Egwene, you're Amyrlin—your word is as good as law in Tar Valon. Speak the words, and we'd be wedded."

She paled; odd, how that would unsettle her this night. Gawyn felt a stab of anxiety. She'd said she loved him. Didn't she want to– But no, he could feel her emotions. She did love him. Then why?

Egwene sounded aghast when she spoke. "You think I could face my parents if I got married without them knowing about it? Light, Gawyn, we'll at least have to send for them! And what about Elayne? You'd marry without telling her?"

He smiled. "You're right, of course. I'll contact them."

"I can—"

"Egwene, you're the Amyrlin Seat. The weight of the world itself is on your shoulders. Let me make arrangements."

"Very well," she said. She stepped outside, where Silviana waited—she had one of her glowers for Gawyn. Egwene sent some servants for a bed for him, then she and her Keeper moved off, a pair of Chubain's soldiers following.

Gawyn would have liked to go with her. There might still be assassins about. Unfortunately, she was right to send him to sleep. He was having trouble remaining upright. He stood on unsteady legs, then noticed a line of sheet-covered bodies outside. They wouldn't be removed until sisters had a chance to look them over. Right now, rinding Mesaana—and looking for other assassins—had been more pressing.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to walk over and pull back the sheet, revealing Celark's and Mazone's lifeless faces—Celark's, unfortunately, sitting beside his body, separated from it at the heck.

"You did well, men," he said. "I'll see that your families know that you saved the life of the Amyrlin." It made him angry to lose such good men.

Burn those Seanchan, he thought. Egwene is right about them. Something needs to be done.

He glanced to the side, to where the three assassins lay beneath sheets of their own, black-slippered feet sticking out the bottom. Two women and a man. I wonder… he thought, then crossed to where they lay. Guards glanced at him as he pulled back the sheet, but nobody forbade him.

The ter'angreal were easy to pick out, though only because he'd been told what to look for. Identical black stone rings, worn on the middle fingers of their right hands. The rings were carved in the shape of a vine with thorns. Apparently none of the Aes Sedai had recognized them for what they were, at least not yet.

Gawyn slipped all three rings off, then tucked them into his pocket.

Lan could feel something, a distinct difference to the emotions in the back of his mind. He'd grown accustomed to ignoring those, and the woman they represented.

Lately, those emotions had changed. More and more, he was certain that Nynaeve had taken his bond. He could identify her by the way she felt. How could one not know her, that sense of passion and kindness? It felt… remarkable.

He stared down the roadway. It twisted around the side of a hill before turning straight toward a distinctive fortress ahead. The border between Kandor and Arafel was marked by the Silverwall Keeps, a large fortification built on two sides of Firchon Pass. It was an extremely impressive fortress—really two of them, each one built up the straight wall of the narrow canyonlike pass. Like two sides of an enormous doorway.

Getting through the pass required traveling a considerable distance between large stone walls pocked with arrowslits, and it would be effective at stopping armies moving in either direction.

They were all allies, the Borderlanders were. But that didn't stop the Arafellin from wanting a nice fortress blocking the way up to Shol Arbela. Camped in front of that fortress was a gathering of thousands of people, clustered in smaller groups. The flag of Malkier—the Golden Crane—flew over some of the groups. Others flew flags of Kandor or Arafel.

"Which of you broke your oath?" Lan asked, looking back at the caravan.

The men there shook their heads.

"Nobody needed to break his oath," Andere said. "What else would you do? Cut through the Broken Lands? The Uncapped Hills? It is here or nowhere. They know this. And so they wait for you."

Lan growled. It was probably true. "We are a caravan," he said loudly. "Remember, if any ask, you may admit that we are Malkieri. You may say you wait for your king. That is truth. You may not mention that you have found him."

The others seemed troubled, but they made no objection. Lan led the way down the slope, their caravan of twenty wagons, warhorses and attendants following.

This was what he'd always worried would happen. Reclaiming Malkier was impossible. They would die, no matter how large their force. An assault? On the Blight? Ridiculous.

He could not ask that of them. He could not allow that of them. As he continued down the road, he became more resolute. Those brave men, flying those flags… they should join with the Shienaran forces and fight in a battle that meant something. He would not take their lives.

Death is lighter than a feather… Rakim had thrown that at him several times during their ride. He had followed Lan decades ago, during the Aiel War. Duty is heavier than a mountain.

Lan was not running from duty. He was running toward it. Still, sight of the camps stirred his heart as he reached the bottom of the slope, then rode forward. The waiting men wore simple warrior's garb, hadori in place, women marked with a ki'sain on their foreheads. Some of the men wore coats with the Golden Crown on the shoulders—the mark of the royal guard of Malkier. They would have donned those only if their fathers or grandfathers had served in that guard.

It was a sight that would have made Bukama cry. He had thought the Malkieri gone as a people, broken, shattered, absorbed by other nations. Yet here they were, gathering at the faintest whisper of a call to arms. Many were older—Lan had been but a babe when his kingdom fell, and those who remembered that day as men would now be in their seventh or eighth decade. They had gray hair, but they were still warriors, and they'd brought their sons and grandsons.

"Tai'shar Malkier!" a man cried as Lan's group passed. The call went up a dozen, two dozen times as they saw his hadori. None seemed to recognize him for who he was. They assumed that he had come for the reason they had come.

The Last Battle comes, Lan thought. Must I deny them the right to fight alongside me?

Yes, he must. Best he passed unnoticed and unrecognized. He kept his eyes forward, his hand on his sword, his mouth closed. But each call of Tai'shar Malkier made him want to sit up straighter. Each seemed to strengthen him, push him forward.

The gates between the two fortress keeps were open, though soldiers checked every man who went through. Lan halted Mandarb, and his people stopped behind him. Could the Arafellin have orders to watch for him? What other choice did he have but to go forward? Going around would take weeks. His caravan waited its turn, then stepped up to the guard post.

"Purpose?" asked the uniformed Arafellin, hair in braids.

"Traveling to Fal Moran," Lan said. "Because of the Last Battle."

"You're not going to wait here like the rest?" the guard said, waving a gauntleted hand at the gathered Malkieri. "For your king?"

"I have no king," Lan said softly.

The soldier nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. Then he waved for some soldiers to inspect the goods in the wagons. "There will be a tariff on that."

"I plan to give it to Shienarans to fight in the Last Battle," Lan said. "No price asked."

The guard raised an eyebrow.

"You have my oath on it," Lan said softly, meeting the man's eyes.

"No tariff, then. Tai'shar Malkier, friend."

"Tai'shar Arafel." Lan kicked his horse forward. He hated riding through the Silverwalls; they made him feel as though a thousand archers were drawing on him. The Trollocs would not easily get through here, if the Arafellin were forced to retreat back this far. There were times that had happened, and they had held here each time, as in the days of Yakobin the Undaunted.

Lan practically held his breath the entire way. He reached the other side gratefully, and urged Mandarb out onto the roadway to the northeast.

"Al'Lan Mandragoran?" a voice yelled, sounding distant.

Lan froze. That call had come from above. He turned, looking back at the leftmost keep. A head was sticking from a window there.

"Light be praised, it is you!" the voice called. The head ducked back inside.

Lan felt like bolting. But if he did, this person would surely call back to the others. He waited. The figure came running out one of the fortress doorways. Lan recognized him: a boy not yet grown into a man wearing red, with a rich blue cloak. Kaisei Noramaga, grandson of the Queen of Kandor.

"Lord Mandragoran," the youth said, trotting up. "You came! When I heard that the Golden Crane was raised—"

"I have not raised it, Prince Kaisei. My plan was to ride alone."

"Of course. I would like to ride alone with you. May I?"

"This is not a wise choice, Your Highness," Lan said. "Your grandmother is in the South; I assume your father rules in Kandor. You should be with him. What are you doing here?"

"Prince Kendral invited me," Kaisei said. "And my father bade me come. We both plan to ride with you!"

"Kendral, too?" Lan asked, aghast. The grandson of the Arafellin king? "Your places are with your people!"

"Our ancestors swore an oath," the young man said. "An oath to protect, to defend. That oath is stronger than blood, Lord Mandragoran. It is stronger than will or choice. Your wife told us to wait here for you; she said that you might try to pass without greeting us."

"How did you notice me?" Lan asked, containing his anger.

"The horse," Kaisei said, nodding to Mandarb. "She said you might disguise yourself. But you would never leave the horse."

Burn that woman, Lan thought as he heard a call being raised through the fortress. He'd been outmaneuvered. Curse Nynaeve. And bless her, too. He tried to send a sense of love and frustration through the bond to her.

And then, with a deep sigh, he gave in. "The Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai'don," Lan said softly. "Let any man or woman who wishes to follow join it and fight."

He closed his eyes as the call went up. It soon became a cheer. Then a roar.